Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 05]

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

  ‘That’s what he said, stray cats and pests. And so it was, that no one could know, they would became future heroes and warlords in glory and fame. These ‘cats’ of grandfather were the famous condottieri – Adam ‘Adieu’ Pangratt, Lorenzo Molla, Juan ‘Frontino’ Gutierrez… And Julia Abatemarco, who became famous in Redania as ‘Pretty Kitty’… You young people do not remember, but in my day, when we played war, every kid wanted to be ‘Adieu’ Pangratt and every girl wanted to be Julia ‘Pretty Kitty’… And for grandfather they were the sly cats.’

  ‘Then,’ Guiscard Vermuellen murmured, ‘grandfather took me by the hand and led me to the terrace, where grandmother Zuleyka was feeding the seagulls. Grandpa said… said…’

  The old man slowly and with effort tried to recall the words that eighty-five years ago Esterad Thyssen said to his wife, Queen Zuleyka, on the terrace of the palace of Ensenada, high above the Great Canal.

  ‘You know, my dearest wife, I’ve seen another wisdom from the Prophet Lebioda? One that will still give me an advantage over having donated my cats to Redania. Cats, my Zuleyka, come home. Cats always come home. And when my cats return, bringing home their wages, their booty, their riches… I will tax those cats!’

  * * *

  When King Esterad Thyssen spoke one last time with Dijkstra, he did so alone, without even Zuleyka. On the floor of the giant ballroom, was a ten-year-old boy, but he did not count because he was so busy playing with his tin soldiers to pay attention to any of the talking.

  ‘This is Guiscard,’ Esterad explained, pointing to the boy with a nod of his head, ‘my grandson, son of Gaudemunda and that rascal, Duke Vermuellen. But this small child, Guiscard, is the only hope of Kovir if something was to happen to Tankred Thyssen… If something happened to Tankred…’

  Dijkstra already knew Kovir’s problem and Esterad’s person problem. He knew something had already happened to Tankred. If the boyo had any talent at all to be a king, it was to only be a bad king.

  ‘Your business,’ Esterad changed the subject, ‘has been essentially settled. You can start reconsidering how to most effectively use the one million lintars, which will soon find its way into the Tretogor treasury.’

  He bent down and picked up one of the garishly painted tin soldiers, a rider with a raised sword.

  ‘Take this and keep it safe. The one who shows you the second, identical soldier will be my messenger, despite his appearance, though you cannot lend credence to any of my men who know the business of our million. All others will be provocateurs and you have to treat them as provocateurs.’

  ‘Redania,’ Dijkstra bowed, ‘will not forget this, Your Majesty. I, in their name, would like to assure you of my personal gratitude.’

  ‘No gratitude, bring in that thousand with which you planned to get the goodwill of my minister. What, does the goodwill of a king not deserve a bribe?’

  ‘Your Royal Majesty it was lowered to…’

  ‘Lowered, I can bet it was lowered. Bring me the money, Dijkstra. Having a thousand and a thousand…’

  ‘Added together is two thousand. I know.’

  * * *

  In a distant wing of Ensenada, in a room much smaller in size, the sorceress Síle de Tansarville listened intently and solemnly to the testimony of Queen Zuleyka.

  ‘Perfect,’ she bowed her head. ‘Perfect, Your Majesty.’

  ‘I did everything as you advised me, Lady Síle.’

  ‘Thank you for that. And once again I assure you that we are acting for a just cause. For the sake of the country. And the dynasty.’

  Queen Zuleyka cleared her throat, her voice changed slightly.

  ‘And… and Tankred, Lady Síle?’

  ‘I gave my word,’ said Síle de Tansarville in a cold voice. ‘I gave my word that I would return your help with my help. Your Majesty can sleep peacefully.’

  ‘I very much wish too,’ Zuleyka said. ‘With all my heart. And speaking of dreams… The King begins to suspect something. Those dreams surprise him, and when something surprises the king, he begins to suspect…’

  ‘For a time I will stop inspiring the dreams of the king,’ promised the sorceress. ‘Let us return to the sleep of the queen, I repeat, it must be peaceful. Prince Tankred will be separated from bad company. He will no longer frequent the castle of Baron Surcratasse. Or to the house of Lady de Lisemore. Or to the Redanian ambassadors.’

  ‘There will be no more visits to these persons? Ever?’

  ‘The people mentioned,’ the dark eyes of Síle de Tansarville glowed strangely, ‘dare not invite or deceive Prince Tankred anymore. They will never dare. They are aware of the consequences. I guarantee my words. I also guarantee that Prince Tankred will resume learning and be a diligent student, a serious and sober young man. He will stop chasing skirts. He will lose the passion… until such a time as we present him to Ciri, princess of Cintra.’

  ‘Oh, I just cannot believe it,’ Zuleyka clasped her hands together. ‘I just can’t believe it.’

  ‘The power of magic,’ Síle de Tansarville smiled unexpectedly to herself, ‘is sometimes hard to believe, Your Majesty. And so indeed it should be.’

  * * *

  Philippa Eilhart adjusted the shoulder straps of her translucent nightgown and wiped the crimson lipstick from her neck. Such a wise woman, thought Síle de Tansarville with a slight distaste, and yet she does not know how to keep her hormones in check.

  ‘Can we talk?’

  Philippa surrounded herself with a sphere of discretion.

  ‘We can now.’

  ‘All is arranged in Kovir. Positively.’

  ‘Thank you. Has Dijkstra already sailed?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘What is he waiting for?’

  ‘He is having a long conversation with Esterad Thyssen,’ Síle de Tansarville pursed her lips. ‘They have found a common ground with suspicion – King and spy.’

  * * *

  ‘You know that joke about the weather here, Dijkstra? That Kovir only has two seasons…’

  ‘Winter and Summer. I know…’

  ‘Do you how to recognise that summer has already started in Kovir?’

  No. How?’

  ‘The rain gets somewhat warmer.’

  ‘Ha, ha.’

  ‘Jokes are jokes,’ Esterad said seriously, ‘but these winters that are coming faster and getting longer are making me a bit uneasy. This was prophesied. Have you read, I think, the prophecy of Ithlinne? It says that a decade’s of endless winter approaches. Some argue that this is some allegory, but I harbour certain fears. In Kovir we once had four years of winter, bad weather, poor harvests. If it were not for a massive importation of food from Nilfgaard the people would have begun to starve. Can you imagine?’

  ‘To be honest, no.’

  ‘I do. In the cooling climate we can all starve. Hunger is the enemy, with which it can be damn hard to make war.’

  The spy nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Dijkstra?’

  ‘Your Royal Highness?’

  ‘Do you find peace in the countryside?’

  ‘Not much. But I try’

  ‘I know there is much talk about it. From those who betrayed Thanedd, only Vilgefortz is alive.’

  ‘After the death of Yennefer, yes. You know, Your Majesty that Yennefer was killed? She died on the last day of August, under mysterious circumstances, in the famous Sedna Abyss, between the Islands of Skellige and the Cape of Peixe de Mar.’

  ‘Yennefer of Vengerberg,’ Esterad said slowly, ‘was not a traitor. She was not an ally of Vilgefortz. If you want I can provide you evidence.’

  ‘I do not want it,’ Dijkstra said after a pause. ‘Or maybe I do want it, but not now. She is more convenient to me as a traitor.’

  ‘I understand. Do not trust wizards, Dijkstra. Philippa in particular.’

  ‘I’ve never trusted her. But we have to collaborate. Without he Redania would sink into chaos and disappear.’

  ‘You’re right. But i
f I can offer some advice, loosen up a little. You know what I mean. Gallows and torture chambers all around the country, cruelties against the elves… And that awful fort, Drakenborg. I know you do it for patriotism. But you build yourself into a legend of evil. In this legend you are a werewolf after innocent blood.’

  ‘Someone has to do it.’

  ‘And there will be someone to blame. I know that you are trying to be fair, but mistakes can simply not be avoided. You can’t continue to remain clean of all the blood. You’ve never hurt anyone out of your own interest, but who is going to believe that? Who is going to believe? One day fate will turn and accuse you of killing innocent people and reaping the benefits. A lie sticks to a man like tar.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You have a chance to defend yourself. The tar will cover you… later. After the fact. Beware, Dijkstra.’

  ‘I’ll beware. They will not get me.’

  ‘They took your king, Vizimir. From what I hear, with a dagger in the side to the hilt…’

  ‘A king is easier to hit than a spy. They cannot reach me. Never catch me.’

  ‘They must not. You know why, Dijkstra? Because in this hell of a world, at least there is some justice.’

  * * *

  There came a day when both recalled that conversation. Both of them. The King and the spy. Dijkstra remembered the words of Esterad of Kovir when he heard the footsteps of murderers who came for him on all sides, throughout the corridors of the castle. Esterad recalled the words of Dijkstra on the ostentatious marble stairs that led from Ensenada to the Grand Canal.

  * * *

  ‘He could have fought,’ Guiscard Vermuellen continued, his blind, clouded eyes driving deep into the abyss of his memories. ‘It was only three assassins and my grandfather was a strong man. He could have fought and defended until I got the guards. He could have simply run away. But there was grandmother Zuleyka. Grandfather shielded and protected Zuleyka and only Zuleyka and did not care about himself. When at last help came, Zuleyka had not a scratch. Esterad had received more than twenty stab wounds. He died after three hours without regaining consciousness.’

  * * *

  ‘Have you ever read the Good Book, Dijkstra?’

  ‘No, Your Majesty. But I know what is written in there.’

  ‘Just imagine, yesterday I opened it at random. And I came across this passage – ‘On the way to eternity all walk down their stairs carrying their own burden.’ What do you think of that?’

  ‘Time is running out, King Esterad. It’s time to carry our own burden.’

  ‘Take care, spy.’

  ‘Take care, king.’

  We left the ancient and famous festival in Assengard and travelled sixteen leagues south, into the countryside known as Hundredlakes. If one looks on that region from above, one sees numerous lakes that form all kinds of artful arrangements and patterns. Our guide, the Elf Avallac'h, called for us to look among these patterns for one that resembled a Trifolium leaf. And indeed, we found such. Which ended up being not three lakes but four, for one was an oblong shape, extending from south to north, as it was the stem of the leaf. That lake, now called Tarn Mira, was surrounded by a black forest, and at its northern edge should have risen up that mysterious bastion that is called the Tower of the Swallow, or in the language of elves: Tor Zireael.

  On that day, however, we saw nothing but fog. Before we could even ask the elf Avallac'h about the tower, he commanded us to silence with a gesture and spoke these words: ‘Wait and hope. Hope returns with the light and the prophecy. Be watchful of the boundless waters, there you shall behold the messenger of good tidings.’

  Buyvid Backhuysen, Walks On Trails And Places Of Magic

  This book is nonsense from beginning to end. The ruins at Lake Tarn Mira have been widely studied. They are not magic, contrary to the statements of B. Backhuysen, and therefore cannot be the remains of the legendary Tower of the Swallow.

  Ars Magica, Ed. XIV

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘They're coming! They're coming!’

  Yennefer held her damp, wind-ruffled hair firmly with both hands and went to railing to look down on the stairs leading to the beach, brushing women out of her way. The wave, driven by the west wind, broke thunderously on the shore. White sparkling fountains shot up again and again from the crevices between the rocks. ‘They're coming! They're coming!’

  Almost the entire archipelago was visible from the upper terraces of the citadel of Kaer Trolde, the main fortress of Ard Skellig. Straight ahead, across the sound, was An Skellig – low and flat on the south side and covered by steep fjords on the north. To the left, far away, the sharp tusks and high cliffs of green Spikeroog rose above the waves; the peaks disappearing in the clouds. To the right one could see the steep cliffs of the island Undvik, on which swarmed gulls, petrels, cormorants, and gannets. Behind Undvik peeped the wooded cone of Hindarsfjall, the smallest island of the archipelago. And if one climbed up to the top of the towers of Kaer Trolde and looked in a southerly direction, one would see another island – the lonely, secluded island of Faroe. It jutted from the water like the back of a giant fish rising out of the flat ocean.

  Yennefer went down to the lower terraces and halted amongst a group of women whose pride and social status prevented them from running headlong to the beach and mixing with the excited mob. From there, the alluvium seaport spread black and shapeless, like the shaft of a sea crab.

  From the sound between An Skellig and Spikeroog appeared the dragon boats, one after another. Their red and white sails blazed in the sunlight and the bronze shields hanging on their sides flashed.

  ‘The ‘Ring Horn’ comes first,’ lectured one of women. ‘Then the ‘Fenris’…’

  The ‘Trigla’,’ acknowledged another in an excited voice. ‘Then the ‘Drac’… Behind them, the ‘Havfru’…’

  ‘The ‘Anghira’… ‘Tamara’… ‘Daria’… No, that is the ‘Scorpena’… the ‘Daria’ is missing. The ‘Daria’ is missing…’

  A young, pregnant woman with a thick blond braid supported her belly with both hands, moaned, turned a dull, pale colour, and fainted, falling on the boards of the terrace like a ragged curtain from its rings. Yennefer jumped out immediately, sank to her knees, and pressed her fingers against the abdomen of the woman. She shouted a spell to suppress the spasms and convulsions, and to strongly secure the tissue of the uterus and placenta together against the force that threatened to tear them apart. For safety, she laid a soothing spell on the child, whose legs she could feel kicking under her hands.

  In order not to waste her magic strength, she brought the woman to consciousness with a slap to the face. ‘Take her away. Carefully.’

  ‘Such a fool…’ said one of the elderly women. ‘What was she thinking…’

  ‘Quite headless… Perhaps her man lives, maybe he is in a different boat…’

  ‘Thank you for your help, Lady Sorceress.’

  ‘Take her away,’ Yennefer repeated and stood up. She stifled a curse as she realized that her kneeling had caused her dress seam to burst.

  She was still on the lower terrace. The dragon boats now ran onto the beach, one after the other, and the soldiers came ashore – the Skellige berserkers, bearded and draped with weapons. Many wore white bandages. Many could only walk with the help of their companions. Some had to be carried.

  The women huddled on the banks of Skellige began to recognize their men. If they were lucky, they shouted and cried with happiness. If they were not, they fainted. Or they departed – slowly, quietly, and without a word of complaint. Sometimes they looked around; hoping the red and white sails of the ‘Daria’ would flash in the sound.

  The ‘Daria’ was missing.

  Towering over the other heads of red hair, Yennefer recognized Crach an Craite, the Earl of Skellige, who was one of the last to come ashore from the ‘Ring Horn’. The Earl shouted commands, gave orders, checked, and looked after various issues. Two women watched him, one blond and the
other dark haired. They wept. With happiness. When he was finally convinced that he had taken care of everything, the Earl went to the women, gave them a bear hug, and kissed them both. And then he looked up and saw Yennefer. His eyes began to gleam like the back of a brass plates and his sunburned face was as hard as the rock of a reef.

  He knows, thought the sorceress. News travels fast. The Earl found out, while he was on tour, that I had been caught in a net yesterday, in the sound behind Spikeroog. He knew he would find me in Kaer Trolde.

  Magic or pigeons?

  He approached her slowly. He smelled of the sea, salt, tar, and fatigue. She looked into his bright eyes, and immediately her ears rang with the war cry of berserkers, the fragmenting of shields, the clanking of swords and axes. The roar of the slain. The roar of the people who jumped from the burning ‘Daria’ into the sea.

  ‘Yennefer of Vengerberg.’

  ‘Crach an Craite, Earl of Skellige.’ She made a slight bow before him.

  He did not return the bow. Not good, she thought.

  At that moment he saw her bruise, a reminder of a blow with the oar, and again his face hardened. His lips quivered and for a moment she could see his teeth. ‘Whoever hit you will pay for it.’

  ‘No one hit me. I stumbled on the stairs.’

  He looked at her attentively, then shrugged his shoulders. ‘If you do not want to lodge a complaint, you do not have to. I have no time to launch an investigation. And now listen to what I have to say. Listen attentively, because these will be the only words that I say to you.’