‘What is she saying?’ the duke yelled. ‘Geralt! I didn’t bring you here to chat with her—’
‘She’s digging her heels in. She’s angry.’
‘Cast those nets!’ Agloval roared. ‘I’ll keep her in a pool for a month and then she’ll—’
‘Shove it!’ the skipper yelled back, demonstrating what he was to shove with his middle finger. ‘There might be a kraken beneath us! Ever seen a kraken, My Lord? Hop into the water, if that is your will, and catch her with your hands! I’m not getting involved. I make my living by fishing from this cog!’
‘You make your living by my goodwill, you scoundrel! Cast your net or I’ll order you strung up!’
‘Kiss a dog’s arse! I’m in charge on this cog!’
‘Be quiet, both of you!’ Geralt shouted irately. ‘She’s saying something, it’s a difficult dialect, I need to concentrate!’
‘I’ve had enough!’ Sh’eenaz yelled melodiously. ‘I’m hungry! Well, White Hair, he must decide, decide at once. Tell him just one thing: I will not be made a laughing stock of any longer or associate with him if he’s going to look like a four-armed starfish. Tell him I have girlfriends who are much better at those frolics he was suggesting on the rocks! But I consider them immature games, fit for children before they shed their scales. I’m a normal, healthy mermaid—’
‘Sh’eenaz—’
‘Don’t interrupt! I haven’t finished yet! I’m healthy, normal and ripe for spawning, and if he really desires me, he must have a tail, fins and everything a normal merman has. Otherwise I don’t want to know him!’
Geralt translated quickly, trying not to be vulgar. He was not very successful. The duke flushed and swore foully.
‘The brazen hussy!’ he yelled. ‘The frigid mackerel! Let her find herself a cod!’
‘What did he say?’ Sh’eenaz asked curiously, swimming over.
‘That he doesn’t want a tail!’
‘Then tell him . . . Tell him to dry up!’
‘What did she say?’
‘She told you,’ the Witcher translated, ‘to go drown yourself.’
II
‘Ah well,’ Dandelion said. ‘Pity I couldn’t sail with you, but what could I do? Sailing makes me puke like nobody’s business. But you know what, I’ve never spoken to a mermaid. It’s a shame, dammit.’
‘I know you,’ Geralt said, fastening his saddle bags. ‘You’ll write a ballad anyway.’
‘Never fear. I already have the first stanzas. In my ballad the mermaid will sacrifice herself for the duke, she’ll exchange her fishtail for slender legs, but will pay for it by losing her voice. The duke will betray her, abandon her, and then she’ll perish from grief, and turn into foam, when the first rays of sunshine . . .’
‘Who’d believe such rot?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Dandelion snorted. ‘Ballads aren’t written to be believed. They are written to move their audience. But why am I talking to you about this, when you know bugger all about it? You’d better tell me how much Agloval paid you.’
‘He didn’t pay me anything. He claimed I had failed to carry out the task. That he had expected something else, and he pays for results, not good intentions.’
Dandelion shook his head, took off his bonnet and looked at the Witcher with a forlorn grimace on his mouth.
‘You mean we still don’t have any money?’
‘So it would seem.’
Dandelion made an even more forlorn face.
‘It’s all my fault,’ he moaned. ‘I’m to blame for it all. Geralt, are you angry at me?’
No, the Witcher wasn’t angry at Dandelion. Not at all.
There was no doubt Dandelion was to blame for what had befallen them. He had insisted they went to the fair at Four Maples. Organising festivities, the poet argued, satisfied people’s profound and natural needs. From time to time, the bard maintained, a chap has to meet other people in a place where he can have a laugh and a singsong, gorge himself on kebabs and pierogis, drink beer, listen to music and squeeze a girl as he swung her around in the dance. If every chap wanted to satisfy those needs, Dandelion argued, individually, periodically and randomly, an indescribable mess would arise. For that reason holidays and festivities were invented. And since holidays and festivities exist, a chap ought to frequent them.
Geralt did not challenge this, although taking part in festivities occupied a very low position on the list of his own profound and natural needs. Nonetheless, he agreed to accompany Dandelion, for he was counting on obtaining information from the gathered concentration of people about a possible mission or job; he’d had no work for a long time and his cash reserves had shrunk alarmingly.
The Witcher did not bear Dandelion a grudge for provoking the Rangers of the Forest. He was not innocent either; for he could have intervened and held the bard back. He did not, however, for he could not stand the infamous Guardians of the Forest, known as the Rangers, a volunteer force whose mission was to eradicate non-humans. It had annoyed him to hear their boasts about elves, spriggans and eerie wives bristling with arrows, butchered or hanged. Dandelion, though, who after travelling for some time with the Witcher had become convinced of his impunity from retaliation, had surpassed himself. Initially, the Rangers had not reacted to his mockery, taunts or filthy suggestions, which aroused the thunderous laughter of the watching villagers. When, however, Dandelion sang a hastily-composed obscene and abusive couplet, ending with the words: ‘If you want to be a nothing, be a Ranger,’ an argument and then a fierce, mass punch-up broke out. The shed serving as the dancehall went up in smoke. Intervention came in the form of a squad of men belonging to Castellan Budibog, also known as the Emptyheaded, on whose estates lay Four Maples. The Rangers, Dandelion and Geralt were found jointly guilty of all the damage and offences, which included the seduction of a red-headed and mute girl, who was found in the bushes behind the barn following the incident, blushing and grinning foolishly, with her shift torn up to her armpits. Fortunately, Castellan Budibog knew Dandelion, so it ended with a fine being paid, which nonetheless ate up all the money they had. They also had to flee from Four Maples as fast as they could ride, because the Rangers, who had been chased out of the village, were threatening revenge, and an entire squad of them, numbering over forty men, was hunting rusalkas in the neighbouring forests. Geralt did not have the slightest desire to be hit by one of the Rangers’ arrows, whose heads were barbed like harpoons and inflicted dreadful injuries.
So they had to abandon their original plan, which had involved doing the rounds of the villages on the edge of the forest, where the Witcher had reasonable prospects of work. Instead they rode to Bremervoord, on the coast. Unfortunately, apart from the love affair between Duke Agloval and the mermaid Sh’eenaz, which offered small chances of success, the Witcher had failed to find a job. They had already sold Geralt’s gold signet for food, and an alexandrite brooch the troubadour had once been given as a souvenir by one of his numerous paramours. Things were tight. But no, the Witcher was not angry with Dandelion.
‘No, Dandelion,’ he said. ‘I’m not angry with you.’
Dandelion did not believe him, which was quite apparent by the fact that he kept quiet. Dandelion was seldom quiet. He patted his horse’s neck, and fished around in his saddlebags for the umpteenth time. Geralt knew he would not find anything there they could sell. The smell of food, borne on a breeze from a nearby tavern, was becoming unbearable.
‘Master?’ somebody shouted. ‘Hey, master!’
‘Yes?’ Geralt said, turning around. A big-bellied, well-built man in felt boots and a heavy fur-lined, wolf-skin coat clambered out of a cart pulled by a pair of onagers which had just stopped alongside.
‘Erm . . . that is,’ the paunchy man said, embarrassed, walking over, ‘I didn’t mean you, sir, I meant . . . I meant Master Dandelion . . .’
‘It is I.’ The poet proudly sat up straight, adjusting his bonnet bearing an egret feather. ‘What is your need, my good man?�
��
‘Begging your pardon,’ the paunchy man said. ‘I am Teleri Drouhard, spice merchant and dean of our local Guild. My son, Gaspard, has just plighted his troth to Dalia, the daughter of Mestvin, the cog skipper.’
‘Ha,’ Dandelion said, maintaining a haughty air. ‘I offer my congratulations and extend my wishes of happiness to the betrothed couple. How may I be of help? Does it concern jus primae noctis? I never decline that.’
‘Hey? No . . . that is . . . You see, the betrothal banquet and ball are this evening. Since it got out that you, master, have come to Bremervoord, my wife won’t let up – just like a woman. Listen, she says, Teleri, we’ll show everybody we aren’t churls like them, that we stand for culture and art. That when we have a feast, it’s refined, and not an excuse to get pissed and throw up. I says to her, silly moo, but we’ve already hired one bard, won’t that suffice? And she says one is too few, ho-ho, Master Dandelion, well, I never, such a celebrity, that’ll be one in the eye for our neighbours. Master? Do us the honour . . . I’m prepared to give five-and-twenty talars, as a gesture, naturally – to show my support for the arts—’
‘Do my ears deceive me?’ Dandelion drawled. ‘I, I am to be the second bard? An appendix to some other musician? I? I have not sunk so low, my dear sir, as to accompany somebody!’
Drouhard blushed.
‘Forgive me, master,’ he gibbered. ‘That isn’t what I meant . . . It was my wife . . . Forgive me . . . Do us the honour . . .’
‘Dandelion,’ Geralt hissed softly, ‘don’t put on airs. We need those few pennies.’
‘Don’t try to teach me!’ the poet yelled. ‘Me, putting on airs? Me? Look at him! What should I say about you, who rejects a lucrative proposition every other day? You won’t kill hirikkas, because they’re an endangered species, or mecopterans, because they’re harmless, or night spirits, because they’re sweet, or dragons, because your code forbids it. I, just imagine it, also have my self-respect! I also have a code!’
‘Dandelion, please, do it for me. A little sacrifice, friend, nothing more. I swear, I won’t turn my nose up at the next job that comes along. Come on, Dandelion . . .’
The troubadour looked down at the ground and scratched his chin, which was covered in soft, fair bristles. Drouhard, mouth gaping, moved closer.
‘Master . . . Do us this honour. My wife won’t forgive me if I don’t invite you. Now then . . . I’ll make it thirty.’
‘Thirty-five,’ Dandelion said firmly.
Geralt smiled and hopefully breathed in the scent of food wafting from the tavern.
‘Agreed, master, agreed,’ Teleri Drouhard said quickly, so quickly it was evident he would have given forty, had the need arisen. ‘And now . . . My home, if you desire to groom yourself and rest, is your home. And you, sir . . . What do they call you?’
‘Geralt of Rivia.’
‘And I invite you too, sir, of course. For a bite to eat and something to drink . . .’
‘Certainly, with pleasure,’ Dandelion said. ‘Show us the way, my dear sir. And just between us, who is the other bard?’
‘The honourable Miss Essi Daven.’
III
Geralt rubbed a sleeve over the silver studs of his jacket and his belt buckle one more time, smoothed down his hair, which was held down with a clean headband, and polished his boots by rubbing one leg against the other.
‘Dandelion?’
‘Mm?’ The bard smoothed the egret feather pinned to his bonnet, and straightened and pulled down his jerkin. The two of them had spent half the day cleaning their garments and tidying them up. ‘What, Geralt?’
‘Behave in such a way as they throw us out after supper and not before.’
‘You must be joking,’ the poet said indignantly. ‘Watch your manners yourself. Shall we go in?’
‘We shall. Do you hear? Somebody’s singing. A woman.’
‘Have you only just noticed? That’s Essi Daven, known as Little Eye. What, have you never met a female troubadour? True, I forgot you steer clear of places where art flourishes. Little Eye is a gifted poet and singer, though not without her flaws, among which impertinence, so I hear, is not the least. What she is singing now happens to be one of my ballads. She will soon hear a piece of my mind which will make that little eye of hers water.’
‘Dandelion, have mercy. They’ll throw us out.’
‘Don’t interfere. These are professional issues. Let’s go in.’
‘Dandelion?’
‘Hey?’
‘Why Little Eye?’
‘You’ll see.’
The banquet was being held in a huge storeroom, emptied of barrels of herrings and cod liver oil. The smell had been killed – though not entirely – by hanging up bunches of mistletoe and heather decorated with coloured ribbons wherever possible. Here and there, as is customary, were also hung plaits of garlic meant to frighten off vampires.
The tables and benches, which had been pushed towards the walls, had been covered with white linen, and in a corner there was a large makeshift hearth and spit. It was crowded but not noisy. More than four dozen people of various estates and professions, not to mention the pimply youth and his snub-nosed fiancée, with her eyes fixed on her husband-to-be, were listening reverentially to a sonorous and melodious ballad sung by a young woman in a demure blue frock, sitting on a platform with a lute resting on her knee. The woman could not have been older than eighteen, and was very slim. Her long, luxuriant hair was the colour of dark gold. They entered as the girl finished the song and thanked the audience for the thunderous applause with a nod of her head, which shook her hair gently.
‘Greetings, master, greetings,’ Drouhard, dressed in his best clothes, leapt briskly over to them and pulled them towards the centre of the storeroom. ‘Greetings to you, too, Gerard, sir . . . I am honoured . . . Yes . . . Come here . . . Noble ladies, noble gentlemen! Here is our honoured guest, who gave us this honour and honoured us . . . Master Dandelion, the celebrated singer and poetast . . . poet, I mean, has honoured us with this great honour . . . Thus honoured, we . . .’
Cheers and applause resounded, and just in time, for it was looking as though Drouhard would honour and stammer himself to death. Dandelion, blushing with pride, assumed a superior air and bowed carelessly, then waved a hand at a row of girls sitting on a long bench, like hens on a roost, being chaperoned by older matrons. The girls were sitting stiffly, giving the impression they had been stuck to the bench with carpenter’s glue or some other powerful adhesive. Without exception they were holding their hands on tightly-clenched knees and their mouths were half-open.
‘And presently,’ Drouhard called. ‘Come forth, help yourself to beer, fellows, and to the vittles! Prithee, prithee! Avail yourselves . . .’
The girl in the blue dress forced her way through the crowd, which had crashed onto the food-laden tables like a sea wave.
‘Greetings, Dandelion,’ she said.
Geralt considered the expression ‘eyes like stars’ banal and hackneyed, particularly since he had begun travelling with Dandelion, as the troubadour was inclined to throw that compliment about freely, usually, indeed, undeservedly. However, with regard to Essi Daven, even somebody as little susceptible to poetry as the Witcher had to concede the aptness of her nickname. For in her agreeable and pretty, but otherwise unremarkable, little face shone a huge, beautiful, shining, dark blue eye, which riveted the gaze. Essi Daven’s other eye was largely covered and obscured by a golden curl, which fell onto her cheek. From time to time Essi flung the curl away with a toss of her head or a puff, at which point it turned out that Little Eye’s other little eye was in every way the equal of the first.
‘Greetings, Little Eye,’ Dandelion said, grimacing. ‘That was a pretty ballad you just sang. You’ve improved your repertoire considerably. I’ve always maintained that if one is incapable of writing poetry oneself one should borrow other people’s. Have you borrowed many of them?’
‘A few,’ Essi Daven retorted
at once and smiled, revealing little white teeth. ‘Two or three. I wanted to use more, but it wasn’t possible. Dreadful gibberish, and the tunes, though pleasant and unpretentious in their simplicity – not to say primitivism – are not what my audiences expect. Have you written anything new, Dandelion? I don’t seem to be aware of it.’
‘Small wonder,’ the bard sighed. ‘I sing my ballads in places to which only the gifted and renowned are invited, and you don’t frequent such locations, after all.’
Essi blushed slightly and blew the lock of hair aside.
‘Very true,’ she said. ‘I don’t frequent bordellos, as the atmosphere depresses me. I sympathise with you that you have to sing in places like that. But well, that’s the way it is. If one has no talent, one can’t choose one’s audiences.’
Now Dandelion visibly blushed. Little Eye, however, laughed joyously, flung an arm around his neck all of a sudden and kissed him on the cheek. The Witcher was taken aback, but not too greatly. A professional colleague of Dandelion’s could not, indeed, differ much from him in terms of predictability.
‘Dandelion, you old bugger,’ Essi said, still hugging the bard’s neck. ‘I’m glad to see you again, in good health and in full possession of your mental faculties.’
‘Pshaw, Poppet.’ Dandelion seized the girl around the waist, picked her up and spun her around so that her dress billowed around her. ‘You were magnificent, by the Gods, I haven’t heard such marvellous spitefulness for ages. You bicker even more captivatingly than you sing! And you look simply stunning!’
‘I’ve asked you so many times,’ Essi said, blowing her lock of hair away and glancing at Geralt, ‘not to call me Poppet, Dandelion. Besides, I think it’s high time you introduced me to your companion. I see he doesn’t belong to our guild.’
‘Save us, O Gods,’ the troubadour laughed. ‘He, Poppet, has no voice or ear, and can only rhyme “rear” with “beer”. This is Geralt of Rivia, a member of the guild of witchers. Come closer, Geralt, and kiss Little Eye’s hand.’
The Witcher approached, not really knowing what to do. One usually only kissed ladies of the rank of duchess and higher on the hand, or the ring, and one was supposed to kneel. Regarding women of lower standing that gesture, here, in the South, was considered erotically unambiguous and as such tended to be reserved only for close couples.
Introducing the Witcher Page 49
