‘What the bloody hell is a hanza?’
‘Aen hanse,’ Cahir explained. ‘In our tongue it’s an armed gang, but one linked by bonds of friendship—’
‘A company?’
‘Precisely. I see the word has entered the local slang here—’
‘A hanza’s a hanza,’ Angoulême interrupted. ‘In our lingo: a gang or hassa. What are we on about here? That was a serious warning. One man has no chance against the entire hanza. To make matters worse, one who knows neither Nightingale, nor anyone in Belhaven or the surroundings, neither foes, friends, nor allies. Who knows not the roads leading to the town – and there are various. I say: the Witcher won’t cope. I don’t know what customs prevail among you, but I won’t leave the Witcher alone. As Nuncle Dandelion said, he cheerfully and carelessly took me into your company, even though I’m a criminal. My hair still stinks of the cell; there was no way of washing it. The Witcher, and no other, got me out of that cell and into the daylight. I’m grateful to him for that. Which is why I won’t leave him alone. I’ll lead him to Belhaven, to Nightingale and that half-elf. I’m going with him.’
‘Me too,’ Cahir said at once.
‘And me and all!’ Milva barked.
Dandelion pressed to his chest the tube with the manuscripts which, lately, he wouldn’t be parted from for a single moment. He lowered his head. He was evidently struggling with his thoughts. And the thoughts were winning.
‘Stop meditating, poet,’ Regis said kindly. ‘For there’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re even less cut out to participate in a bloody swordfight than I am. We weren’t taught to carve up our neighbours with a blade. Furthermore . . . Furthermore, I’m . . . ’
He raised shining eyes towards the Witcher and Milva.
‘I’m a coward,’ he confessed curtly. ‘If it’s not necessary, I don’t want to go through what we had on the ferry and the bridge again. Never. For which reason I request to be left out of the fighting team heading to Belhaven.’
‘You lugged me from that ferry and that bridge on your back,’ Milva began softly, ‘when infirmity robbed me of my legs. If there’d been a coward there, instead of you, he’d have left me and fled. There was no coward, though. Only you, Regis.’
‘Well said, aunty,’ said Angoulême with conviction. ‘I have no clue what you’re on about, but well said.’
‘I’m no aunt of yours!’ Milva’s eyes flashed ominously. ‘Have a care, miss! If you call me that again, you’ll see!’
‘What will I see?’
‘Quiet!’ the Witcher barked harshly. ‘That’s enough, Angoulême! I need to take all of you to task, I see. The time of lurching blindly towards the horizon is over, for now there might be something just over the horizon. The time for decisive action has arrived. Time for throats to be cut. For at last there’s someone to attack. Those who haven’t understood till now, let them understand – we finally have a clear-cut enemy within reach. The half-elf who wants us dead is an agent of forces hostile to us. Thanks to Angoulême we’ve been forewarned, and forewarned is forearmed, as the proverb has it. I have to get my hands on that half-elf and wring from him whose orders he’s acting on. Do you finally understand, Dandelion?’
‘I’d say,’ the poet began calmly, ‘that I understand more and better than you. Without any attacking or wringing needed, I surmise that the mysterious half-elf is acting on Dijkstra’s orders. The same Dijkstra you lamed on Thanedd by smashing his ankle. Following Marshal Vissegerd’s report, Dijkstra doubtless considers us Nilfgaardian spies. And following our flight from the corps of Lyrian partisans, Queen Meve has assuredly added a few points to the list of our crimes . . . ’
‘You’re mistaken, Dandelion,’ Regis softly interjected. ‘It’s not Dijkstra. Or Vissegerd. Or Meve.’
‘Then who?’
‘Any judgement or conclusion now would be premature.’
‘Agreed,’ the Witcher drawled icily. ‘Which is why the matter needs to be examined in situ. And conclusions drawn first-hand.’
‘And I,’ Dandelion said, not giving up, ‘still judge it a stupid and risky idea. It’s good we’ve been warned about the ambush, that we know about it. Now that we know, let’s give it a wide berth. Let that elf or half-elf wait for us as long as he wishes, and we’ll hurry along our own road—’
‘No,’ the Witcher interrupted. ‘That’s the end of the discussion, my little chicks. The end of anarchy. The time has come for our . . . hanza . . . to have a ringleader.’
Everyone, not excluding Angoulême, looked at him in expectant silence.
‘Angoulême, Milva and I,’ he said, ‘will make for Belhaven. Cahir, Regis and Dandelion will ride into the Sansretour valley and go to Toussaint.’
‘No,’ Dandelion said quickly, gripping his tube more tightly. ‘Not a chance. I can’t—’
‘Shut up. This isn’t a debate. It was an order from the hanza’s leader! You’re going to Toussaint with Regis and Cahir. You’ll wait for us there.’
‘Toussaint means death for me,’ the troubadour declared emphatically. ‘If I’m recognised in Beauclair, at the castle, I’m dead. I have to tell you—’
‘No you don’t,’ the Witcher interrupted bluntly. ‘It’s too late. You could have turned back, but you didn’t want to. You remained in the company. In order to rescue Ciri. Am I right?’
‘You are.’
‘So you’ll ride with Regis and Cahir down the Sansretour valley. You’ll wait for us in the mountains, without crossing the Toussaint border for now. But if . . . if the necessity arises, you’ll have to cross it. For the druids, the ones from Caed Dhu, Regis’s acquaintances, are allegedly in Toussaint. So if the necessity arises, you’ll get information about Ciri from the druids and set off to get her . . . alone.’
‘What do you mean alone? Do you anticipate—’
‘I’m not anticipating, I’m bearing in mind the possibility. Just in case, so to speak. As a last resort, if you prefer. Perhaps it’ll all go well and we won’t have to show up in Toussaint. But in the event . . . well, then it’s important that a Nilfgaardian force doesn’t follow you to Toussaint.’
‘Well, it won’t,’ Angoulême cut in. ‘It’s strange, but Nilfgaard respects Toussaint’s marches. I’ve hidden from pursuers there before. But the knights there are no better than the Black Cloaks! Refined and courteous in their speech, but quick to seize the sword or lance. And they patrol the marches ceaselessly. They’re called knights errant. They ride alone, or in twos or threes. And they persecute the rabble. Which means us. Witcher, one detail needs changing in your plans.’
‘What?’
‘If we are to make for Belhaven and cross swords with Nightingale, you and Sir Cahir should go with me. And let aunty go with them.’
‘Why so?’ Geralt calmed Milva with a gesture.
‘You need men for that job. Why are you raging, aunty? I know what I’m talking about! When the time comes, it may be necessary to act with menace, rather than force itself. And none of Nightingale’s hanza will be scared of a band of three, where there are two women to one man.’
‘Milva rides with us.’ Geralt clenched his fingers around the archer’s forearm, who was genuinely infuriated. ‘Milva, not Cahir. I don’t want to ride with Cahir.’
‘Why’s that?’ Angoulême and Cahir asked almost at the same time.
‘Precisely,’ Regis said slowly. ‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t trust him,’ the Witcher said bluntly.
The silence which fell was unpleasant, weighty; almost tangible. From the forest, near which a merchants’ caravan and a group of other travellers had made camp, came raised voices, shouts and singing.
‘Explain,’ Cahir said at last.
‘Somebody has betrayed us,’ Witcher said dryly. ‘After our conversation with the prefect and Angoulême’s revelations, there’s no doubt about it. And if one thinks it over carefully, one comes to the conclusion that there’s a traitor among us. And it takes little pondering to g
uess who.’
‘It seems to me,’ Cahir frowned, ‘that you have taken the liberty to suggest that the traitor is me?’
‘I don’t deny that such a thought has occurred to me,’ the Witcher’s voice was cold. ‘There’s much to suggest it. It would explain much. Very much.’
‘Geralt,’ said Dandelion. ‘Aren’t you going a mite too far?’
‘Let him speak.’ Cahir curled his lip. ‘Let him speak. Let him feel free.’
‘It puzzled us,’ Geralt swept his gaze over his companions’ faces, ‘how there could have been an error in the reckoning. You know what I’m talking about. That there are five of us and not four. We thought someone had simply made a mistake: the mysterious half-elf, the brigand Nightingale or Angoulême. But if we reject that then the following possibility suggests itself: the company numbers five, but Nightingale is only meant to kill four. Because the fifth is the assassins’ accomplice. Someone who keeps them constantly informed about the company’s movements. From the start, from the moment the celebrated fish soup was eaten and the company was formed. And we invited a Nilfgaardian to join us. A Nilfgaardian who must catch Ciri, must hand her over to Emperor Emhyr, for his life and further career depends on it . . . ’
‘So I wasn’t wrong, then,’ Cahir said slowly. ‘I’m a traitor after all. A lousy, two-faced turncoat?’
‘Geralt,’ Regis began again. ‘Excuse my frankness, but your theory is riddled with holes. And your thought, as I’ve already told you, is inopportune.’
‘I’m a traitor,’ Cahir repeated, as though he hadn’t heard the vampire’s words. ‘As I understand it, however, there is no proof of it, only vague circumstantial evidence and the Witcher’s speculations. As I understand it, the burden of proving my own innocence falls on me. So I’ll have to prove I’m not what I appear to be. Is that right?’
‘Don’t be pompous, Nilfgaardian,’ snapped Geralt, standing before Cahir and glaring at him. ‘If I had proof of your guilt, I wouldn’t be wasting time talking. I’d have filleted you like a herring already! Do you know the principle of cui bono? So answer me: who, aside from you, had even the slightest reason to betray me? Who, aside from you, would have gained anything from it?’
A loud and long-drawn-out crack resounded from the merchants’ camp. A firework exploded in a burst of red and gold, rockets shot out a swarm of golden bees and coloured rain fell against the black sky.
‘I’m not what I appear,’ said the young Nilfgaardian in a powerful, resonant voice. ‘Unfortunately, I can’t prove it. But I can do something else. Do what befits me, what I have to do, when I’m being slandered and insulted, when my honour is besmirched and my dignity sullied.’
His attack was as swift as lightning, but it still wouldn’t have surprised the Witcher had it not been for Geralt’s aching knee, which hampered his movements. Geralt was unable to dodge, and the gloved fist smashed him in the jaw with such force he fell backwards and tumbled straight into the campfire, throwing up clouds of sparks. He leaped up, too slow again owing to the pain in his knee. Cahir was already upon him. Again the Witcher didn’t even manage to duck; the fist rammed into the side of his head, and colourful fireworks flared up in his eyes, even more glorious than the ones the merchants had set off. Geralt swore and pounced on Cahir, wrapped his arms around him and knocked him to the ground. They rolled around in the gravel, thumping and pummelling each other.
And all in the eerie and unnatural light of the fireworks bursting in the sky.
‘Stop it!’ Dandelion yelled. ‘Stop it, you bloody fools!’
Cahir artfully knocked the ground out from under Geralt, and smote him in the teeth as he was trying to get up. And punched him again. Geralt crouched, tensed and kicked him, not in his crotch where he had aimed, but in the thigh. They grappled again, fell and rolled over, thumping one another wherever they could, blinded by the punches and the dust and sand getting into their eyes.
Then suddenly they came apart, rolling in opposite directions, cowering and shielding their heads from the blows raining down on them.
Having unfastened her sturdy, leather belt, Milva had seized it by the buckle, wound it around her fist, fallen on the fighters and begun to flog them with lusty blows, with all her might, sparing neither the strap nor her arm. The belt whistled and fell with a dry crack first on Cahir’s then on Geralt’s arms, back and shoulders. When they parted, Milva hopped from one to the other like a grasshopper, thrashing them evenly, so that neither of them received any less or any more than the other.
‘You thick thickheads!’ she yelled, cracking Geralt across the back. ‘You doltish dolts! I’ll teach you both a lesson!’
‘Enough?’ she yelled even louder, lashing Cahir’s arms, with which he was shielding his head. ‘Had enough? Calmed down now?’
‘Stop!’ the Witcher howled. ‘Enough!’
‘Enough!’ echoed Cahir, who was huddled up in a ball. ‘That’ll do!’
‘That will suffice,’ said the vampire. ‘That really will suffice, Milva.’
The archer was panting heavily, wiping her forehead with her fist, belt still wound around it.
‘Bravo,’ said Angoulême. ‘Bravo, aunty.’
Milva turned on her heel and thrashed her across the shoulders with all her might. Angoulême screamed, sat down and burst into tears.
‘I told you,’ Milva puffed, ‘not to call me that. I told you!’
‘It’s all right!’ In a somewhat shaking voice Dandelion reassured the merchants and travellers, who had run over from the neighbouring campfires. ‘Just a misunderstanding between friends. A lovers’ tiff. It’s already been patched up!’
The Witcher probed a wobbly tooth with his tongue and spat out the blood dripping from his cut lip. He felt the welts beginning to rise on his back and shoulders, and his ear – which had been lashed by the strap – seeming to swell to the dimensions of a cauliflower. Beside him, Cahir clumsily hauled himself up from the ground, holding his cheek. Broad, red marks quickly spread over his exposed forearm.
Rain smelling of sulphur – ash from the last firework – was falling on the ground.
Angoulême sobbed woefully, holding her shoulders. Milva threw aside her belt, then after a moment’s hesitation knelt, embraced and hugged her without a word.
‘I suggest,’ said the vampire frigidly, ‘that you shake hands. I suggest never, ever, revisiting this matter.’
Unexpectedly, a gale came down from the mountains in whispered gusts in which it seemed some kind of ghastly howling, crying and wailing could be heard. The clouds being blown across the sky took on fantastic shapes as the crescent moon turned as red as blood.
*
They were woken before dawn by a furious chorus of goatsucker nightjars and the whirring of their wings.
They set off just after the rising of the sun, which later lit up the snows on the mountain peaks with blinding flame. They had left much earlier than that, before the sun had appeared from behind the peaks. Actually, before it appeared, the sky had become overcast.
They rode amongst forests, and the road led higher and higher, which was discernible in the tree species. The oak and hornbeam finished abruptly, and they rode into a gloom of beech lined with fallen leaves, smelling of mould, cobwebs and mushrooms. The mushrooms were in abundance. The damp year end had yielded a plentiful harvest. In places, the forest floor literally vanished beneath the caps of ceps, morels and agarics.
The beechwood was quiet and looked as though most of the songbirds had flown away to their mysterious winter haven. Only crows at the edge of the undergrowth cawed, feathers dripping.
Then the beech ended and spruce replaced it. The scent of resin filled the air.
More and more often they encountered bald hillocks and stone runs, where they were caught by strong winds. The River Nevi foamed over steps and cascades. Its water – in spite of the rain – had turned crystal clear.
Gorgon loomed up on the horizon. Ever closer.
All year long
, glaciers and snows flowed from the angular sides of the huge mountain, which meant Gorgon always looked as though it were clad in white sashes. The peak of Devil Mountain was constantly swathed in veils of clouds, like the head and neck of an enigmatic bride. Sometimes, though, Gorgon shook her white raiment like a dancer. The sight was breathtaking, but brought death – avalanches ran from the peak’s sheer walls, wiping out everything in their path, down to the scree at the foot and further down the hillside, to the highest spruce stands above the Theodula pass, above the Nevi and Sansretour valleys, above the black circles of mountain tarns. The sun, which in spite of everything had managed to penetrate the clouds, set much too quickly – it simply hid behind the mountains to the west, setting light to them with a purple and golden glow.
They stopped for the night.
The sun rose.
And the time came for them to part.
*
Milva carefully wrapped a silk scarf around her head. Regis put on his hat. Yet again he checked the position of the sihill on his back and the daggers in his boots.
Beside them, Cahir was whetting his long Nilfgaardian sword. Angoulême tied a woollen band around her forehead and slipped a hunting knife – a present from Milva – into her boot. The archer and Regis saddled up their horses. The vampire handed Angoulême the reins to his black, while he mounted the mule Draakul.
They were ready. Only one thing remained to be taken care of.
‘Come here, everybody.’
They approached.
‘Cahir, son of Ceallach,’ Geralt began, trying not to sound pompous. ‘I wronged you with unfounded suspicion and behaved shabbily towards you. I hereby apologise, before everyone, with bowed head. I apologise and ask you to forgive me. I also ask you all for forgiveness, as I shouldn’t have made you watch or listen to it.
‘I vented my fury and resentment on Cahir and all of you. It was caused by knowing who betrayed us. I know who betrayed and abducted Ciri, whom we aim to rescue. I’m angry because I’m talking about a person who was once very close to me.
The Saga of the Witcher Page 126