‘No,’ she repeated. ‘I cannot, Geralt. I cannot tell you that. That bird, begotten from the touch of your hand, will tell you. Bird? What is the essence of truth?’
‘Truth,’ the kestrel said, ‘is a shard of ice.’
VI
Although it seemed to him he was roaming the streets aimlessly and purposelessly, he suddenly found himself at the southern wall, by the excavations, among the network of trenches criss-crossing the ruins by the stone wall and wandering in zigzags among the exposed squares of ancient foundations.
Istredd was there. Dressed in a smock with rolled-up sleeves and high boots, he was shouting instructions to his servants, who were digging with hoes into the coloured stripes of earth, clay and charcoal which made up the walls of the excavation. Alongside, on planks, lay blackened bones, shards of pots and other objects; unidentifiable, corroded and gnarled into rusty lumps.
The sorcerer noticed him immediately. After giving the workers some loud instructions, he jumped out of the trench, and walked over, wiping his hands on his britches.
‘Yes? What is it?’ he asked bluntly.
The Witcher, standing in front of him without moving, did not answer. The servants, pretending to work, watched them attentively, whispering among themselves.
‘You’re almost bursting with hatred.’ Istredd grimaced. ‘What is it, I asked? Have you decided? Where’s Yenna? I hope she—’
‘Don’t hope too much, Istredd.’
‘Oho,’ the sorcerer said. ‘What do I hear in your voice? Is it what I sense it is?’
‘And what is it you sense?’
Istredd placed his fists on his hips and looked at the Witcher provocatively.
‘Let’s not deceive ourselves, Geralt,’ he said. ‘I hate you and you hate me. You insulted me by saying that Yennefer . . . you know what. I came back with a similar insult. You’re in my way and I’m in your way. Let’s solve this like men. I don’t see any other solution. That’s why you’ve come here, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Geralt said, rubbing his forehead. ‘That’s right, Istredd. That’s why I came here. Undeniably.’
‘Indeed. It cannot go on like this. Only today did I learn that for several years Yenna has been circulating between us like a rag ball. First she’s with me, then she’s with you. She runs from me to look for you, then the other way around. The others she’s with during the breaks don’t count. Only we two count. This can’t go on. There are two of us, but only one can remain.’
‘Yes,’ Geralt repeated, without removing his hand from his forehead. ‘Yes . . . You’re right.’
‘In our conceit,’ the sorcerer continued, ‘we thought that Yenna would, without hesitation, choose the better man. Neither of us was in any doubt as to who that was. In the end, we started to argue over her favours like whipsters, and like foolish whipsters understood what those favours were and what they meant. I suppose that, like me, you’ve thought it through and know how mistaken the two of us were. Yenna, Geralt, hasn’t the slightest intention of choosing between us, were we even to assume she’s capable of choosing. Well, we’ll have to decide for her. For I wouldn’t dream of sharing Yenna with anyone, and the fact that you’re here says the same about you. We, Geralt, simply know her too well. While there are two of us neither of us can be certain. There can only be one. That’s the truth, isn’t it?’
‘It is,’ the Witcher said, moving his numb lips with difficulty. ‘The truth is a shard of ice . . .’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What’s the matter with you? Are you infirm or in your cups? Or perhaps stuffed full of witcher herbs?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with me. I’ve . . . I’ve got something in my eye. Istredd, there can only be one. Yes, that’s why I came here. Undeniably.’
‘I knew,’ the sorcerer said. ‘I knew you’d come. As a matter of fact, I’m going to be frank with you. You anticipated my plans.’
‘Ball lightning?’ the Witcher asked, smiling wanly. Istredd frowned.
‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘Perhaps there’ll be ball lightning. But definitely not shot from around the corner. Honourably, face to face. You’re a witcher; that evens things out. Very well, decide when and where.’
Geralt pondered. And decided.
‘That little square . . . he pointed. ‘I passed through it . . .’
‘I know. There’s a well there called the Green Key.’
‘By the well then. Yes indeed. By the well . . . Tomorrow, two hours after sunup.’
‘Very well. I shall be on time.’
They stood still for a moment, not looking at each other. The sorcerer finally muttered something to himself, kicked a lump of clay and crushed it under his heel.
‘Geralt?’
‘What?’
‘Do you feel foolish, by any chance?’
‘Yes, I do,’ the Witcher reluctantly admitted.
‘That’s a relief,’ Istredd muttered. ‘Because I feel like an utter dolt. I never expected I’d ever have to fight a witcher to the death over a woman.’
‘I know how you feel, Istredd.’
‘Well . . .’ the sorcerer smiled affectedly. ‘The fact that it’s come to this, that I’ve decided to do something so utterly against my nature, proves that . . . that it has to be done.’
‘I know, Istredd.’
‘Needless to say, you know that whichever of us survives will have to flee at once and hide from Yenna at the end of the world?’
‘I do.’
‘And needless to say you count on being able to go back to her when she simmers down?’
‘Of course.’
‘It’s all settled then,’ the sorcerer said, and made to turn away, but after a moment’s hesitation held out his hand to him. ‘Till tomorrow, Geralt.’
‘Till tomorrow,’ the Witcher said, shaking his hand. ‘Till tomorrow, Istredd.’
VII
‘Hey, Witcher!’
Geralt looked up from the table, on which he had been absentmindedly sketching fanciful squiggles in the spilled beer.
‘It was hard to find you,’ Mayor Herbolth said, sitting down and moving aside the jugs and beer mugs. ‘They said in the inn that you’d moved out to the stables, but I only found a horse and some bundles of clothes there. And you’re here . . . This is probably the most disreputable inn in the entire town. Only the worst scum comes here. What are you doing?’
‘Drinking.’
‘I can see that. I wanted to converse with you. Are you sober?’
‘As a child.’
‘I’m pleased.’
‘What is it you want, Herbolth? As you can see, I’m busy,’ Geralt smiled at the wench who was putting another jug on the table.
‘There’s a rumour doing the rounds,’ the mayor said, frowning, ‘that you and our sorcerer plan to kill each other.’
‘That’s our business. His and mine. Don’t interfere.’
‘No, it isn’t your business,’ Herbolth countered. ‘We need Istredd, we can’t afford another sorcerer.’
‘Go to the temple and pray for his victory, then.’
‘Don’t scoff,’ the mayor snapped, ‘and don’t be a smart-arse, you vagrant. By the Gods, if I didn’t know that the sorcerer would never forgive me, I would have thrown you into the dungeons, right at the very bottom, or dragged you beyond the town behind two horses, or ordered Cicada to stick you like a pig. But, alas, Istredd has a thing about honour and wouldn’t have excused me it. I know you wouldn’t forgive me, either.’
‘It’s turned out marvellously,’ the Witcher said, draining another mug and spitting out a straw which had fallen into it. ‘I’m a lucky fellow, amn’t I. Is that all?’
‘No,’ Herbolth said, taking a full purse out from under his coat. ‘Here is a hundred marks, Witcher. Take it and get out of Aedd Gynvael. Get out of here, at once if possible, but in any case before sunrise. I told you we can’t afford another sorcerer, and I won’t let ours risk his neck in a
duel with someone like you, for a stupid reason, because of some—’
He broke off, without finishing, although the Witcher did not even flinch.
‘Take your hideous face away, Herbolth,’ Geralt said. ‘And stick your hundred marks up your arse. Go away, because the sight of you makes me sick. A little longer and I’ll cover you in puke from your cap to your toes.’
The mayor put away the purse and put both hands on the table.
‘If that’s how you want it,’ he said. ‘I tried to let you leave of your own free will, but it’s up to you. Fight, cut each other up, burn each other, tear each other to pieces for that slut, who spreads her legs for anyone who wants her. I think Istredd will give you such a thrashing, you thug, that only your boots will be left, and if not, I’ll catch you before his body cools off and break all your bones on the wheel. I won’t leave a single part of you intact, you—’
He did not manage to remove his hands from the table, the Witcher’s movement was so swift. The arm which shot out from under the table was a blur in front of the mayor’s eyes and a dagger lodged with a thud between his fingers.
‘Perhaps,’ the Witcher whispered, clenching his fist on the dagger’s haft, and staring into Herbolth’s face, from which the blood had drained, ‘perhaps Istredd will kill me. But if not . . . Then I’ll leave, and don’t try to stop me, you vile scum, if you don’t want the streets of your filthy town to foam with blood. Now get out of here.’
‘Mayor. What’s going on here? Hey, you—’
‘Calm down, Cicada,’ Herbolth said, slowly withdrawing his hand, cautiously sliding it across the table, as far as possible from the dagger’s blade. ‘It’s nothing. Nothing.’
Cicada returned his half-drawn sword to its scabbard. Geralt did not look at him. He did not look at the mayor as he left the inn, shielded by Cicada from the staggering log drivers and carters. A small man with a ratty face and piercing, black eyes sitting a few tables away was watching him.
I’m annoyed, he realised in amazement. My hands are trembling. Really, my hands are trembling. It’s astonishing what’s happening to me. Could it mean that . . .?
Yes, he thought, looking at the little man with the ratty face. I think so.
I’ll have to, he thought.
How cold it is . . .
He got up.
He smiled as he looked at the small man. Then he drew aside the front of his jacket, took two coins from the full purse and threw them on the table. The coins clinked. One of them rolled across the table and struck the dagger’s blade, still stuck into the polished wood.
VIII
The blow fell unexpectedly, the club swished softly in the darkness, so fast that the Witcher only just managed to protect his head by instinctively raising an arm, and only just managed to cushion the blow by lithely twisting his body. He sprang aside, dropping on one knee, somersaulted, landed on his feet, felt a movement of the air yielding before another swing of the club, evaded the blow with a nimble pirouette, spinning between the two shapes closing in on him in the dark, and reached above his right shoulder. For his sword.
His sword was not there.
Nothing can take these reactions from me, he thought, leaping smoothly aside. Routine? Cellular memory? I’m a mutant, I react like a mutant, he thought, dropping to one knee again, dodging a blow, and reaching into his boot for his dagger. There was no dagger.
He smiled wryly and was hit on the head with a club. A light blazed in his eyes and the pain shot down to his fingertips. He fell, relaxing, still smiling.
Somebody flopped onto him, pressing him against the ground. Somebody else ripped the purse from his belt. His eye caught sight of a knife flashing. The one kneeling on his chest tore open his jerkin at the neck, seized the chain and pulled out his medallion. And immediately let go of it.
‘By Baal-Zebuth,’ Geralt heard somebody pant. ‘It’s a witcher . . . A real bruiser . . .’
The other swore, breathing heavily.
‘He didn’t have a sword . . . O Gods, save us from the Evil . . . Let’s scarper, Radgast! Don’t touch him.’
For a moment the moon shone through a wispy cloud. Geralt saw just above him a gaunt, ratty face and small, black, shining eyes. He heard the other man’s loud footsteps fading away, vanishing into an alleyway reeking of cats and burnt fat.
The small man with the ratty face slowly removed his knee from Geralt’s chest.
‘Next time . . .’ Geralt heard the clear whisper, ‘next time you feel like killing yourself, Witcher, don’t drag other people into it. Just hang yourself in the stable from your reins.’
IX
It must have rained during the night.
Geralt walked out in front of the stable, wiping his eyes, combing the straw from his hair with his fingers. The rising sun glistened on the wet roofs, gleamed gold in the puddles. The Witcher spat. He still had a nasty taste in his mouth and the lump on his head throbbed with a dull ache.
A scrawny black cat sat on a rail in front of the stable, licking a paw intently.
‘Here, kitty, kitty,’ the Witcher said. The cat stopped what it was doing and looked at him malevolently, flattened its ears and hissed, baring its little fangs.
‘I know,’ Geralt nodded. ‘I don’t like you either. I’m only joking.’
He pulled tight the loosened buckles and clasps of his jerkin with unhurried movements, smoothed down the creases in his clothing, and made sure it did not hinder his freedom of movement at any point. He slung his sword across his back and adjusted the position of the hilt above his right shoulder. He tied a leather band around his forehead, pulling his hair back behind his ears. He pulled on long combat gloves, bristling with short, conical silver spikes.
He glanced up at the sun once more, his pupils narrowing into vertical slits. A glorious day, he thought. A glorious day for a fight.
He sighed, spat and walked slowly down the narrow road, beside walls giving off the pungent, penetrating aroma of wet plaster and lime mortar.
‘Hey, freak!’
He looked around. Cicada, flanked by three suspicious-looking, armed individuals, sat on a heap of timbers piled up beside the embankment. He rose, stretched and walked into the middle of the alley, carefully avoiding the puddles.
‘Where you going?’ he asked, placing his slender hands on his belt, weighed down with weapons.
‘None of your business.’
‘Just to be clear, I don’t give a tinker’s cuss about the mayor, the sorcerer or this whole shitty town,’ Cicada said, slowly emphasising the words. ‘This is about you, Witcher. You won’t make it to the end of this alley. Hear me? I want to find out how good a fighter you are. The matter’s tormenting me. Stop, I said.’
‘Get out of my way.’
‘Stop!’ Cicada yelled, placing a hand on his sword hilt. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said? We’re going to fight! I’m challenging you! We’ll soon see who’s the better man!’
Geralt shrugged without slowing down.
‘I’m challenging you to fight! Do you hear me, mutant?’ Cicada shouted, barring his way again. ‘What are you waiting for? Draw your weapon! What, got cold feet? Or perhaps you’re nothing more than one of those other fools who’s humped that witch of yours, like Istredd?’
Geralt walked on, forcing Cicada to retreat, to walk clumsily backwards. The individuals with Cicada got up from the pile of timbers and followed them, although they hung back a little way off. Geralt heard the mud squelching beneath their boots.
‘I challenge you!’ Cicada repeated, blanching and flushing by turns. ‘Do you hear me, you witcher pox? What else do I have to do to you? Spit in your ugly face?’
‘Go ahead and spit.’
Cicada stopped and indeed took a breath, pursing his lips to spit. He was watching the Witcher’s eyes, not his hands, and that was a mistake. Geralt, still not slowing down, struck him very fast, without a backswing, just flexing from the knees, his fist encased in the spiked glove. He punched Cicada righ
t in the mouth, straight in his twisted lips. They split, exploding like mashed cherries. The Witcher crouched and struck once again, in the same place, this time from a short backswing, feeling the fury spilling from him with the force and the momentum. Cicada, whirling around with one foot in the mud and the other in the air, spat blood and splashed onto his back into a puddle. The Witcher, hearing behind him the hiss of a sword blade in the scabbard, stopped and turned sinuously around, his hand on his sword hilt.
‘Well,’ he said in a voice trembling with anger, ‘be my guests.’
The one who had drawn the sword looked him in the eyes. Briefly. Then he averted his gaze. The others began to fall back. First slowly, then more and more quickly. Hearing it, the man with the sword also stepped back, noiselessly moving his lips. The furthest away of them turned and ran, splattering mud. The others froze to the spot, not attempting to come closer.
Cicada turned over in the mud and dragged himself up on his elbows. He mumbled, hawked and spat out something white amid a lot of red. As Geralt passed he casually kicked him in the face, shattering his cheekbone, and sending him splashing into the puddle again.
He walked on without looking back.
Istredd was already by the well and stood leaning against it, against the wooden cover, green with moss. He had a sword in his belt. A magnificent, light, Terganian sword with a half-basket hilt, the metal-fitted end of the scabbard resting against the shining leg of a riding boot. A black bird with ruffled feathers sat on the sorcerer’s shoulder.
It was a kestrel.
‘You’re here, Witcher,’ Istredd said, proffering the kestrel a gloved hand and gently and cautiously setting the bird down on the canopy of the well.
‘Yes, I am, Istredd.’
‘I hadn’t expected you to come. I thought you’d leave town.’
‘I didn’t.’
The sorcerer laughed loudly and freely, throwing his head back.
‘She wanted . . . she wanted to save us,’ he said. ‘Both of us. Never mind, Geralt. Let’s cross swords. Only one of us can remain.’
Introducing the Witcher Page 42
