The Saga of the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘I am astonished,’ Fringilla burst out, ‘by your tendency to search for the threads of intrigue in distant Nilfgaard, while the evidence requires us to search for conspirators and traitors much closer to you.’

  ‘An observation as blunt as it is apt,’ Sheala de Tancarville said, silencing with a glance Sabrina, who was preparing a riposte. ‘All the evidence suggests that the facts about the Elder Blood were leaked to Nilfgaard from us. Is it possible you’ve forgotten about Vilgefortz, ladies?’

  ‘Not I,’ Sabrina said, a flame of hatred flaring in her black eyes for a second. ‘I have not forgotten!’

  ‘All in good time,’ Keira Metz said, flashing her teeth malevolently. ‘But for the moment it’s not about him, but about the fact that Emhyr var Emreis, Imperator of Nilfgaard, has Ciri – and thus the Elder Blood that is so important to us – in his grasp.’

  ‘The Imperator,’ Assire declared calmly, glancing at Fringilla, ‘doesn’t have anything in his grasp. The girl being held in Darn Rowan is not the carrier of any extraordinary gene. She’s ordinary to the point of commonness. Beyond a shadow of doubt she is not Ciri of Cintra. She is not the girl the Imperator was seeking. For he was clearly seeking a girl who carries the gene; he even had some of her hair. I examined it and found something I didn’t understand; now I do.’

  ‘So Ciri isn’t in Nilfgaard,’ Yennefer said softly. ‘She’s not there.’

  ‘She’s not there,’ Philippa Eilhart repeated gravely. ‘Emhyr was tricked; a double was planted on him. I’ve known as much since yesterday. However, I’m pleased by Mistress Assire’s disclosure. It confirms that our lodge is now functioning.’

  Yennefer had great difficulty controlling the trembling of her hands and mouth. Keep calm, she told herself. Keep calm; don’t reveal anything; wait for an opportunity. Keep listening. Collect information. A sphinx. Be a sphinx.

  ‘So it was Vilgefortz,’ Sabrina said, slamming her fist down on the table. ‘Not Emhyr, but Vilgefortz. That charmer, that handsome scoundrel! He duped Emhyr and us!’

  Yennefer calmed herself by breathing deeply. Assire var Anahid, the Nilfgaardian sorceress, feeling understandably uncomfortable in her tight-fitting dress, was talking about a young Nilfgaardian nobleman. Yennefer knew who it was and involuntarily clenched her fists. A black knight in a winged helmet, the nightmare from Ciri’s hallucinations . . . She sensed Francesca and Philippa’s eyes on her. However, Triss – whose gaze she was trying to attract – was avoiding her eyes. Bloody hell, Yennefer thought, trying hard to remain impassive, I’ve landed myself in it. What bloody predicament have I tangled the girl up in? Shit, how will I ever be able to look the Witcher in the eye . . . ?

  ‘Thus, we’ll have a perfect opportunity,’ Keira Metz called in an excited voice, ‘to rescue Ciri and strike at Vilgefortz at the same time. We’ll scorch the ground beneath the rascal’s arse!’

  ‘Any scorching of ground must be preceded by the discovery of Vilgefortz’s whereabouts,’ Sheala de Tancarville, the sorceress from Kovir whom Yennefer had never felt much affection for, said mockingly. ‘And no one’s managed it so far. Not even some of the ladies sitting at this table, who have devoted both their time and their extraordinary abilities to looking for it.’

  ‘Two of Vilgefortz’s numerous hideouts have already been found,’ Philippa Eilhart responded coldly. ‘Dijkstra is searching intensively for the remaining ones, and I wouldn’t write him off. Sometimes spies and informers succeed where magic fails.’

  One of the agents accompanying Dijkstra looked into the dungeon, stepped back sharply, leant against the wall and went as white as a sheet, looking as though he would faint at any moment. Dijkstra made a mental note to transfer the milksop to office work. But when he looked into the cell himself, he changed his mind. He felt his bile rising. He couldn’t embarrass himself in front of his subordinates, however. He unhurriedly removed a perfumed handkerchief from his pocket, held it against his nose and mouth, and leant over the naked corpse lying on the stone floor.

  ‘Belly and womb cut open,’ he diagnosed, struggling to maintain his calm and a cold tone. ‘Very skilfully, as if by a surgeon's hand. The foetus was removed from the girl. She was alive when they did it, but it was not done here. Are all of them like that? Lennep, I’m talking to you.’

  ‘No . . .’ the agent said with a shudder, tearing his eyes away from the corpse. ‘The others had been garrotted. They weren’t pregnant . . . But we shall perform post-mortems . . .’

  ‘How many were found, in total?’

  ‘Apart from this one, four. We haven’t managed to identify any of them.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Dijkstra countered from behind his handkerchief. ‘I’ve already managed to identify this one. It’s Jolie, the youngest daughter of Count Lanier. The girl who disappeared without a trace a year ago. I’ll take a glance at the other ones.’

  ‘Some of them are partially burnt,’ Lennep said. ‘They will be difficult to identify . . . But, sire, apart from this . . . we found . . .’

  ‘Speak. Don’t stammer.’

  ‘There are bones in that well,’ the agent said, pointing at a hole gaping in the floor. ‘A large quantity of bones. We have not removed or examined them, but we can be sure they all belonged to young women. Were we to ask sorcerers for aid we might be able to identify them . . . and inform those parents who are still looking for their missing daughters . . .’

  ‘Under no circumstances,’ Dijkstra said, swinging around. ‘Not a word about what’s been found here. To anyone. Particularly not to any mages. I’m beginning to lose faith in them after what I’ve seen here. Lennep, have the upper levels been thoroughly searched? Has nothing been found that might help us in our quest?’

  ‘Nothing, sire,’ Lennep said and lowered his head. ‘As soon as we received word, we rushed to the castle. But we arrived too late. Everything had burnt down. Consumed by a fearful conflagration. Magical, without any doubt. Only here, in the dungeons, did the spell not destroy everything. I don’t know why . . .’

  ‘But I do. The fuse wasn’t lit by Vilgefortz, but by Rience or another of the sorcerer’s factotums. Vilgefortz wouldn’t have made such a mistake, he wouldn’t have left anything but the soot on the walls. Oh yes, he knows that fire purifies . . . and covers tracks.’

  ‘Indeed it does,’ Lennep muttered. ‘There isn’t even any evidence that Vilgefortz was here at all . . .’

  ‘Then fabricate some,’ Dijkstra said, removing the handkerchief from his face. ‘Must I teach you how it’s done? I know that Vilgefortz was here. Did anything else survive in the dungeons apart from the corpses? What’s behind that iron door?’

  ‘Step this way, sire,’ the agent said, taking a torch from one of the assistants. ‘I will show you.’

  There was no doubt that the magical spark which had been meant to turn everything in the dungeon to ashes had been placed right there, in the spacious chamber behind the iron door. An error in the spell had largely thwarted the plan, but the fire had still been powerful and fierce. The flames had charred the shelves occupying one of the walls, destroyed and fused the glass vessels, turning everything into a stinking mass. The only thing left unaffected in the chamber was a table with a metal top and two curious chairs set into the floor. Curious, but leaving no doubt as to their function.

  ‘They are constructed,’ Lennep said swallowing, and pointing at the chairs and the clasps attached to them, ‘so as to hold . . . the legs . . . apart. Wide apart.’

  ‘Bastard,’ Dijkstra snapped through clenched teeth. ‘Damned bastard . . .’

  ‘We found traces of blood, faeces and urine in the gutter beneath the wooden chair,’ the agent continued softly. ‘The steel one is brand new, most probably unused. I don’t know what to make of it . . .’

  ‘I do,’ Dijkstra said. ‘The steel one was constructed for somebody special. Someone that Vilgefortz suspected of special abilities.’

  ‘In no way do I disregard Dijkstra or his secret servic
e,’ Sheala de Tancarville said. ‘I know that finding Vilgefortz is only a matter of time. However, passing over the motif of personal vengeance which seems to fascinate some of you, I’ll take the liberty of observing that it is not at all certain that Vilgefortz has Ciri.’

  ‘If it’s not Vilgefortz, then who? She was on the island. None of us, as far as I know, teleported her away from there. Neither Dijkstra nor any of the kings have her, we know that for sure. And her body wasn’t found in the ruins of the Tower of Gulls.’

  ‘Tor Lara,’ Ida Emean said slowly, ‘once concealed a very powerful teleportal. Could the girl have escaped Thanedd through that portal?’

  Yennefer veiled her eyes with her eyelashes and dug her nails into the heads of the sphinxes on the chair’s armrests. Keep calm, she thought. Just keep calm. She felt Margarita’s eyes on her, but did not raise her head.

  ‘If Ciri entered the teleportal in the Tower of Gulls,’ the rectoress of Aretuza said in a slightly altered voice, ‘I fear we can forget our plans and projects. We may never see Ciri again. The now-destroyed portal of Tor Lara was damaged. It's warped. Lethal.’

  ‘What are we talking about here?’ Sabrina exploded. ‘In order to uncover the teleportal in the tower, in order to see it at all, would require fourth-level magic! And the abilities of a grandmaster would be necessary to activate the portal! I don’t know if Vilgefortz is capable of that, never mind a fifteen-year-old filly. How can you even imagine something like that? Who is this girl, in your opinion? What potential does she hold?’

  ‘Is it so important,’ Stephan Skellen, also called Tawny Owl, the Coroner of Imperator Emhyr var Emreis said, stretching, ‘what potential she holds, Master Bonhart? Or even if any? I’d rather she wasn’t around at all. And I’m paying you a hundred florins to make my wish come true. If you want, examine her – after killing her or before, up to you. Either way the fee won't change, I give you my solemn word.’

  ‘And were I to supply her alive?’

  ‘It still won’t.’

  The man called Bonhart twisted his grey whiskers. He was of immense height, but as bony as a skeleton. His other hand rested on his sword the entire time, as though he wanted to hide the ornate pommel of the hilt from Skellen’s eyes.

  ‘Am I to bring you her head?’

  ‘No,’ Tawny Owl said, wincing. ‘Why would I want her head? To preserve in honey?’

  ‘As proof.’

  ‘I’ll take you at your word. You are well known for your reliability, Bonhart.’

  ‘Thank you for the recognition,’ the bounty hunter said, and smiled. At the sight of his smile, Skellen, who had twenty armed men waiting outside the tavern, felt a shiver running down his spine. ‘Rarely received, although well deserved. I have to bring the barons and the lords Varnhagens the heads of all the Rats I catch or they won’t pay. If you have no need of Falka’s head, you won’t, I imagine, have anything against my adding it to the set.’

  ‘To claim the other reward? What about your professional ethics?’

  ‘Honoured sir,’ Bonhart said, narrowing his eyes, ‘I am not paid for killing, but for the service I render by killing. A service I’ll be rendering both you and the Varnhagens.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Tawny Owl agreed. ‘Do whatever you think’s right. When can I expect you to collect the bounty money?’

  ‘Soon.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘The Rats are heading for the Bandit’s Trail, with plans to winter in the mountains. I’ll cut off their route. Twenty days, no more.’

  ‘Are you certain of the route they’re taking?’

  ‘They’ve been seen near Fen Aspra, where they robbed a convoy and two merchants. They’ve been prowling near Tyffi. Then they stopped off at Druigh for one night, to dance at a village fair. They finally ended up in Loredo, where your Falka hacked a fellow to pieces, in such a fashion that they’re still talking about it through chattering teeth. Which is why I asked what there is to this Falka.’

  ‘Perhaps you and she are very much alike,’ Stephan Skellen mocked. ‘But no, forgive me. After all, you don’t take money for killing, but for services rendered. You’re a true craftsman, Bonhart, a genuine professional. A trade, like any other? A job to be done? They pay for it, and everyone has to make a living? Eh?’

  The bounty hunter looked at him long and hard. Until Tawny Owl’s smirk finally vanished.

  ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘Everyone has to make a living. Some earn money doing what they’ve learned. Others do what they have to. But not many craftsmen have been as lucky in life as I am: they pay me for a trade I truly and honestly enjoy. Not even whores can say that.’

  Yennefer welcomed Philippa’s suggestion of a break for a bite to eat and to moisten throats dried out by speaking with relief, delight and hope. It soon turned out, however, that her hopes were in vain. Philippa quickly dragged away Margarita – who clearly wanted to talk to Yennefer – to the other end of the room, and Triss Merigold, who had drawn closer to her, was accompanied by Francesca. The she-elf unceremoniously controlled the conversation. Yennefer saw anxiety in Triss’s cornflower-blue eyes, however, and was certain that even without witnesses it would have been futile to ask for help. Triss was undoubtedly already committed, heart and soul, to the lodge. And doubtlessly sensed that Yennefer’s loyalty was still wavering.

  Triss tried to cheer her up by assuring her that Geralt, safe in Brokilon, was returning to health thanks to the dryads’ efforts. As usual, she blushed at the mention of his name. He must have pleased her back then, Yennefer thought, not without malice. She had never known anyone like him before and she won’t forget him in a hurry. And a good thing too.

  She dismissed the revelations with an apparently indifferent shrug of her shoulders. She wasn’t concerned by the fact that neither Triss nor Francesca believed her indifference. She wanted to be alone, and wanted them to see that.

  They did just that.

  She stood at the far end of the food table, devoting herself to oysters. She ate cautiously, still in pain from her compression. She was reluctant to drink wine, not knowing how she might react.

  ‘Yennefer?’

  She turned around. Fringilla Vigo smiled faintly, looking down at the short knife Yennefer was gripping tightly.

  ‘I can see and sense,’ she said, ‘that you’d rather prise me open than that oyster. Still no love lost?’

  ‘The lodge,’ Yennefer replied coolly, ‘demands mutual loyalty. Friendship is not compulsory.’

  ‘It isn’t and shouldn’t be,’ the Nilfgaardian sorceress said, and looked around the chamber. ‘Friendship is either the result of a lengthy process or is spontaneous.’

  ‘The same goes for enmity,’ Yennefer said, opening the oyster and swallowing the contents along with some seawater. ‘Occasionally one happens to see another person for only a split second, right before going blind, and one takes a dislike to them instantly.’

  ‘Oh, enmity is considerably more complicated,’ Fringilla said, squinting. ‘Imagine someone you don’t know at all standing at the top of a hill, and ripping a friend of yours to shreds in front of your eyes. You neither saw them nor know them at all, but you still don’t like them.’

  ‘So it goes,’ Yennefer said, shrugging. ‘Fate has a way of playing tricks on you.’

  ‘Fate,’ Fringilla said quietly, ‘is unpredictable indeed, like a mischievous child. Friends sometimes turn their backs on us, while an enemy comes in useful. You can, for example, talk to them face to face. No one tries to interfere, no one interrupts or eavesdrops. Everyone wonders what the two enemies could possibly be talking about. About nothing important. Why, they’re mouthing platitudes and twisting the occasional barb.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Yennefer said, nodding, ‘that’s what everyone thinks. And they’re absolutely right.’

  ‘Which means it’ll be even easier,’ Fringilla said, quite relaxed, ‘to bring up a particularly important and remarkable matter.’

  ‘What matter would th
at be?’

  ‘That of the escape attempt you’re planning.’

  Yennefer, who was opening another oyster, almost cut her finger. She looked around furtively, and then glanced at the Nilfgaardian from under her eyelashes. Fringilla Vigo smiled slightly.

  ‘Be so kind as to lend me the knife. To open an oyster. Your oysters are excellent. It’s not easy for us to get such good ones in the south. Particularly not now, during the wartime blockade . . . A blockade is a very bad thing, isn’t it?’

  Yennefer gave a slight cough.

  ‘I’ve noticed,’ Fringilla said, swallowing the oyster and reaching for another. ‘Yes, Philippa’s looking at us. Assire too, probably worrying about my loyalty to the lodge. My endangered loyalty. She’s liable to think I’ll yield to sympathy. Let us see . . . Your sweetheart was seriously injured. The girl you treat as a daughter has disappeared, is possibly being imprisoned . . . perhaps her life’s in danger. Or perhaps she’ll just be played as a card in a rigged game? I swear, I couldn’t stand it. I’d flee at once. Please, take the knife back. That’s enough oysters, I have to watch my figure.’

  ‘A blockade, as you have deigned to observe,’ Yennefer whispered, looking into the Nilfgaardian sorceress’s eyes, ‘is a very bad thing. Simply beastly. It doesn’t allow one to do what one wants. But a blockade can be overcome, if one has . . . the means. Which I don’t.’

  ‘Do you expect me to give the means to you?’ the Nilfgaardian asked, examining the rough shell of the oyster, which she was still holding. ‘Oh no, not a chance. I’m loyal to the lodge, and the lodge, naturally, doesn’t wish you to hurry to the aid of your loved ones. Furthermore, I’m your enemy. How could you forget that, Yennefer?’

  ‘Indeed. How could I?’

  ‘I would warn a friend,’ Fringilla said quietly, ‘that even if she were in possession of the components for teleportation spells, she wouldn’t be able to break the blockade undetected. An operation of that kind demands time and is too conspicuous. An unobtrusive but energetic attractor is a little better. I repeat: a little better. Teleportation using an improvised attractor, as you are no doubt aware, is very risky. I would try to dissuade a friend from taking such a risk. But you aren’t a friend.’