Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 05]

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

  I have the impression that Milva was having difficulty coping with her tragic accident and loss. I write: I have the impression, as I am aware that I, as a man, may have no idea what such an accident and such a loss means for a woman. Although I am a poet and a man of the pen, even my trained and experienced imagination fails here, and I cannot do anything about it.

  The archer regained her physical capacity soon – with the psychological it looked worse. She would not say a word for whole days, from morning to night. She would gladly disappear and hold herself apart, which started to worry everyone a little. But at last came the change for the better. Milva reacted like a Dryad or an elf – violent, impulsive and hard to understand. One morning, before our eyes, she pulled out her knife and, without a word, cut off the braid at the nape of her neck. ‘I do not deserve this, because I'm not a virgin,’ she said when she saw us watching open-mouthed. ‘And also not a widow,’ she added, ‘this concludes my mourning.’ From that moment on she was like before – harsh, caustic, with a loose tongue and with quick access to words not socially acceptable. What we concluded was that she really had gotten over the crisis.

  The third and no less strange member of our company was a Nilfgaardian, who wanted to prove that he was not a Nilfgaardian. Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, as he claimed…

  * * *

  ‘Cahir Mawr Dyffryn, son of Ceallach’ Dandelion said emphatically, as he aimed the little lead pencil at the Nilfgaardian. ‘I have to accept a lot of things in this highly esteemed company that I do not like, things that I almost cannot stand. But not this! I cannot stand it when someone watches over my shoulder while I am writing! And I do not intend to accept it!’

  The Nilfgaardian moved away from the poet and, after a brief reflection, grabbed his saddle and blanket coat, and pulled them closer to Milva, who appeared to be dozing.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Forgive the intrusion, Dandelion. I sat looking quite automatically, from ordinary curiosity. I thought you were drawing a map or making calculations.’

  ‘I'm not an accountant!’ The poet jumped up, literally and figuratively. ‘And not a cartographer! And even if I were, it would not justify you impersonating a crane to spy on my notes!’

  ‘I've already apologized,’ Cahir reminded him dryly, as he set up his camp at the new location. ‘I've come to terms with things and gotten used to many things in this highly esteemed company. But I still maintain that I only have to apologize once.’

  ‘Indeed,’ the witcher agreed, which surprised everyone, including the young Nilfgaardian. ‘You've become damned irritable, Dandelion. It's obvious that it's somehow related to the paper you recently besmirched with that piece of lead.’

  ‘True,’ confirmed the vampire Regis, as he added some birch twigs to the fire. ‘Our Minstrel has recently become irritable and anxious to have closed, discrete seclusion. But no, in carrying out his natural needs witnesses cannot interfere, which incidentally in our situation is not surprising. The bashful seclusion and irritability over prying eyes relate exclusively to the described paper and use of the stylus. I wonder if he seals our presence in a poem? A rhapsody? An epic? A romance? A stanza?’

  ‘No,’ said Geralt as he moved closer to the fire and threw a blanket over his shoulders. ‘I know him. This can't be poetic speech, because he is not blaspheming, muttering to himself, or counting syllables on his fingers. He stopped writing, so it's prose.’

  ‘Prose,’ the vampire flashed his sharp canine teeth, which he usually tried to avoid. ‘A novel perhaps? Or an essay? A morality? Damn it Dandelion! Stop torturing me! Tell me what you write?’

  ‘Memoirs.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘From these notes’ – Dandelion showed them a tube filled with papers – ‘my life's work will be created. Memoirs under the title Fifty Years of Poetry.’

  ‘A silly title,’ Cahir said dryly. ‘Poetry has no age.’

  ‘And if you insist that it has one,’ added the Vampire, ‘then it is decidedly older.’

  ‘You don't understand. The title means that the author of the work has spent fifty years, no more and no less, in the service of his mistress, poetry.’

  ‘Then it is even greater nonsense’ said the witcher. ‘You, Dandelion, are still not forty. Writing was drummed into you in the temple-cliff school with a cane in the butt when you were eight. Even if we assume that you have written rhymes ever since, you've served your mistress poetry no longer than thirty years. But I don't have to assume, because you yourself have frequently said that you started seriously rhyming and composing melodies when you were nineteen, inspired by the love of Countess de Stael. That makes one less than twenty years of service, Dandelion. So from which sleeve are you shaking out these fifty years mentioned in the title? Is it supposed to be a metaphor?’

  ‘I,’ the bard said grandly, ‘grasp intellectually wide horizons. I describe the present, but reach into the future. The work that I am undertaking, I think to publish in about twenty to thirty years, and then no one can dispute the statement in the title.’

  ‘Aha. Now I understand. What amazes me is the foresight. You usually care little for the morrow.’

  ‘I still care little about the morrow,’ the poet declared condescendingly. ‘I think of the afterlife. And of eternity!’

  ‘At least from the point of view of future generations,’ Regis said, ‘it is not very ethical to begin the writing now. Future generations may expect that a work with such a title has been written from a centenary perspective, an actual person who has actually had a half century of knowledge and experience…’

  ‘Someone whose experience includes half a century,’ Dandelion cut him off ‘must naturally be a seventy-year old grandfather with his brain eaten by sclerosis. When that is me I shall sit on the porch and fart in the wind, not dictate memoirs, because people would laugh. I will not make this mistake and will write my memoirs before, while I am in full possession of the creative forces. Later, just before the surrender, I shall make only cosmetic changes.’

  ‘He might have a point.’ Geralt massaged his aching knee and bent it carefully. ‘Especially for us. For although we undoubtedly appear in his work, and although he has certainly allowed nothing good to be said about us, we won't care much in fifty years.’

  ‘What is a half a century?’ The vampire smiled. ‘A moment, a fleeting blink… Oh yes, Dandelion, a small note: Half a Century of Poetry in my opinion sounds better than fifty years.’

  ‘Since I do not disagree.’ The troubadour bent over a sheet with a pencil and began to scratch it. ‘I thank you, Regis. Finally, something constructive. Does anyone else have anything to add?’

  ‘I've got something.’ Milva unexpectedly said and stuck her head out from under her blanket. ‘Why are you looking at me like that? Because I can't read and write? I'm not stupid! We are on an expedition to come to the aid Ciri, going into an enemy country with weapons in our hands. It may be that Dandelion’s scribblings fall into the enemy's hands. And we all know the rhymer, it's no secret that he's a chatterbox and a gossip. They might hang us for his scrawl.’

  ‘You are exaggerating, Milva,’ the vampire said mildly.

  ‘Indeed, and strongly,’ claimed Dandelion.

  ‘It also seems to me you are exaggerating,’ said Cahir added carelessly. ‘I do not know how it is with the Nordlings, but it is not a crime to possess a manuscript in the empire, and literary activity is not criminal.’

  Geralt gave him a sidelong look and, with a loud crash, broke the branch with which he had played. ‘And yet libraries are set on fire in cities conquered by your cultured nation,’ he said in an engaging tone, but with clear undertones of accusation. ‘But never mind that. Maria, I also think you are exaggerating. Dandelion’s scribbling has no meaning, as usual. Not for our safety.’

  ‘Well, I know what I know,’ retorted the archer and sat up. ‘Due to experience! My step-father, when the royal treasurer was making a census, took off running, hid in the undergrowt
h, and sat there for two weeks. ‘Where the scribe is, is also the judge’, he always said, ‘today they are writing to you, tomorrow they hang on you.’ And he was right, although he was a scumbag like no other. I hope that he's stewing in hell, the son of a bitch!’

  Milva threw off the blanket and sat down by the fire, finally giving up on sleeping. It looked, Geralt noticed, like it would once again be a long night of conversation.

  ‘You did not like your stepfather, I take it,’ said Dandelion after a short silence.

  ‘I did not.’ Milva audibly gritted her teeth. ‘Because he was a bastard. If my mother was not looking, he would run up and grope me, then claim he did nothing. So, I finally lost control and hit him with a rake, and as he fell I gave him a bit more – two kicks in the ribs and one in the course. He laid there for two whole days, spitting blood… And I ran away from home into the wide world, not waiting until he was healthy again. Then I heard that he died, and my mom shortly after he… Hey, Dandelion! Are you writing about this? Don't you dare! Don't you even dare, do you hear me?’

  * * *

  It was strange that Milva had joined us and astonishing that the vampire kept us company. But the strangest – and absolutely incomprehensible – motives were from Cahir, who suddenly went from an enemy to something like a friend, or at least an ally. The young man had proved that in the Battle on the Bridge when chose, without hesitation, to side with the witcher against his own people. Through that act, he had finally won our favour and dispelled our doubts. When I write ‘our’, I refer to myself, the vampire and the archer. For although Geralt had fought shoulder to shoulder with Cahir, and although he had stood at his side, facing death, he still looked at the Nilfgaardian suspiciously and never considered him with favour. Though he sought to hide his resentment, when a person is – as I have probably already pointed out – as straightforward as a halberd shaft, it cannot be helped and at every turn the antipathy crept out like an eel from a leaky bucket.

  The reason was obvious, and it was Ciri.

  As fate willed it I was on the island of Thanedd during the new moon in July, when the bloody conflict between magicians broke out. On one side were sorcerers loyal to the kings, on the other side were traitors incited by Nilfgaard. The traitors were supported by the Squirrels, rebellious elves – and by Cahir, son of Ceallach. Cahir had been sent to Thanedd on a special mission – to capture and kidnap Ciri. When Ciri defended herself, she wounded him – the sight of the scar on Cahir's hand always leaves my mouth dry. It must have hurt like hell, and two of the fingers still cannot bend.

  And after all that we ended up saving him from a Hawker's wagon, as his own people bound and took him towards a cruel execution. For what offense, I asked, were they going to execute him? Only because of his failure on Thanedd? Cahir is not talkative, but I have an ear for hints. The lad is still not even thirty, but he seems to have been a high-ranking officer in the Nilfgaardian Army. Since he is fluent in the common language, which is rare among Nilfgaardians, I think I know which branch of service Cahir was in and why he was promoted so quickly. And why he was entrusted with such a strange mission. A foreign mission, no less.

  Because Cahir had already attempted to kidnap Ciri. Nearly four years ago, during the massacre in Cintra. That was the first time he felt providence, which rules the fate of this girl.

  It was pure chance that I talked to Geralt about this. It was on the third day after we had crossed the Yaruga, and ten days before the equinox, as we moved through the forests of Riverdell. Although very short, the conversation was nevertheless full of unpleasant and disturbing sounds. And the witcher's face and eyes already marked him as the harbinger of the atrocity that later erupted on the night of the equinox, after the fair-haired Angouleme had joined us.

  * * *

  The witcher did not look at Dandelion. He did not look forward. He looked at the Roach's mane.

  ‘Calanthe’ he picked up the thread again, ‘made a few knights take an oath just before she jumped to her death. They were not to allow Ciri to fall into Nilfgaardian hands. During the escape the knights were killed and Ciri was left alone in the midst of corpses and fires, in the narrow streets of a burning city. She would not have escaped with her life, no doubt about that. But he found her. He, Cahir. He grabbed her by the throat and carried her away from the fire. Saved her. Heroic! Noble!’

  Dandelion held Pegasus back a little. They rode in the rear – Regis, Milva and Cahir were a good fifty paces ahead of them, but the poet did not want even one word of this conversation reaching the ears of the fellowship.

  ‘The problem is,’ continued the witcher, ‘that our Cahir was commanded to be noble. He was as noble as the cormorant who does not gobble a caught fish because it's had a choker placed around its neck, making it impossible for it to swallow. He took the fish in his beak, but could not swallow because he had to bring it back to his master. And when he did not his master was angry with the cormorant! The cormorant is now in disgrace! Maybe that's why he now seeks the companionship and friendship of fish? What do you think, Dandelion?’

  The troubadour leaned forward in his saddle to avoid a low hanging branch of a linden tree. The branch's leaves were completely yellow.

  ‘Nevertheless he saved her life, as you have said yourself. Thanks to him, Ciri came away from Cintra unscathed.’

  ‘And cried at night because she saw him in a dream.’

  ‘Yet it was he who saved her. Stop trying to be so vindictive Geralt. Too much has changed, what am I saying, too much is changing day by day. This resentful annoyance is obviously no use to you. He saved Ciri. That is and remains a fact.’

  Geralt finally unlocked his gaze from Roach's mane, lifting his head. Dandelion glanced at his face and then hurriedly looked away.

  ‘The fact of the matter remains’ the witcher repeated in an evil, metallic voice. ‘Oh yes! He cried this fact to my face on Thanedd, but he was terrified when he saw my blade and the words got stuck in his throat. That fact and that cry should not be the case for me not to kill him. Well, it happened that way and cannot be changed now. Too bad. Because even then, on Thanedd I thought to begin a chain with him. A long chain of death, a chain of revenge, one which people would still be talking about after a hundred years. One that people would be afraid to talk about after dark. Do you understand that, Dandelion?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Then go to the devil.’

  * * *

  That conversation was disgusting, and the witcher's face was repulsive during it. Oh dear, I did not like it when he got into such moods, talking about stuff like that.

  I must confess, however, that after his pictorial comparison with a cormorant – I began to get restless. The fish in its beak, carried to Nilfgaard, where the fish was drugged, disembowelled and roasted! A really pleasant analogy, a real joyful outlook…

  Reason, however, spoke against such fears. Ultimately – if you stay with the fish parables: Who were we? Minnows, small, oily rich minnows. Cahir could not hope for imperial favour in exchange for such a paltry catch. He was, by the way, by no means the pike he wanted to present himself as. He was a minnow, just like us. Does anyone ever notice minnows in a time of war, when iron shapes both the world and the destinies of men?

  I'll bet my head that no one in Nilfgaard even remembers Cahir anymore.

  * * *

  Vattier de Rideaux, the chief of military intelligence for Nilfgaard, listened to the imperial reprimand with his head bowed.

  ‘So that's it,’ continued Emhyr var Emreis acidly. ‘The department that consumes three times as much funding from the state budget as public education, art, and culture put together, is not even able to locate a single man. Because apparently the man simply vanished and remains hidden, even though I spend incredible sums of money on the department, so that no one can hide from it! A man guilty of treason makes a fool of your department, to which I have given enough resources and privileges to rob the innocent in their sleep. Believe
me, Vattier, next time the Council discusses the need to cut the intelligence budget, I will have a sympathetic ear. You can trust me on that!’

  ‘Your Imperial Majesty’ – Vattier de Rideaux cleared his throat – ‘will no doubt make the right decision after careful consideration of all the pros and cons. Both the failures and the successes that have been reported. Your Majesty can be sure that the traitor Cahir aep Ceallach will not escape his punishment. I've made an effort…’

  ‘I do not pay you for efforts but for results. And they are moderate, Vattier, moderate! What of the matter with Vilgefortz? Where the hell is Cirilla? What are you mumbling? Louder!’

  ‘I think Your Majesty should marry the girl that we keep in Darn Rowan. We need this marriage, the legality of the sovereign lordship of Cintra, the calming of the Skellig Islands and the insurgents in Attre, Strept, and Northern Mag Turga. We need a general amnesty, peace in the hinterlands for the supply lines… We need the neutrality of Kovir's king, Esterad Thyssen.’

  ‘I know. But the girl in Darn Rowan is not the proper girl. I cannot marry her.’

  ‘Your Imperial Majesty will forgive, but does it matter, whether it is more or less the proper girl? The political situation calls for a formal ceremony. And soon. The young lady will wear a veil. And when we finally find the real Cirilla, the wedded wife is simply… exchanged.’

  ‘Have you gone mad, Vattier?’

  ‘We have only shown the imposter briefly. Cintra has not seen the real Cirilla in four years, and by the way it sounds, she spent more time on the Skellig Islands than in Cintra anyway. I guarantee that nobody will notice the trick.’