Boreas Mun tracked, Dacre Silifant and Ola Harsheim attempted to bribe, Til Echrade tried elven magic and I perceived thoughts and listened, but this did not amount to much. We learned that Bonhart had left town by the south gate. And that before he left…
In the marketplace near the south gate there was a small shrine. Before leaving Claremont, Bonhart had Falka whipped in front of the shrine. In front of everyone, including the eyes of the priests of the shrine. He shouted that he would show her who was her lord and master. That he could whip her where he wanted, and if he wanted he could beat her to death, because no one would take part in it, no one would help her, neither men nor gods.
Scarra the Younger looked out the window, clinging to the bars. The older ate porridge from her bowl. Kohout retrieved his stood, lay down and covered himself with a blanket.
They heard the bell from the guardhouse and the cries from the sentries on the walls…
Kenna turned to face the wall.
A few days later we met, she thought. Me and Bonhart. Face to face. I looked into his inhuman fish eyes, that were only thinking about one thing – how to beat this girl. And I took one look at his thoughts… Just for a moment. And it was like sticking my head into an open grave…
This happened on the equinox.
And on the eve of the twenty-second of September, I realised that between us was something invisible.
* * *
Stefan Skellen, the Imperial Coroner listened without interrupting. But Kenna saw how his face changed.
‘Repeat, Selbourne,’ he drawled. ‘Repeat, I do not believe my ears.’
‘Careful, Mister Coroner,’ she murmured. ‘Pretend anger… As if I came up with a request and you are rejected it. On the surface, that is. I am not mistaken, I’m sure. For at least the last two days circling around us is an invisible spy.’
The Owl had to admit that he was understanding and immediately get his bearings.
‘No, Selbourne, I refuse,’ he said aloud, but avoided exaggerated acting with both his tone and gestures. ‘Discipline applies to all. There are no exceptions. I do not agree!’
‘Hear me out, Mister Coroner,’ said Kenna. She had no such acting talent like the Owl, but in this case the uncertainty and self-consciousness of the applicant worked quite reliably. ‘At least here me out…’
‘Speak, Selbourne! But short and concise!’
‘They have been spying on us for two days,’ she murmured, pretending to humbly explain her reasons. ‘From Claremont. It has secretly been following us, and comes into our camp and moves between people spying.’
‘Listen, fucking spy,’ Skellen did not have to fake the anger or severity in his voice which trembled with rage. ‘How did you find out?’
‘When you were giving orders to Mister Silifant yesterday night before the inn, a cat as she slept on a bench, suddenly hissed, bristled her coat and lay her ears flat. I did not suspect, because there was no one in there… Then I caught something – A strange thought, someone else’s will. When you think, the thoughts are familiar, ordinary, but this strange thought, Mister Coroner, was if someone had shouted loudly… I began to listen attentively, and found him.’
‘Can you always feel him?’
‘Not always. It has some magical protection. I can only feel it at close range, and even then not every time. Therefore, we must keep up appearances, since I don’t know if he is hiding nearby.’
‘Just do not startle him,’ growled the Owl. ‘Just do not startle him. I want him alive, Selbourne. What do you suggest?’
‘We are going to make pancakes.’
‘Pancakes?’
‘Lower your voice, Mister Coroner.’
‘But… Ah, never mind. Agreed. I leave you with a free hand.’
‘Tomorrow we will arrange for us to stay overnight at a village. I’ll take care of the others. And now, mock rebuke me before I go.’
‘I will not rebuke you,’ he winked conspiratorially at her, but then his face became the expression of a strict commander. ‘I am satisfied with you, Lady Selbourne.’
He said Lady. Lady Selbourne. Like an officer. He winked again.
‘No!’ he said, waving his hand, playing his role brilliantly. ‘Request rejected! Be gone!’
‘As you command, Mister Coroner.’
* * *
The next day, late in the afternoon, Skellen ordered them to stop in a village on the River Lete. The village was rich, surrounded by a palisade; it was entered by a heavy door revolving on an axis. The village was called Unicorn. And it took the name from a small stone chapel where there was a straw doll representing a unicorn.
How we laughed at the little god of straw, remembered Kenna, and the mayor, with a serious expression, he said the holy Unicorn that had protected the town years ago had been made of gold, then silver, then copper, then there were some versions of bone and wood. But all had been stolen and looted. Only since the Unicorn had been made of straw had it been left alone.
We stayed in the village for a night. As agree, Skellen housed himself in one of the rustic cottages. And in less than an hour we made the invisible spy a pancake. In the classic, textbook way.
* * *
‘Please, approach,’ the Owl ordered. ‘Please come closer and take a look at this document… wait! Is everyone here? I don’t want to have to explain the whole thing twice.’
Ola Harsheim, who was drinking a cup of cream, wiped away a milk moustache, dropped his glass, looked around and counted.
‘Dacre Silifant, Bert Brigden, Neratin Ceka, Til Echrade, Joanna Selbourne… No Duffi.’
‘Call him.’
‘Kriel! Duffi Kriel! To the commander for a briefing! For important orders! Run!’
Duffi Kriel ran breathlessly into the parlour.
‘We’re all here, Mister Coroner,’ said Ola Harsheim.
‘Open the window, the garlic in here stinks so much you can’t breathe. And you can also open the door, let in a draft.’
Brigden obediently opened the door and Kenna again was convinced that the Owl was a brilliant actor.
‘Come closer. I have received from the Emperor a top secret and extremely important document. Be careful…’
‘Now!’ Kenna shouted, sending a strong directional pulse which had the equivalent effect on the sense as being struck by lightning.
Ola Harsheim and Dacre Silifant grabbed buckets and threw cream at the same time at the place where Kenna indicated. Til Echrade quickly threw a bag of flour that was hidden under the table. On the floor of the room materialised a creamy, floury form, initially formless. But Bert Brigden watched. Assessing without error where the head of the pancake might be, and hit it with a heavy cast iron skillet.
Everyone rushed to the cream and flour spy, and took from his head an invisibility cap, grabbed him by the arms and legs. They took him to the table where they tied the prisoner to the legs of the table. They took of his boots and socks, and stuffed one sock into his mouth to stop him screaming.
To complete their work, Kriel Duffi struck him with delight with a kick to the ribs of the prisoner and the rest watch with satisfaction, as the spy’s eyes popped from their sockets.
‘Good work,’ said the Owl, which during the short time had not moved from his spot and stood with his hands crossed on his chest. ‘Bravo. I congratulate you. Especially you, Lady Joanna.’
Damn, thought Kenna, if this continues, I might become an officer.
‘Mister Brigden,’ Stefan Skellen said in a cold voice, standing next to the prisoner’s outstretched feet that were tied to the table ‘Please put an iron in the fire. Mister Echrade, please take a look around outside the room for small children.’
He bent down and looked into the prisoner’s eyes.
‘It has been a long time since you showed yourself, Rience,’ he said. ‘I had begun to think that some misfortune had befallen you.’
* * *
The bell announcing the changing of the guard rang. The Scarra sisters
snored melodiously. Kohout muttered in his sleep, clutching his stool.
He tried to look brave, Kenna recalled, Rience pretended to have to fear. The Sorcerer Rience, looking like a pancake, tied to the legs of a table with his feet bare. He tried to look brave. Although he did not fool anyone and least of all me. The Owl had warned me that he was a sorcerer, so I muddled his thoughts so he could not cast spells or try and magically get help. And I read them. He tried to defend them, but when he smelled the smoke from the charcoal fire that was heating the iron, his magical defences and locks opened up like an old pair of trousers, and I read to my liking. His thoughts did not differ at all from those others who had been in similar situations.
Delirious thoughts, trembling with fear and despair. Cold, slimy, wet and smelly thoughts. Like the interior of a corpse.
* * *
‘Well Skellen, you win, you caught me. Congratulations. I bow to the technical expertise and professionalism. I envy your well-trained people. And now please free me from this uncomfortable position.’
The Owl approached a chair and sat on it backwards, resting his chin on his clasped hands on the back of the chair. He looked at the prisoner from above. And was silent.
‘Order them to release me, Skellen,’ Rience repeated. ‘And then ask your subordinates to leave. What I have to say is only for your ears.’
‘Mister Brigden,’ the Owl said without turning his head. ‘What colour is the iron?’
‘You will still have to wait a bit, Mister Coroner.’
‘Lady Selbourne?’
‘He is hard to read now,’ Kenna shrugged. ‘He is too afraid. Fear is suppressing all other thoughts. Nevertheless, he is still trying to hide a few thoughts behind magic barriers. But it will not be a problem, I can…’
‘No need. Let us use the traditional method – red-hot iron.’
‘Fuck!’ howled the spy. ‘Skellen! You’re not going…’
The Owl leaned forward, his face changing slightly.
‘Firstly, Lord Skellen,’ he said. ‘Secondly, yes I am. I’m going to tickle you with a hot poker. I’ll do it with inexpressible pleasure. And I’ll treat it as an expression of historical justice. I bet you do not understand.’
Rience remained silent, so Skellen continued.
‘You know, Rience, I counselled Vattier de Rideaux to burn your heels even then, seven years ago, when you crawled up to the imperial intelligence like a dog, begging for the privilege to be a double agent. I gave him the same advice four years ago, when you climbed in Emhyr’s ass and started meditating contact with Vilgefortz. And when you received the task of hunting the Cintran, you moved from an ordinary little traitor to a resident. I bet Vattier that if we gave you a taste of red-hot iron, we’d find out who you served… No, that was poorly expressed. We’d find out all who serve and all those who betray. Then I told him, Vattier that he’d be amazed as to how much the two lists match. But Vattier de Rideaux ignored me. And now surely he regrets it. But nothing is lost. I’m going to roast you a bit, to find out what you know, and then I will put you at the disposal of Vattier. And he is going to remove your skin, slowly, in small fragments.’
The Owl took a handkerchief and a bottle of perfume from his pocket. He liberally sprinkled the handkerchief and held it to his nose. The perfume smelled pleasantly of musk, yet Kenna wanted to vomit.
‘The iron, Mister Brigden.’
‘I followed you on Vilgefortz command!’ Rience cried. ‘It is the girl! I was following your squad; I was hoping to stall you before you got to this bounty hunter! I was to try and bargain with him for the girl! From him, not from you! Because you want to kill her and Vilgefortz needs her alive! What more do you want to know? I’ll tell! I’ll tell you everything!’
‘Well, well!’ The Owl cried. ‘Slow down! Both noise and lots of information can give one a headache. Can you imagine, gentlemen, what will happen when we roast him? We will go deaf in the end!’
Kriel and Silifant laughed out loud, but Kenna, Neratin and Ceka did not join them. Bert Brigden also maintained his seriousness as he pulled the hot poker from the glowing coals and stared at it intently. The iron rod was so hot it seemed almost translucent – like liquid fire filling a glass tube.
Rience saw it and screamed.
‘I know how to find the bounty hunter and the Cintran! I know how! I’ll tell you!’
‘I do not doubt it.’
Kenna, who was still trying to read his thoughts, frowned upon receiving a wave of rage and impotent despair. In Rience brain, again something broke, another barrier. He was so afraid that he was going to say something, Kenna thought, which he planned to keep until the end, as a trump card, an ace up his sleeve that could have defeated everyone else’s cards in a final and decisive suit to the highest bidder. Now, pure and simple fear of pain will put that card on the table.
Suddenly something was poured into her head; she felt heat in her temples, then a sudden cold.
And she knew. She had found Rience hidden thoughts.
By the gods, she thought, what a mess I’ve gotten…
‘I’ll talk!’ screamed the sorcerer, flushing and fixing his bulging eyes on the coroner. ‘I tell you something really important, Skellen! Vattier de Rideaux…’
Kenna suddenly heard another strange thought. She saw Neratin Ceka, hand on his dagger move towards the door.
The pounding of boots. Boreas Mun entered the council room.
‘Mister Coroner! Hurry, Mister Coroner! You’ll never believe who has arrived…’
Skellen, with a gesture, stopped Brigden, who was moving the iron towards the heels of the spy.
‘You ought to play the lottery, Rience,’ he said, looking out the window. ‘I have never seen anyone with as much luck as you.’
Through the window they could see people in a group, and in the centre of the group, a couple on horseback. Kenna knew immediately who they were. She knew who the giant man with the pale fish eyes, on the tall bay was. And who the grey-haired girl mounted on a beautiful black mare was. With her hands tied and a chain around her neck. With dark bruises on her swollen cheek.
* * *
Vysogota returned to his hut in a foul mood, depressed, silent and angry even. The cause was the talk of a villager who had come by a canoe to collect his skins. ‘This maybe the last time before spring’, said the villager. ‘The weather gets worse from day to day, the rain and the wind have made one afraid to come by boat. In the morning there is ice in the puddles, I think soon we are going to see snow. The river will freeze and I will have to hide the boat and pull a sled. But here in the Pereplut you cannot even get to in a sled, due to all the bogs.’
The villager was right. In the evening the sky became over cast and it started to pour heavy snowflakes. Gusty winds from the east whipped the cattails and waves rose in the usually calm river. The penetrating cold crawled into his old bones.
The day after tomorrow, Vysogota thought, is festival of Saovine. According to the Elvish calendar within three days will be a new year. According to the calendar of humans we will have to wait two more moths for the New Year.
Kelpie, the black mare of Ciri’s, was kicking and snorting in the goat pen.
When he entered the cottage, he found Ciri searching the trunks. He let her do it, even encouraged her. First, it was a completely new thing, after riding Kelpie and reading books. Second, in the trunks he had quite a bit of his daughters stuff and she needed warmer clothes. Several changes of clothes, because it had been cold and damp for days and the washed clothes hadn’t dried.
Ciri chose, tried on, rejected and took off. Vysogota sat at the table. He ate two boiled potatoes and chicken wings. He remained silent.
‘Good craftsmanship,’ she showed him an item that he had not seen for years and had forgotten he had. ‘Did this belong to your daughter? Did she like to skate?’
‘She loved it. She looked forward to winter.’
‘Can I take them?’
‘Take what you w
ant,’ he shrugged his shoulders. ‘I have no use for them. If they are useful and the shoe fits… But is this preparing your luggage, Ciri? Are you preparing to go?’
‘Yes, Vysogota,’ she said after a moment of silence. ‘I’ve decided. Because, you know… there is no time to lose.’
‘Your dreams?’
‘Yes,’ she admitted after a while. ‘I’ve seen bad things in my dreams. I’m not sure if it has already taken place, or whether this is just the future. I don’t know if I can prevent it… But I have to go. See, I, at one point, complained that my friends had not come to my aid. I was left to the mercy of fate… And now I think that maybe they need my help. I have to go.’
‘Winter is coming.’
‘That is why I have to go. If I stay, I’ll be stuck until spring… Until spring, I’ll be worrying with inactivity and uncertainty and haunted by nightmares. I have to go, I have to go now to try and find the Tower of the Swallow. The teleporter. You yourself have estimated that going up the river it will be a fifteen day journey. I could get there before November’s full moon…’
‘You cannot leave your sanctuary now,’ he murmured with effort. ‘Not now. Your pursuers are close… Very close. You cannot…’
She threw down a shirt and rose like she was driven by a spring.
‘You have heard something,’ she strongly stated the fact. ‘From the villager who took the skins. Tell me.’
‘Ciri…’
‘Tell me, please!’
He told her. He later regretted it.
* * *
‘The think devil sent them, honourable Mister Hermit,’ murmured the peasant, stopping for a moment counting the skins. ‘The devil I guess. Since the Equinox they have roamed the woods, looking for a girl. They then raided the villages, shouting, threatening, scaring, but then moved on. Well, we could endure it. Now there are new innovations. They have left a patrol in the villages – three to four bandits who we must look after. Perhaps they will remain all winter. They said they will wait for the girl they seek to come out of hiding at one of the villages. So she can be trapped.’
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 05] Page 38