‘In order for everything to be perfectly clear,’ the man behind the table addressed him, ‘you should understand that the mistake you made in this town two years ago has not been forgiven. You are getting one more chance. You are getting one more order. My decision as to your ultimate fate depends on the way in which you carry it out.’
The young knight’s face did not twitch, and nor did a single feather on the wings adorning the helmet at his hip.
‘I never deceive anyone, I never give anyone false illusions,’ continued the man. ‘So let it be known that, naturally, the prospect of saving your neck from the executioner’s axe exists only if you do not make a mistake this time. Your chances of a full pardon are small. Your chances of my forgiving and forgetting are . . . non-existent. ’
The young knight in the black armour did not flinch this time either, but Coehoorn detected the flash in his eyes. He doesn’t believe him, he thought. He doesn’t believe him and is deluding himself. He is making a great mistake.
‘I command your full attention,’ continued the man behind the table. ‘Yours, too, Coehoorn, because the orders I am about to give concern you too. They come in a moment, for I have to give some thought to their substance and delivery.’
Marshal Menno Coehoorn, Governor of the Province of Cintra and future Commander-in-Chief of the Dol Angra army, lifted his head and stood to attention, his hand on the pommel of his sword. The same attitude was assumed by the knight in black armour with the bird-of-prey-winged helmet. They both waited. In silence. Patiently. The way one should wait for orders, the substance and presentation of which were being pondered by the Emperor of Nilfgaard, Emhyr var Emreis, Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd, the White Flame Dancing on the Grave-Mounds of Enemies.
Ciri woke.
She was lying, or rather half-sitting, with her head resting high on several pillows. The compresses on her forehead had grown warm and only slightly damp. She threw them off, unable to bear their unpleasant weight and their stinging against her skin. She found it hard to breathe. Her throat was dry and her nose almost completely blocked with clots of blood. But the elixirs and spells had worked – the pain which had exploded within her skull and dimmed her sight a few hours ago had disappeared and given way to a dull throbbing and a sensation of pressure on her temples.
Carefully she touched her nose with the back of her hand. It was no longer bleeding.
What a strange dream I had, she thought. The first dream for many days. The first where I wasn’t afraid. The first which wasn’t about me. I was an . . . observer. I saw everything as if from above, from high up . . . As if I were a bird . . . A night bird . . .
A dream in which I saw Geralt.
In the dream it was night. And the rain, which furrowed the surface of the canal, spattered on the shingle roofs and thatches of sheds, glistened on the planks of foot-bridges and the decks of boats and barges . . . And Geralt was there. Not alone. There was a man with him in a funny hat with a feather, limp from the damp. And a slim girl in a green cloak with a hood . . . All three were walking slowly and carefully along a wet foot-bridge . . . And I saw them from above. As if I were a bird. A night bird . . .
Geralt had stopped short. ‘Is it still far?’ he had asked. ‘No,’ the slim girl had answered, shaking the water off her green cloak. ‘We’re almost there . . . Hey, Dandilion, don’t lag behind or you’ll get lost in these cul-de-sacs . . . And where the hell is Philippa? I saw her a moment ago, she was flying alongside the canal . . . What foul weather . . . Let’s go. Lead on, Shani. And between you and me, where do you know this charlatan from? What have you got to do with him?’
‘I sometimes sell him medicaments looted from the college workshop. What are you staring at me like that for? My stepfather can barely pay for my tuition . . . I sometimes need a little money . . . And the charlatan, having real medicaments, treats people . . . Or at least he doesn’t poison them . . . Well, let’s get going.’
Strange dream, thought Ciri. Shame I woke up. I’d like to have seen what was going to happen . . . I’d like to know what they were doing there. Where they were going . . .
From the chamber next door came the sound of voices, the voices which had woken her. Mother Nenneke was speaking quickly, clearly worked up, agitated and angry. ‘You betrayed my trust,’ she was saying. ‘I shouldn’t have allowed it. I might have guessed that your dislike of her would lead to disaster. I shouldn’t have allowed you to—Because, after all, I know you. You’re ruthless, you’re cruel, and to make matters worse, it turns out you’re also irresponsible and careless. You’re torturing that child mercilessly, forcing her to try things which she can’t possibly do. You’ve no heart.
‘You really have no heart, Yennefer.’
Ciri pricked up her ears, wanting to hear the enchantress’s reply, her cold, hard and melodious voice. Wanting to hear how she reacted, how she sneered at the high priestess, how she ridiculed her over-protectiveness. She wanted to hear her say what she usually said – that using magic is no joke, that it isn’t an occupation for young ladies made of porcelain, for dolls blown from thin glass. But Yennefer answered quietly, so quietly that the girl could neither understand nor even make out the individual words.
I’ll fall asleep, she thought, carefully and delicately feeling her nose which was still tender, painful and blocked with clotted blood. I’ll go back to my dream. I’ll see what Geralt is doing there, in the night, in the rain, by the canal . . .
Yennefer was holding her by the hand. They were both walking down a long, dark corridor, between stone columns or, perhaps, statues. Ciri could not make out their forms in the thick darkness. But there was someone there, in that darkness, someone hiding and observing them as they walked. She heard whispers, quiet as the rustle of the wind.
Yennefer was holding her by the hand, walking briskly and assuredly, full of decisiveness, so much so that Ciri could barely keep up with her. Doors opened before them in succession, one after another. An infinite number of doors with gigantic, heavy leaves opened up before them noiselessly.
The darkness thickened. Ciri saw yet another great door in front of her. Yennefer did not slow her stride but Ciri suddenly knew that this door would not open of its own accord. And she suddenly had an overwhelming certainty that this door must not be opened. That she must not go through it. That, behind this door, something was waiting for her . . .
She stopped short, tried to pull away, but Yennefer’s hand was strong and unyielding and unrelentingly dragged her forward. And Ciri finally understood that she had been betrayed, deceived, sold out. That, ever since the first meeting, from the very beginning, from the first day, she had been no more than a marionette, a puppet on a string. She tugged harder, tore herself away from that grip. The darkness undulated like smoke and the whispering in the dark, all of a sudden, died away. The magician took a step forward, stopped, turned round and looked at her.
If you’re afraid, turn back.
That door mustn’t be opened. You know that.
I do.
But you’re still leading me there.
If you’re afraid, turn back. You still have time to turn back. It’s not too late.
And you?
For me, it is.
Ciri looked around. Despite the omnipresent darkness she saw the door which they had passed through – and a long, distant vista. And there, from a distance, from the darkness, she heard . . .
The clatter of hooves. The grating of black armour. And the flutter of the wings of a bird of prey. And the voice. That quiet voice, boring into her skull . . .
You have made a mistake. You mistook the stars reflected in the surface of the lake at night for the heavens.
She woke and lifted her head abruptly, displacing the compress, fresh because it was still cool and wet. She was drenched in sweat; the dull pain was ringing and throbbing in her temples again. Yennefer was sitting beside on the bed. Her head was turned away so that Ciri did not see her face. She saw only the tempest
of black hair.
‘I had a dream . . .’ whispered Ciri. ‘In the dream . . .’
‘I know,’ the magician said in a strange voice not her own. ‘That’s why I’m here. I’m beside you.’
Beyond the window, in the darkness, the rain rustled in the leaves of the trees.
‘Damn it,’ snarled Dandilion, shaking water from the brim of his hat, soggy from the rain. ‘It’s a veritable fortress, not a house. What’s that fraud frightened of, fortifying himself like that?’
Boats and barges moored to the bank rocked lazily on water furrowed by the rain, bumping against each other, creaking and rattling their chains.
‘It’s the port,’ explained Shani. ‘There’s no shortage of thugs and scum, both local and just passing through. Quite a few people visit Myhrman, bringing money . . . Everybody knows that. And that he lives alone. So he’s secured himself. Are you surprised?’
‘Not in the least.’ Geralt looked at the mansion built on stakes dug into the bottom of the canal some ten yards from the shore. ‘I’m trying to work out how to get to that islet, to that waterside cottage. We’ll probably have to borrow one of those boats on the quiet—’
‘No need,’ said the student of medicine. ‘There’s a drawbridge.’
‘And how are you going to persuade that charlatan to lower it? Besides, there’s also the door, and we didn’t bring a battering ram with us—’
‘Leave it to me.’
An enormous grey owl landed soundlessly on the deck’s railing, fluttered its wings, ruffled its feathers and turned into Philippa Eilhart, equally ruffled and wet.
‘What am I doing here?’ the magician mumbled angrily. ‘What am I doing here with you, damn it? Balancing on a wet bar . . . And on the edge of betraying the state. If Dijktra finds out I was helping you . . . And on top of it all, this endless drizzle! I hate flying in the rain. Is this it? This is Myhrman’s house?’
‘Yes,’ confirmed Geralt. ‘Listen, Shani, we’ll try . . .’
They bunched together and started whispering, concealed in the dark under the eaves of a hut’s reed roof. A strip of light fell on the water from the tavern on the opposite side of the canal. Singing, laughter and yelling resounded. Three bargemen rolled out on to the shore. Two were arguing, tugging, shoving each other and repeatedly swearing the same curses to the point of boredom. The third, leaning against a stake, was peeing into the canal and whistling. He was out of tune.
Dong, metallically reverberated the iron sheet tied by a strap to a pole by the deck. Dong.
The charlatan Myhrman opened a tiny window and peered out. The lantern in his hand only blinded him, so he set it aside.
‘Who the devil is ringing at this time of the night?’ he bawled furiously. ‘Whack yourself in that empty head of yours, you shit, you lame dick, when you get the urge to knock! Get out, get lost you old soaks, right now! I’ve got my crossbow at the ready here! Does one of you want six inches of crossbow bolt in their arse?’
‘Master Myhrman! It’s me, Shani!’
‘Eh?’ The charlatan leaned out further. ‘Miss Shani? Now, in the night? How come?’
‘Lower the bridge, Master Myhrman! I’ve brought you what you asked for!’
‘Right now, in the dark? Couldn’t you do it during the day, miss?’
‘Too many eyes here, during the day.’ A slim outline in a green cloak loomed on the deck. ‘If words gets out about what I’m bringing you they’ll throw me out of the Academy. Lower the bridge, I’m not going to stand around in the rain, I’m soaked!’
‘You’re not alone, miss,’ the charlatan noted suspiciously. ‘You usually come alone. Who’s there with you?’
‘A friend, a student like me. Was I supposed to come alone, at night, to this forsaken neighbourhood of yours? What, you think I don’t value my maidenhood or something? Let me in, damn it!’
Muttering under his breath, Myhrman released the stopper on the winch and the bridge creaked down, hitting the planks of the deck. The old fraud minced to the door and pulled back the bolts and locks. Without putting his crossbow aside, he carefully peered out.
He didn’t notice the fist clad in a black silver-studded glove as it flew towards the side of his head. But although the night was dark, the moon was new and the sky overcast, he suddenly saw ten thousand dazzlingly bright stars.
Toublanc Michelet drew the whetstone over the blade of his sword once more, looking totally engrossed in this activity.
‘So we are to kill one man for you.’ He set the stone aside, wiped the blade with a piece of greased rabbit skin and closely examined the blade. ‘An ordinary fellow who walks around the streets of Oxenfurt by himself, without a guard, an escort or bodyguards. Doesn’t even have any knaves hanging about. We won’t have to clamber into any castles, town halls, mansion houses or garrisons to get at him . . . Is that right, honourable Rience? Have I understood you correctly?’
The man with a face disfigured by a burn nodded, narrowing his moist eyes with their unpleasant expression a little.
‘On top of that,’ Toublanc continued, ‘after killing this fellow we won’t be forced to remain hidden somewhere for the next six months because no one is going to chase or follow us. No one is going to set a posse or reward seekers on us. We won’t get drawn into any blood feuds or vendettas. In other words, Master Rience, we’re to finish off an ordinary, common fool of no importance to you?’
The man with the scar did not reply. Toublanc looked at his brothers sitting motionless and stiff on the bench. Rizzi, Flavius and Lodovico, as usual, said nothing. In the team they formed, it was they who killed, Toublanc who talked. Because only Toublanc had attended the Temple school. He was as efficient at killing as his brothers but he could also read and write. And talk.
‘And in order to kill such an ordinary dunce, Master Rience, you’re hiring not just any old thug from the port but us, the Michelet brothers? For a hundred Novigrad crowns?’
‘That is your usual rate,’ drawled the man with the scar, ‘correct?’
‘Incorrect,’ contradicted Toublanc coldly. ‘Because we’re not for the killing of ordinary fools. But if we do . . . Master Rience, this fool you want to see made a corpse is going to cost you two hundred. Two hundred untrimmed, shining crowns with the stamp of the Novigrad mint on them. Do you know why? Because there’s a catch here, honourable sir. You don’t have to tell us what it is, we can manage without that. But you will pay for it. Two hundred, I say. You shake on that price and you can consider that no-friend of yours dead. You don’t want to agree, find someone else for the job.’
Silence fell in the cellar reeking of mustiness and soured wine. A cockroach, briskly moving its limbs, scudded along the dirt floor. Flavius Michelet, moving his leg in a flash, flattened it with a crunch – hardly changing his position and not changing his expression in the least.
‘Agreed,’ said Rience. ‘You get two hundred. Let’s go.’
Toublanc Michelet, professional killer from the age of fourteen, did not betray his surprise with so much as the flicker of an eyelid. He had not counted on being able to bargain for more than a hundred and twenty, a hundred and fifty at the most. Suddenly he was sure that he had named too low a price for the snag hidden in his latest job.
Charlatan Myhrman came to on the floor of his own room. He was lying on his back, trussed up like a sheep. The back of his head was excruciatingly painful and he recalled that, in falling, he had thumped his head on the door-frame. The temple, where he had been struck, also hurt. He could not move because his chest was being heavily and mercilessly crushed by a high boot fastened with buckles. The old fraud, squinting and wrinkling up his face, looked up. The boot belonged to a tall man with hair as white as milk. Myhrman could not see his face – it was hidden in a darkness not dispersed by the lantern standing on the table.
‘Spare my life . . .’ he groaned. ‘Spare me, I swear by the gods . . . I’ll hand you my money . . . Hand you everything . . . I’ll show you where it’s hi
dden . . .’
‘Where’s Rience, Myhrman?’
The charlatan shook at the sound of the voice. He was not a fearful man; there were not many things of which he was afraid. But the voice of the white-haired man contained them all. And a few others in addition.
With a superhuman effort of the will, he overcame the fear crawling in his viscera like some foul insect.
‘Huh?’ He feigned astonishment. ‘What? Who? What did you say?’
The man bent over and Myhrman saw his face. He saw his eyes. And the sight made his stomach slip right down to his rectum.
‘Don’t beat about the bush, Myhrman, don’t twist up your tail.’ The familiar voice of Shani, the medical student came from the shadows. ‘When I was here three days ago, here, in this high-backed chair, at this table, sat a gentleman in a cloak lined with musk-rat. He was drinking wine, and you never entertain anybody – only the best of friends. He flirted with me, brazenly urged me to go dancing at the Three Little Bells. I even had to slap his hand because he was starting to fondle me, remember ? And you said: “Leave her alone, Master Rience, don’t frighten her, I needs must be on good terms with the little academics and do business”. And you both chuckled, you and your Master Rience with the burned face. So don’t start playing dumb now because you’re not dealing with someone dumber than yourself. Talk while you’re still being asked politely.’
Oh, you cocksure little student, thought the charlatan. You treacherous creep, you red-haired hussy, I’m going to find you and pay you back . . . Just let me get myself out of this.
‘What Rience?’ he yelped, writhing, trying in vain to free himself from the heel pressing down on his breast-bone. ‘And how am I to know who he is and where he is? All sorts come here, what am I—?’
The white-haired man leaned over further, slowly pulling the dagger from his other boot while pressing down harder on the charlatan’s chest with his first.
The Saga of the Witcher Page 25