‘The foreman here. You said. You didn’t say, though, what you want to chat with him about.’
‘Look at your boots.’
Geralt and Cahir obediently examined their footwear, which was covered in sludge of a strange, reddish hue.
‘The half-elf we’re seeking,’ Angoulême anticipated the question, ‘had the same crimson mud on his shoes when he was talking to Nightingale. Get it?’
‘I do now. And the dwarf?’
‘Don’t say a word to him. I’ll do the talking. He should take you for types that don’t talk, just cleave. Look tough.’
They didn’t have to make a special effort. Some of the miners who were watching quickly looked away, others froze with mouths open. The ones in their way hurriedly stood aside. Geralt guessed why. He and Cahir still had visible bruises, cuts and swellings–vivid tokens of their fight and the hiding Milva had given them. They looked like types who took pleasure from punching each other in the face, and wouldn’t need much persuasion to punch someone else.
The dwarf, Angoulême’s mate, was standing outside a building bearing the sign ‘joinery shop’ and painting something on a board made of two planed staves. He saw them coming, put down his brush and tin of paint and scowled. Then an expression of utter amazement suddenly appeared behind his paint-spattered beard.
‘Angoulême?’
‘What cheer, Drozdeck?’
‘Is it you?’ The dwarf’s hairy jaw fell open. ‘Is it really you?’
‘No. It isn’t. It’s the freshly resurrected prophet Lebioda. Ask me another, Golan. A more intelligent one, perhaps.’
‘Don’t mock, Flaxenhair. I never expected to see you again. Mulica were ’ere five days since, he says they nabbed you and stuck you on a stake in Riedbrune. He vowed it were true!’
‘Everything has its benefits,’ the girl shrugged. ‘Next time Mulica borrows some money and vows he’ll pay it back you’ll know what his vow’s worth.’
‘I knew that before,’ the dwarf replied, blinking quickly and twitching his nose like a rabbit. ‘I wouldn’t lend ‘im a broken farthing, even if he bent down and licked my boots. But you’re alive and kicking, I’m glad, I’m glad. Hey! Perhaps you’ll pay back your debt too, eh?’
‘P’raps. Who knows?’
‘And who’ve you got with you? Eh, Flaxenhair?’
‘Sound fellows.’
‘Righto, mates… And where are the gods leading you?’
‘Astray, as usual.’ Angoulême, unconcerned by the Witcher looking daggers at her, sniffed up a pinch of fisstech, rubbing the rest into her gum. ‘Fancy a snort, Golan?’
‘I should say.’ The dwarf took and inhaled a pinch of the narcotic.
‘Truth be told,’ the girl continued, ‘I’m thinking about going to Belhaven. You don’t know if Nightingale and his hanza are hanging around somewhere there?’
Golan Drozdeck cocked his head.
‘You, Flaxenhair, should stay out of Nightingale’s way. He’s as pissed off with you, they say, as a wolverine roused from his winter sleep.’
‘Blow that! And when the news reached him that I’d been spitted on a palisade by a two-horse team, didn’t his heart change? Didn’t he regret it? Didn’t he shed a tear, foul his beard with snot?’
‘Not at all. I heard he said: “Angoulême’s finally got what she had coming to her: a stake up the arse”.’
‘Oh, the boor. Vulgar, loutish chump. Prefect Fulko would call him the arse end of society. To me he’s what comes out of the arse!’
‘You’d be better off, Flaxenhair, saying things like that out of his earshot. And not hanging around Belhaven, give it a wide birth. And if you have to enter the town, better go in disguise—’
‘Hey, Golan, don’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘Then listen, dwarf.’ Angoulême rested a boot on a step leading to the joinery shop. ‘I’ll ask you a question. Don’t hurry with the answer. Think it over well.’
‘Ask away.’
‘A half-elf hasn’t caught your eye recently, by any chance? A stranger, not from round here?’
Golan Drozdeck breathed in, sneezed loudly and wiped his nose on his wrist.
‘A half-elf you say? What half-elf?’
‘Don’t play the fool, Drozdeck. The one who hired Nightingale for a contract. A contract killing. Of a witcher…’
‘A witcher?’ Golan Drozdeck laughed, picking his board up from the ground. ‘Well I never! Believe it or not, we’re looking for a witcher. Look, we’re painting signs and putting them up all around here. See: “Witcher wanted, decent pay, board and lodgings included. Particulars at the office of the Petite Babette ore mine”. How’s it spelt, anyway? “Particulars” or “putticulars”?’
‘Just paint it out and write “details”. What do you need a witcher at the mine for?’
‘Now she’s asking. Monsters, of course.’
‘Like what?’
‘Vespertyls and barbegazis. They’re running rampant in the lower galleries.’
Angoulême glanced at Geralt, who nodded to confirm he knew what that was about. And coughed meaningfully to signal that she ought to get back to the subject.
‘Getting back to the subject–’ the girl understood at once ‘–what do you know about that half-elf?’
‘I don’t know nothing about no ‘alf-elf.’
‘I told you to think it over well.’
‘So I did.’ Golan Drozdeck suddenly assumed a sly expression. ‘And I decided it doesn’t pay to know anything about this case.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, it’s shaky here. The ground’s shaky and the times are shaky. Gangs, Nilfgaardians, partisans from the Free Slopes… And diverse foreign elements, half-elves. Each one raring to commit assault…’
‘Meaning?’ Angoulême wrinkled her nose.
‘Meaning you owe me money, Flaxenhair. And rather than pay it back, you’re getting deeper into debt. Serious debt, because you might get a whack on the head for what you’re asking, and not with a bare hand, but an axe. What kind of business is that for me? Will it pay if I do know something about the half-elf, eh? Will I get anything out of it? For if it’s only risk and no profit—’
Geralt had had enough. The conversation was boring him, the jargon and the dwarf’s mannerisms annoying him. As quick as lightning he caught the dwarf by the beard, yanked down and pushed him over. Golan Drozdeck tripped over the can of paint and fell. The Witcher leaped on him, pressed his knee against his chest and flashed a knife in front of his eyes.
‘You may profit,’ he growled, ‘by escaping with your life. Talk.’
Golan’s eyes looked as though they would pop out of their sockets and go for a stroll.
‘Talk,’ Geralt repeated. ‘Tell us what you know. Otherwise, when I slash your throat open you’ll drown before you bleed to death.’
‘The Rialto…’ the dwarf stammered. ‘The Rialto pit…’
The Rialto mine didn’t differ very much from the Petite Babette mine, or from the other mines and quarries that Angoulême, Geralt and Cahir had passed on the way, which were called Autumn Manifest, Old Mine, New Mine, Juliet Mine, Celestine, Common Cause and Lucky Pit. Work was in full swing in all of them, soil and ore being carted out of every shaft and pit to be tipped onto a sluice and washed in the sifters. There was an abundance of the characteristic red mud in all of them.
Rialto was a large mine, located near the top of the hill. The crown had been sliced away and formed a quarry. The actual washing station was located on a terrace carved out of the hillside. Here, at the foot of a vertical wall–in which shafts and drifts gaped–was a sluice, sifters, gutters and other mining paraphernalia. There was also a veritable village of wooden huts, sheds, shacks and hovels covered in bark.
‘I don’t know anyone here,’ said the girl, tying her reins to the fence. ‘But let’s try and talk to the overseer. Geralt, if you could, maybe don’t seize hi
m by the throat immediately or threaten him with a shiv. First we’ll talk—’
‘Don’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs, Angoulême.’
They didn’t get as far as talking. They didn’t even reach the building where they suspected the overseer had his office. They ran straight into five horsemen in the square where the ore was being loaded onto wagons.
‘Oh, shit,’ said Angoulême. ‘Oh, shit. Look what the cat dragged in.’
‘What’s up?’
‘They’re Nightingale’s men. Here to extort protection money… and they’ve recognised me… Dammit! Now we’re in the shit…’
‘Can’t you lie our way out of it?’ Cahir muttered.
‘I wouldn’t count on it.’
‘Why?’
‘I skinned Nightingale when I escaped from the hanza. They won’t forgive me for that. But I’ll try… Be quiet. Keep your eyes open and stay alert. For anything.’
The horsemen rode up, with two of them at the head; a fellow with long, grizzly hair, wearing a wolfskin, and a young beanpole with a beard, clearly grown to cover acne scars. They feigned indifference, but Geralt noticed veiled flashes of hatred in the glances they were casting at Angoulême.
‘Flaxenhair.’
‘Novosad. Yirrel. Greetings. Nice out today. Pity about the rain.’
The grizzly-haired man dismounted, or rather leaped down from the saddle, briskly swinging his right leg over his horse’s head. The others also dismounted. Grizzled Hair handed his reins to Yirrel, the beanpole with the beard, and came closer.
‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Our big-mouthed little magpie. Looks like you’re alive and well?’
‘Alive and kicking.’
‘You brazen little upstart! There was a rumour you were kicking, but on a stake. Rumour has it One-Eyed Fulko caught you. Rumour has it you sang like a bird when you were tortured, told them everything they asked!’
‘Rumour has it,’ Angoulême snapped, ‘that your mother only charged her customers four shillings, but no one would give her more than two.’
The brigand spat at her feet contemptuously. Angoulême hissed again, just like a cat.
‘Listen, Novosad,’ she said insolently, arms akimbo. ‘I need to talk something over with Nightingale.’
‘Interesting. Likewise he with you.’
‘Shut your trap and listen, while I still feel like talking. Two days ago, a mile outside Riedbrune, me and these companions of mine slaughtered that witcher the contract’s out for. Get it?’
Novosad glanced knowingly at his comrades and then pulled up his sleeves, scrutinising Geralt and Cahir.
‘Your new companions,’ he drawled. ‘Ha, I see from their faces they’re no choirboys. They killed the witcher, you say? How? A stab in the back? Or in their dreams?’
‘That’s a minor putticular.’ Angoulême grimaced like a little monkey. ‘The major putticular is that the witcher is six feet under. Listen, Novosad. I don’t want to quarrel with Nightingale or get in his way. But a deal’s a deal. The half-elf gave you an advance on the contract, so I shan’t demand it, that’s your money, for costs and for your trouble. But the second instalment–which the half-elf promised after the job was done–that’s mine by right.’
‘By right?’
‘Yes!’ Angoulême ignored his sarcastic tone. ‘We carried out the contract and killed the witcher, proof of which we can show the half-elf. Then I’ll take what’s mine and head off into the sunset. I don’t mean to compete with Nightingale, because the Slopes aren’t big enough for the both of us. Tell him that, Novosad.’
‘Is that all?’ Stinging sarcasm again.
‘And a kiss,’ Angoulême snorted. ‘You can hold your arse out on my behalf, per procura.’
‘I’ve a better idea,’ Novosad declared, glancing at his companions. ‘I’ll drag your arse to him, Angoulême. I’ll deliver you to him in fetters, and then he’ll discuss and straighten everything out with you. And settle up. Everything. The question is who owns the money from the half-elf Schirrú’s contract. And your repayment for what you stole. And that the Slopes aren’t big enough for all of us. Everything will be sorted out the same way. In fine detail.’
‘There’s one snag.’ Angoulême lowered her hands. ‘How do you plan to take me to Nightingale, Novosad?’
‘Like this!’ The brigand held out a hand. ‘By the neck!’
Geralt’s sihill was out in a flash and under Novosad’s nose.
‘I advise against it,’ he snarled.
Novosad sprang back, drawing his sword. Yirrel drew a curved sabre with a hiss from the scabbard on his back. The others followed their example.
‘I still advise against it,’ the Witcher said.
Novosad swore. His eyes swept over his comrades. Arithmetic wasn’t his strong point, but he calculated that five was considerably more than three.
‘Get ’em!’ he yelled, lunging at Geralt. ‘Kill ’em!’
The Witcher evaded the blow with a half-turn and slashed him viciously across the temple. Even before Novosad had fallen, Angoulême ducked forward with a short jab, her knife whistled in the air and Yirrel reeled away, the bone handle jutting from beneath his chin. The brigand dropped his sabre and jerked the knife from his throat with both hands, spurting blood, but Angoulême sprang up to kick him in the chest and knocked him to the ground. Meanwhile, Geralt had struck another bandit. Cahir hacked the next one to death; something shaped like a slice of watermelon dropped from the robber’s skull after a powerful blow of his Nilfgaardian blade. The last thug fled and jumped onto his horse. Cahir tossed up his sword, seized it by the blade and hurled it like a javelin, striking the brigand right between the shoulder blades. The horse neighed and jerked its head, sat hard on its haunches and stamped its hooves, dragging the corpse over the red mud, its hand tangled up in the reins.
The whole thing took less than five heartbeats.
‘Heeey!’ yelled somebody from among the buildings. ‘Heeeelp! Heeeelp! Murder, vicious killers!’
‘Troops! Call out the troops!’ shouted another miner, shooing away children who–as is the immemorial custom of all the world’s children–had appeared from nowhere to watch and get in the way.
‘Someone run and call the army!’
Angoulême picked up her knife, wiped and sheathed it.
‘Let them run, by all means!’ she shouted back, looking around. ‘What is it, quarrymen, are you blind or what? That was self-defence! They fell on us, the bloody thugs! Don’t you know them? Haven’t they done you enough harm? Haven’t they extorted enough from you?’
She sneezed loudly. Then she tore the purse from the belt of the still twitching Novosad and leaned over Yirrel.
‘Angoulême.’
‘What?’
‘Leave it.’
‘Why should I? It’s spoils! Short of money?’
‘Angoulême…’
‘You,’ a voice suddenly shouted. ‘This way, please.’
Three men stood in the open doorway to a barrack serving as the tool store. Two of them were heavies with low foreheads and closely-cropped hair, of undoubtedly limited intelligence. The third–the one who’d shouted to them–was a very tall, dark-haired, handsome man.
‘I couldn’t help overhearing the conversation preceding the incident,’ the man said. ‘I found it hard to believe you’d killed a witcher, thinking it empty bragging. I don’t think that now. Step inside.’
Angoulême drew an audible intake of breath. She glanced at the Witcher and nodded barely perceptibly.
The man was a half-elf.
The half-elf Schirrú was tall–well over six feet. He wore his dark hair tied on his neck in a ponytail falling down his back. His mixed blood was betrayed by his eyes, which were large, almond-shaped and yellowish-green, like a cat’s.
‘So you killed the Witcher,’ he said again, smiling repulsively. ‘Forestalling Homer Straggen, also called Nightingale? Fascinating, fascinating. Put simply, I ought to pay you fifty f
lorins. The second instalment. Which means Straggen received his two score and ten florins for nothing. For you surely can’t suppose he’ll give it up.’
‘How I settle accounts with Nightingale is my business,’ said Angoulême, sitting on a crate and swinging her legs. ‘The contract on the Witcher was a one-off commission. And we carried out that commission. We did, not Nightingale. The Witcher’s in the ground. His company, all three of them, are in the ground. In other words: job done.’
‘At least that’s what you claim. How did it happen?’
Angoulême kept swinging her legs.
‘I’ll write my life story when I’m old,’ she declared in her usual impudent tone. ‘I’ll describe how this, that and the other took place. You’ll have to hold on until then, Mr Schirrú.’
‘It shames you that much, then,’ the half-breed remarked coldly. ‘So, you did the deed foully and treacherously.’
‘Does that bother you?’ Geralt asked.
Schirrú looked at him intently.
‘No,’ he answered after a moment. ‘Geralt the Witcher of Rivia didn’t deserve a better fate. He was a simpleton and a fool. If he’d had a finer, more honest and honourable death, legends would have sprung up around him. But he didn’t merit a legend.’
‘Death is always the same.’
‘Not always.’ The half-elf turned his head, trying to catch a glimpse of Geralt’s eyes, shaded by his hood. ‘Not always, I assure you. I presume you dealt the mortal blow.’
Geralt didn’t reply. He felt the overwhelming urge to grab the cross-breed by the ponytail, knock him to the floor and wring every detail out of him, knocking his teeth out one by one with his sword pommel. He held himself back. Good sense suggested Angoulême’s hoax might bear better results.
‘As you wish,’ said Schirrú, not getting an answer. ‘I won’t insist on a report about the course of events. It’s clearly difficult for you to talk about it, and there’s clearly not very much to boast about. Supposing, of course, that your silence doesn’t stem from something quite different… For example, that nothing at all occurred. Do you perhaps have any proof of the veracity of your words?’
The Tower of Swallows Page 22