Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 05]

by The Tower of the Swallow (fan translation) (epub)

  ‘More like he stabbed them in the back,’ accused Kayleigh.

  ‘He also killed Valdez’, added Giselher. ‘And when Valdez was dead, his gang disintegrated. They were one of the best. A decent crowd, wherever something was happening. Good buddies. I once thought of joining them. Before we teamed up.’

  ‘True,’ said Hotsporn. ‘The likes of the Valdez gang will not be seen again soon. People sing songs about their escape from Sarda, where they had been surrounded by Varnhagens. Yes, those were firebrands and cavalier daredevils, filled with gentlemanly bravado! Hardly anyone could compete with them.’

  The Rats suddenly fell silent and stared at him with angry, flashing eyes.

  ‘We,’ Kayleigh said after a while, ‘have beaten a squadron of six of Nilfgaardian cavalry!’

  ‘We have bested the Nissiren,’ growled Asse.

  ‘Hardly anyone can compete’, hissed Reef, ‘with us!’

  ‘That's right, Hotsporn.’ Giselher thumped himself in the chest. ‘The Rats are second to none, not even the gang of Valdez. Gentlemanly bravado, did you say? Let me tell you of ladies of excessive bravado. Three of them are sitting right here – Spark, Mistle and Falka. They were riding in broad daylight through the small town Druigh, when they learned a group of Varnhagens were sitting in the tavern. So, they went galloping through the tavern! Through it! And out into the front yard. The Varnhagens sat there with smashed tankards, spilled beer, and their mouths hanging open. Do you dare say it was not bravado?’

  ‘He does not say,’ Mistle answered his question with a malicious smile. ‘He does not say, because he knows who the Rats are. His guild knows it.’

  Master Alma Vera had finished the tattoo. Ciri thanked him with a regal expression, dressed, and sat down with the others. She hissed as she noticed Hotsporn’s strange, appraising – and somewhat mocking – stare. She looked at him askance and snuggled ostentatiously close to Mistle's shoulder. She had already had practice cooling men’s zeal and attentions after such romantic demonstrations. However, in the case of Hotsporn it was rather unnecessary, since the pseudo-merchant was not blatant in this regard.

  Hotsporn was a mystery to Ciri. She had only seen him once before, the rest had been told to her by Mistle. Giselher said Hotsporn and he had known each other for a long time and were buddies. They had agreed signals, slogans and meeting places. At such meetings Hotsporn supplied the information – then the Rats rode to the specified road and ambushed the specified convoy or merchant. Sometimes a specified person was killed. There was always a mark of safe passage – merchants with this sign may not be attacked.

  Initially, Ciri was surprised and a little disappointed – she had looked up to Giselher with admiration. The Rats seemed to be a model for freedom and independence, and she loved this freedom, this contempt for everything and everyone. And now suddenly she had to fulfil orders, as a mercenary captor is told by his superiors who they should beat. Not only did they carry out orders, but they obeyed with big ears.

  One hand washes the other, Mistle had said with a shrug when Ciri asked her about it. Hotsporn gives us commands, but he also gives information, thanks to which we survive. Freedom and contempt have their limits. In the end it is always the case that one is someone else’s tool.

  That's life, little Falcon.

  Ciri was surprised and disappointed, but she quickly overcame it. She learned. She also learned not to be very surprised and not to expect too much – because then the disappointment did not hurt so much.

  ‘I, dear Rats,’ said Hotsporn, pulling Ciri out of her reflection, ‘have a cure for all your troubles. Against the Nissire, Barons, governors, even against Bonhart. Yes, yes. Even though the noose tightens around your neck, I know a way to save your skin.’

  Spark spluttered and Reef laughed out loud. But Giselher commanded silence with a gesture and let Hotsporn continue.

  ‘It means,’ the merchant said after a pause, ‘that in the next few days, an amnesty will be proclaimed. Even if someone is legally convicted, ha, even if someone is already on the gallows, he will be forgiven if he confesses. This applies to you too.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ yelled Kayleigh with a slightly watery eyes, a result of the pinch of Fisstech he had just sniffed. ‘A Nilfgaardian trick, a deception! Old hares like us do not fall for such rubbish!’

  ‘Enough!’ Giselher held him back. ‘Do not get too excited, Kayleigh. Hotsporn, as you know, does not ramble, gossip, or repeat useless information. He usually knows what he says and why. I’m sure he knows where this sudden Nilfgaardian generosity comes from, and I’m certain he will tell us.’

  ‘Emperor Emhyr’ said Hotsporn quietly, ‘is going to take a wife. We will soon have an Empress in Nilfgaard. That is why amnesty is being proclaimed. The Emperor is extremely happy and wants to make others happy as well.’

  ‘The happiness of the Emperor does not concern me one bit,’ Mistle announced patiently. ‘And as for this amnesty, I would prefer not to take advantage of it, because to me this Nilfgaardian mercy somehow smells of fresh wood shavings. As if they were sharpening a stake, haha!’

  ‘I do not think,’ answered Hotsporn with a shrug, ‘that this is a ruse. It is a political matter. And a great one. Greater than the Rats. Greater than all of the local mobs together. This is about politics.’

  ‘Why the amnesty then?’ Giselher frowned. ‘I don’t understand the point.’

  ‘Emperor Emhyr’s marriage is politically motivated, and with the help of this marriage certain policy objectives could be achieved. The Emperor creates this marriage, this union, because he wants to unite the empire even more, to halt the border conflicts, and to bring peace. After all, do you know who he is marrying? Cirilla, heir to the throne of Cintra!’

  ‘Liar!’ yelled Ciri. ‘You liar!’

  ‘Why is Miss Falka calling me a liar?’ Hotsporn turned his eyes to her. ‘Is she, perhaps, even better informed?’

  ‘Always!’

  ‘Quiet, Falka.’ Giselher frowned. ‘You remained quiet on the table while they stabbed you in the buttocks, and now you yell? What's that Cintra, Hotsporn? What's a Cirilla? Why should this be so important?’

  ‘Cintra,’ interjected Reef while he sprinkled Fisstech on his finger, ‘is a little country in the north, which has been fought over by the Empire and the local rulers for three or four years now.’

  ‘True,’ confirmed Hotsporn. ‘The imperialists have subjected Cintra and even crossed the Yarra River, but later had to withdraw.’

  ‘Because they took a beating on the hill of Sodden,’ growled Ciri. ‘They have become so withdrawn that they would lose to a whisker's underpants!’

  ‘I see Miss Falka is familiar with the latest story. Commendable, very commendable at such a young age. May I ask where Miss Falka is going to school?’

  ‘You may not!’

  ‘Enough,’ Giselher called them back to order. ‘Talk of this Cintra, Hotsporn. And of the amnesty.’

  ‘The Emperor Emhyr,’ said the merchant, ‘has decided to make Cintra an ivy state…’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘An ivy state. As ivy cannot exist without a powerful trunk upon which to grow. And naturally, this trunk is Nilfgaard. There are already such states, for example Metinna, Maecht, Toussaint… the local dynasties still rule there. Though only in appearance, of course.’

  ‘They're called puppet-states’, boasted Reef.

  ‘I've heard the term.’

  ‘The problem with Cintra, however, was that the royal line had been extinguished there…’

  ‘Extinguished?’ For a moment it looked as if green sparks were about to shoot from Ciri's eyes. ‘Extinguished due to the fact that the Nilfgaardians murdered Queen Calanthe! Nothing but common murderers!’

  ‘I confess’, Hotsporn gestured for Giselher to reseat himself, because he had risen at Ciri's repeated interference, ‘that Miss Falka's knowledge continues to shine brilliantly here. Queen Calanthe has indeed fallen during the war. Also supposedly k
illed was Cirilla, her granddaughter, the last of the royal blood. So Emhyr did not have much to work with to create, as Mr. Reef has so wisely identified, a puppet-state. But since Cirilla has suddenly been found, the story of her death must have only been a fabrication.’

  ‘All stories are,’ snorted Spark, leaning on Giselher’s shoulder.

  ‘Indeed’ Hotsporn nodded ‘one must admit it's a little bit like a fairy tale. It is said that an evil sorceress held this Cirilla captive in a magical tower somewhere far in the north. But she – Cirilla, not the witch – was able to flee and seek asylum in the empire.’

  ‘That is one big, bloody, clusterfuck of lies and nonsense!’ Ciri burst out and reached for the jar of Fisstech with trembling hands.

  ‘That may be,’ Hotsporn continued slowly, ‘But Emperor Emhyr proclaimed that he fell helplessly in love with her at first sight and he now wants to take her to be his wife.’

  ‘The little Falcon is right,’ said Mistle decisively, emphasizing her words by banging her fist on the table. ‘This is fucking nonsense! I don't pretend to understand what this is about. But one thing is certain: To place any hope in this nonsense of grace and mercy from Nilfgaard would be even greater nonsense.’

  ‘Right,’ agreed Reef. ‘The marriage of the Emperor is not our concern. And if the Emperor that I know is marrying someone, another fiancée awaits us. The hemp noose!’

  ‘It's not about your necks, dear Rats’, Hotsporn reminded them. ‘It's about politics. The northern borders of the Empire have constantly had rebellions, riots and unrest, especially in this Cintra and the surrounding areas. If the Emperor marries the heir of Cintra, then Cintra will calm down. There will be a formal amnesty and the rebel groups will come down from the mountains, no longer bothering the Imperials or making trouble. What I can tell you is this: if a Cintrierin ascends the imperial throne, rebels will be enlisted in the Imperial army. And you know that in the north, across the river Yarra, war is waged and every soldier is needed.’

  ‘Aha.’ Kayleigh grimaced. ‘Now I understand! What a wonderful amnesty! You only have one choice: the sharpened stake here and now, or the imperial colours. Either the stake in your ass or the colours on your back. And off to war to die for the Empire!’

  ‘Off to war,’ said Hotsporn slowly ‘Yes, some will go off to war in the way of song. But it does not mean all have to go to war, dear Rats. You can also – after you fulfil the conditions of the amnesty, of course – carry out a kind of…alternative service.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know what he means.’ Giselher's teeth flashed briefly in his sun-scorched, blue-shaven visage. ‘The merchants guild, children, would like to adopt us. To press us against their chest and protect us. Like they were our mother.’

  ‘More like our madame,’ muttered Spark. Hotsporn pretended not to hear her.

  ‘You're right, Giselher,’ he said coolly. ‘The guild can transfer you. Officially, as a community service. And grant you protection. Officially and alternatively.’

  Kayleigh was about to speak, and Mistle also wanted to say something, but a quick glance from Giselher shut their mouths tight.

  ‘Submit to the guild…’ said the leader of the Rats in an icy tone, ‘We are grateful for the offer. We will think it over – contemplate it and discuss it amongst ourselves. What will you do now?’

  Hotsporn stood. ‘I will ride off.’

  ‘Now, without resting for the night?’

  ‘I'll rest in the village overnight. This station does not strike me a safe location. And tomorrow straight on to the border of Metinna, then on the main road to Forgeham where I'm going to stop until the equinox, perhaps longer. I'll be waiting there, namely for people who have already thought it over and are ready to come forward and accept my protection under the amnesty. And I have some parting advice for you, you should not waste too much time in reflection and contemplation. Because Bonhart will anticipate the amnesty.’

  ‘The way you keep trying to frighten us with Bonhart,’ Giselher said slowly and stood up. ‘You'd think the bastard was right on our doorstep… I'm sure he is far away over hill and dale…’

  ‘… in the village of Jealousy,’ Hotsporn quietly finished the sentence. ‘At the inn, The Chimera's Head. About thirty miles from here. If you wouldn't have doubled back behind the Velde yesterday, you would have met him by now.’

  ‘But you don't care about that, I'm sure. Good luck, Giselher. Take care, Rat. Master Alma Vera? I ride for Metinna and I am always happy to travel with a companion… What say you, Master? Happy? I thought so. Gather your belongings. Rats – pay the master for his artistic work.’

  * * *

  The post office smelled of fried onions and sour potato soup, prepared by the wife of the postmaster, who had been temporarily released from the pantry. The candle on the table gleamed and flickered, the tongue of flame moving back and forth. The Rats were bent so low over the table that their flame-warmed heads almost collided with each other.

  ‘He's in Jealousy,’ Giselher said quietly. ‘At the Chimera's Head inn. Hardly a day's ride from here. What do you think?’

  ‘The same as you,’ growled Kayleigh. ‘We ride over there and kill the son of a bitch.’

  ‘Avenge Valdez,’ said Reef. ‘And Toadstool.’

  ‘And no more,’ hissed Spark, ‘will Hotsporn or anyone else praise the bravado of others more than ours. They will see us deal with this Bonhart, this monster, this wolf man. They will see us nail his head to the door of the inn, so that the inn matches its name. They will see that he is not all that wonderful on the end of a great pike, but mortal like everyone else, and that he finally met his match. They will see who the best of gang from Korath to Pereplut is.’

  ‘There will be songs sung about us at fairs,’ Kayleigh said ardently. ‘Ha, and in palaces!’

  ‘Let's ride.’ Asse pounded his fist on the table. ‘Let's ride and kill the bastard!’

  ‘And afterwards’, considered Giselher, ‘we will think over this amnesty…over the guild… What's wrong with you Kayleigh, you look as though you've swallowed a bug? Pursuers are on our heels, and soon it will be winter. Here is my plan, Rats: We will spend the winter warming our backsides by the heat of the fireplace. The amnesty will protect us from the cold weather, and give us moderately warmed beer to drink. We will endure quite well under this amnesty… until it is just about spring. And in the spring… as soon as the grass peeks out from beneath the snow…’

  The Rats were laughing in unison, quietly and menacingly. Their eyes lit up like real rats when they come to a dark corner at night and find a wounded man, who cannot defend himself.

  ‘Let's drink,’ said Giselher. ‘To Bonhart biting the dust! We'll want to finish this soup and head to bed. And sleep well, because we leave at dawn.’

  ‘Sure,’ snorted Spark. ‘Look to Mistle and Falka for an example. They’ve already been bed for an hour.’

  The wife of the postmaster winced at the cooking pot when she heard the low, vicious, disgusting giggles coming from the table.

  * * *

  Ciri raised her head and remained silent a long time, gazing at the barely glowing flames of the lamp, in which the last of the remaining oil burned.

  ‘Then I crept like a thief out of the station’, she resumed her narrative. ‘Before morning, when it was still dark… But I was not able to escape unnoticed. Mistle must have woken when I rose from the bed. She caught me in the barn while I saddled my horse. But she showed no surprise. She didn't even try to hold me back… dawn was approaching already…’

  ‘Dawn also approaches now.’ Vysogota yawned. ‘Time to sleep, Ciri. Tell me more tomorrow.’

  ‘Maybe you're right.’ She also yawned, got up, and stretched herself vigorously. ‘I can barely keep my eyes open. But at this rate, hermit, I'm never going to finish. How many evenings are behind us? At least ten. I'm afraid the whole story will take me a thousand and one nights.’

  ‘We have time, Ciri. We have time.’<
br />
  * * *

  ‘From whom do you flee, little Falcon? From me? Or from you?’

  ‘I'm done with fleeing. Now I want to catch something. Therefore I must return… to where it all began. I have to. Understand that, Mistle.’

  ‘So that's why… why you were kind to me today. For the first time after so many days… One last time before the parting? And then forgotten?’

  ‘I'll never forget you, Mistle.’

  ‘You will.’

  ‘Never. I promise you. And that was not the last time. I'll find you. I'll come get you… I'll come in a six-horse gilded coach. With a retinue of courtiers. You'll see. Soon I will have… possibilities. Great possibilities. I will make sure that your fate changes… You'll see. You will convince yourself how much I am able. How much I am able to change.’

  ‘That would require a lot of power,’ sighed Mistle. ‘And mighty magic…’

  ‘That's possible.’ Ciri licked her lips. ‘Even magic… with which I can find… everything that I once lost, can return… and belong to me again. I promise you, you'll be surprised if we meet again.’

  Mistle turned her close-cropped head away and looked at the blue and pink stripes, which the dawn was already painting on the eastern edge of the world.

  ‘Indeed,’ she said quietly. ‘I'll be very surprised if we meet again. If I ever see you again. Now get riding already. We do not want to draw this out.’

  ‘Wait for me.’ Ciri sniffed. ‘And don’t get yourself killed. Think on the amnesty Hotsporn spoke of. Even if Giselher and the others don’t want it… but you think about it, Mistle. It might be a way to survive. Because I will come back for you. I swear it.’

  ‘Kiss me.’

  Dawn broke. The brightness increased, along with the cold.

  ‘I love you, Mistle.’

  ‘I love you, little Falcon. Now get riding already.’

  * * *

  ‘Of course, she did not believe me. She was convinced I wouldn't be able to handle the anxiety of riding after Hotsporn, that she would have to find and rescue me, and that, in the end, I would beg her pardon. How could she know what feelings had come over me when I heard Hotsporn speak of Cintra, of my grandmother… Calanthe. When he assumed that any ‘Cirilla’ would become the wife of the Emperor of Nilfgaard. The same Emperor who had murdered my grandmother and had sent the black knight with the bird of prey wings on his helmet after me. I've told you about him, remember? On Thanedd Island, as he reached out for me, I cut him and left him to bleed! I had time to kill… But somehow I could not…’