Introducing the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  A young medical student with dark red hair cropped just below her ears raised her head from a volume on anatomy and got up from her bench.

  ‘Dandilion!’ She smiled, squinting her happy, hazel eyes. ‘I haven’t seen you for years! Come on, I’ll introduce you to my friends. They adore your poems—’

  ‘Later,’ muttered the bard. ‘Look discreetly over there, Shani. See those two?’

  ‘Snoops.’ The medical student wrinkled her upturned nose and snorted, amazing Dandilion – not for the first time – with how easily students could recognise secret agents, spies and informers. Students’ aversion to the secret service was legendary, if not very rational. The university grounds were extraterritorial and sacred, and students and lecturers were untouchable while there – and the service, although it snooped, did not dare to bother or annoy academics.

  ‘They’ve been following me since the market place,’ said Dandilion, pretending to embrace and flirt with the medical student. ‘Will you do something for me, Shani?’

  ‘Depends what.’ The girl tossed her shapely neck like a frightened deer. ‘If you’ve got yourself into something stupid again . . .’

  ‘No, no,’ he quickly reassured her. ‘I only want to pass on some information and can’t do it myself with these shits stuck to my heels—’

  ‘Shall I call the lads? I’ve only got to shout and you’ll have those snoops off your back.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You want a riot to break out? The row over the bench ghetto for non-humans has just about ended and you can’t wait for more trouble? Besides, I loathe violence. I’ll manage the snoops. However, if you could . . .’

  He brought his lips closer to the girl’s hair and took a while to whisper something. Shani’s eyes opened wide.

  ‘A witcher? A real witcher?’

  ‘Quiet, for the love of gods. Will you do that, Shani?’

  ‘Of course.’ The medical student smiled readily. ‘Just out of curiosity to see, close up, the famous—’

  ‘Quieter, I asked you. Only remember: not a word to anyone.’

  ‘A physician’s secret.’ Shani smiled even more beautifully and Dandilion was once more filled with the desire to finally compose a ballad about girls like her – not too pretty but nonetheless beautiful, girls of whom one dreams at night when those of classical beauty are forgotten after five minutes.

  ‘Thank you, Shani.’

  ‘It’s nothing, Dandilion. See you later. Take care.’

  Duly kissing each other’s cheeks, the bard and the medical student briskly moved off in opposite directions – she towards the faculty, he towards Thinkers’ Park.

  He passed the modern, gloomy Faculty of Technology building, dubbed the ‘Deus ex machina’ by the students, and turned on to Guildenstern Bridge. He did not get far. Two people lurked around a corner in the lane, by the flowerbed with a bronze bust of the first chancellor of the Academy, Nicodemus de Boot. As was the habit of all snoops in the world, they avoided meeting other’s eyes and, like all snoops in the world, they had coarse, pale faces. These they tried very hard to furnish with an intelligent expression, thanks to which they resembled demented monkeys.

  ‘Greetings from Dijkstra,’ said one of the spies. ‘We’re off.’

  ‘Likewise,’ the bard replied impudently. ‘Off you go.’

  The spies looked at each other then, rooted to the spot, fixed their eyes on an obscene word which someone had scribbled in charcoal on the plinth supporting the chancellor’s bust. Dandilion sighed.

  ‘Just as I thought,’ he said, adjusting the lute on his shoulder. ‘So am I going to be irrevocably forced to accompany you somewhere, gentlemen? Too bad. Let’s go then. You go first, I’ll follow. In this particular instance, age may go before beauty.’

  Dijkstra, head of King Vizimir of Redania’s secret service, did not resemble a spy. He was far from the stereotype which dictated that a spy should be short, thin, rat-like, and have piercing eyes forever casting furtive glances from beneath a black hood. Dijkstra, as Dandilion knew, never wore hoods and had a decided preference for bright coloured clothing. He was almost seven foot tall and probably only weighed a little under two quintals. When he crossed his arms over his chest – which he did with habitual pleasure – it looked as if two cachalots had prostrated themselves over a whale. As far as his features, hair colour and complexion were concerned, he looked like a freshly scrubbed pig. Dandilion knew very few people whose appearance was as deceptive as Dijkstra’s – because this porky giant who gave the impression of being a sleepy, sluggish moron, possessed an exceptionally keen mind. And considerable authority. A popular saying at King Vizimir’s court held that if Dijkstra states it is noon yet darkness reigns all around, it is time to start worrying about the fate of the sun.

  At present, however, the poet had other reasons to worry.

  ‘Dandilion,’ said Dijkstra sleepily, crossing the cachalots over the whale, ‘you thick-headed halfwit. You unmitigated dunce. Do you have to spoil everything you touch? Couldn’t you, just once in your life, do something right? I know you can’t think for yourself. I know you’re almost forty, look almost thirty, think you’re just over twenty and act as though you’re barely ten. And being aware of this, I usually furnish you with precise instructions. I tell you what you have to do, when you have to do it and how you’re to go about it. And I regularly get the impression that I’m talking to a stone wall.’

  ‘I, on the other hand,’ retorted the poet, feigning insolence, ‘regularly have the impression that you talk simply to exercise your lips and tongue. So get to the point, and eliminate the figures of speech and fruitless rhetoric. What are you getting at this time?’

  They were sitting at a large oak table amongst bookshelves crammed with volumes and piled with rolls of parchment, on the top floor of the vice-chancellor’s offices, in leased quarters which Dijkstra had amusingly named the Faculty of Most Contemporary History and Dandilion called the Faculty of Comparative Spying and Applied Sabotage. There were, including the poet, four present – apart from Dijkstra, two other people took part in the conversation. One of these was, as usual, Ori Reuven, the aged and eternally sniffing secretary to the chief of Redanian spies. The other was no ordinary person.

  ‘You know very well what I’m getting at,’ Dijkstra replied coldly. ‘However, since you clearly enjoy playing the idiot I won’t spoil your game and will explain using simple words. Or maybe you’d like to make use of this privilege, Philippa?’

  Dandilion glanced at the fourth person present at the meeting, who until then had remained silent. Philippa Eilhart must have only recently arrived in Oxenfurt, or was perhaps intending to leave at once, since she wore neither a dress nor her favourite black agate jewellery nor any sharp makeup. She was wearing a man’s short jacket, leggings and high boots – a ‘field’ outfit as the poet called it. The enchantress’s dark hair, usually loose and worn in a picturesque mess, was brushed smooth and tied back at the nape of her neck.

  ‘Let’s not waste time,’ she said, raising her even eyebrows. ‘Dandilion’s right. We can spare ourselves the rhetoric and slick eloquence which leads nowhere when the matter at hand is so simple and trivial.’

  ‘Ah, even so.’ Dijkstra smiled. ‘Trivial. A dangerous Nilfgaardian agent, who could now be trivially locked away in my deepest dungeon in Tretogor, has trivially escaped, trivially warned and frightened away by the trivial stupidity of two gentlemen known as Dandilion and Geralt. I’ve seen people wander to the scaffolds over lesser trivialities. Why didn’t you inform me about your ambush, Dandilion? Did I not instruct you to keep me informed about all the witcher’s intentions?’

  ‘I didn’t know anything about Geralt’s plans,’ Dandilion lied with conviction. ‘I told you that he went to Temeria and Sodden to hunt down this Rience. I also told you that he had returned. I was convinced he had given up. Rience had literally dissolved into thin air, the witcher didn’t find the slightest trail, and this – if you remember – I also told y
ou—’

  ‘You lied,’ stated the spy coldly. ‘The witcher did find Rience’s trail. In the form of corpses. That’s when he decided to change his tactics. Instead of chasing Rience, he decided to wait for Rience to find him. He signed up to the Malatius and Grock Company barges as an escort. He did so intentionally. He knew that the Company would advertise it far and wide, that Rience would hear of it and then venture to try something. And so Rience did. The strange, elusive Master Rience. The insolent, self-assured Master Rience who does not even bother to use aliases or false names. Master Rience who, from a mile off, smells of Nilfgaardian chimney smoke. And of being a renegade sorcerer. Isn’t that right, Philippa?’

  The magician neither affirmed nor denied it. She remained silent, watching Dandilion closely and intently. The poet lowered his eyes and hawked hesitantly. He did not like such gazes.

  Dandilion divided women – including magicians – into very likeable, likeable, unlikeable and very unlikeable. The very likeable reacted to the proposition of being bedded with joyful acquiescence, the likeable with a happy smile. The unlikeable reacted unpredictably. The very unlikeable were counted by the troubadour to be those to whom the very thought of presenting such a proposition made his back go strangely cold and his knees shake.

  Philippa Eilhart, although very attractive, was decidedly very unlikeable.

  Apart from that, Philippa Eilhart was an important figure in the Council of Wizards, and King Vizimir’s trusted court magician. She was a very talented enchantress. Word had it that she was one of the few to have mastered the art of polymorphy. She looked thirty. In truth she was probably no less than three hundred years old.

  Dijkstra, locking his chubby fingers together over his belly, twiddled his thumbs. Philippa remained silent. Ori Reuven coughed, sniffed and wriggled, constantly adjusting his generous toga. His toga resembled a professor’s but did not look as if it had been presented by a senate. It looked more as if it had been found on a rubbish heap.

  ‘Your witcher, however,’ suddenly snarled the spy, ‘underestimated Master Rience. He set a trap but – demonstrating a complete lack of common sense – banked on Rience troubling himself to come in person. Rience, according to the witcher’s plan, was to feel safe. Rience wasn’t to smell a trap anywhere, wasn’t to spy Master Dijkstra’s subordinates lying in wait for him. Because, on the witcher’s instructions, Master Dandilion had not squealed to Master Dijkstra about the planned ambush. But according to the instructions received, Master Dandilion was duty bound to do so. Master Dandilion had clear, explicit instructions in this matter which he deigned to ignore.’

  ‘I am not one of your subordinates.’ The poet puffed up with pride. ‘And I don’t have to comply with your instructions and orders. I help you sometimes but I do so out of my own free will, from patriotic duty, so as not to stand by idly in face of the approaching changes—’

  ‘You spy for anyone who pays you,’ Dijkstra interrupted coldly. ‘You inform on anyone who has something on you. And I’ve got a few pretty good things on you, Dandilion. So don’t be saucy.’

  ‘I won’t give in to blackmail!’

  ‘Shall we bet on it?’

  ‘Gentlemen.’ Philippa Eilhart raised her hand. ‘Let’s be serious, if you please. Let’s not be diverted from the matter in hand.’

  ‘Quite right.’ The spy sprawled out in the armchair. ‘Listen, poet.

  What’s done is done. Rience has been warned and won’t be duped a second time. But I can’t let anything like this happen in the future. That’s why I want to see the witcher. Bring him to me. Stop wandering around town trying to lose my agents. Go straight to Geralt and bring him here, to the faculty. I have to talk to him. Personally, and without witnesses. Without the noise and publicity which would arise if I were to arrest the witcher. Bring him to me, Dandilion. That’s all I require of you at present.’

  ‘Geralt has left,’ the bard lied calmly. Dijkstra glanced at the magician. Dandilion, expecting an impulse to sound out his mind, tensed but he did not feel anything. Philippa was watching him, her eyes narrowed, but nothing indicated that she was using spells to verify his truthfulness.

  ‘Then I’ll wait until he’s back,’ sighed Dijkstra, pretending to believe him. ‘The matter I want to see him about is important so I’ll make some changes to my schedule and wait for the witcher. When he’s back, bring him here. The sooner the better. Better for many people.’

  ‘There might be a few difficulties,’ Dandilion grimaced, ‘in convincing Geralt to come here. He – just imagine it – harbours an inexplicable aversion to spies. Although to all intents and purposes he seems to understand it is a job like any other, he feels repulsion for those who execute it. Patriotic reasons, he’s wont to say, are one thing, but the spying profession attracts only out-and-out scoundrels and the lowest—’

  ‘Enough, enough.’ Dijkstra waved his hand carelessly. ‘No platitudes, please, platitudes bore me. They’re so crude.’

  ‘I think so, too,’ snorted the troubadour. ‘But the witcher’s a simple soul, a straightforward honest simpleton in his judgement, nothing like us men-of-the-world. He simply despises spies and won’t want to talk to you for anything in the world, and as for helping the secret services, there’s no question about it. And you haven’t got anything on him.’

  ‘You’re mistaken,’ said the spy. ‘I do. More than one thing. But for the time being that brawl on the barge near Acorn Bay is enough. You know who those men who came on board were? They weren’t Rience’s men.’

  ‘That’s not news to me,’ said the poet casually. ‘I’m sure they were a few scoundrels of the likes of which there is no shortage in the Temerian Guards. Rience has been asking about the witcher and no doubt offering a nice sum for any news about him. It’s obvious that the witcher is very important to him. So a few crafty dogs tried to grab Geralt, bury him in some cave and then sell him to Rience, dictating their conditions and trying to bargain as much out of him as possible. Because they would have got very little, if anything at all, for mere information.’

  ‘My congratulations on such perspicacity. The witcher’s, of course, not yours – it would never have occurred to you. But the matter is more complex than you think. My colleagues, men belonging to King Foltest’s secret service, are also, as it turns out, interested in Master Rience. They saw through the plan of those – as you called them – crafty dogs. It is they who boarded the barge, they who wanted to grab the witcher. Perhaps as bait for Rience, perhaps for a different end. At Acorn Bay, Dandilion, the witcher killed Temerian agents. Their chief is very, very angry. You say Geralt has left? I hope he hasn’t gone to Temeria. He might never return.’

  ‘And that’s what you have on him?’

  ‘Indeed. That’s what I have. I can pacify the Temerians. But not for nothing. Where has the witcher gone, Dandilion?’

  ‘Novigrad,’ the troubadour lied without thinking. ‘He went to look for Rience there.’

  ‘A mistake, a mistake,’ smiled the spy, pretending not to have caught the lie. ‘You see what a shame it is he didn’t overcome his repulsion and get in touch with me. I’d have saved him the effort. Rience isn’t in Novigrad. Whereas there’s no end of Temerian agents there. Probably all waiting for the witcher. They’ve caught on to something I’ve known for a long time. Namely, that Geralt, the witcher from Rivia, can answer all kinds of questions if he’s asked in the right manner. Questions which the secret services of each of the Four Kingdoms are beginning to ask themselves. The arrangement is simple: the witcher comes here, to the department, and gives me the answers to these questions. And he’ll be left in peace. I’ll calm the Temerians and guarantee his safety.’

  ‘What questions are you talking about? Maybe I can answer them?’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh, Dandilion.’

  ‘Yet,’ Philippa Eilhart said suddenly, ‘perhaps he can? Maybe he can save us time? Don’t forget, Dijkstra, our poet is mixed up to his ears in this affair and we’ve got him
here but we haven’t got the witcher. Where is the child seen with Geralt in Kaedwen? The girl with ashen hair and green eyes? The one Rience asked you about back in Temeria when he caught and tortured you? Eh, Dandilion? What do you know about the girl? Where has the witcher hidden her? Where did Yennefer go when she received Geralt’s letter? Where is Triss Merigold hiding, and why is she hiding?’

  Dijkstra did not stir, but his swift glance at the magician showed Dandilion that the spy was taken aback. The questions Philippa had raised had clearly been asked too soon. And directed to the wrong person. The questions appeared rash and careless. The trouble was that Philippa Eilhart could be accused of anything but rashness and carelessness.

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ he said slowly, ‘but I don’t know the answer to any of the questions. I’d help you if I could. But I can’t.’

  Philippa looked him straight in the eyes.

  ‘Dandilion,’ she drawled. ‘If you know where that girl is, tell us. I assure you that all that I and Dijkstra care about is her safety. Safety which is being threatened.’

  ‘I have no doubt,’ lied the poet, ‘that’s all you care about. But I really don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never seen the child you’re so interested in. And Geralt—’

  ‘Geralt,’ interrupted Dijkstra, ‘never confided in you, never said a word even though, no doubt, you inundated him with questions. Why do you think that might be, Dandilion? Could it be that this simple soul, this simpleton who despises spies, sensed who you really are? Leave him alone, Philippa, it’s a waste of time. He knows shit-all, don’t be taken in by his cocksure expressions and ambiguous smirks. He can help us in only one way. When the witcher emerges from his hide-out, he’ll get in touch with him, no one else. Just imagine, he considers him to be a friend.’

  Dandilion slowly raised his head.

  ‘Indeed,’ he confirmed. ‘He considers me to be such. And just imagine, Dijkstra, that it’s not without reason. Finally accept the fact and draw your conclusions. Have you drawn them? Right, so now you can try blackmail.’