Introducing the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘Well, well,’ smiled the spy. ‘How touchy you are on that point. But don’t sulk, poet. I was joking. Blackmail between us comrades? Out of the question. And believe me, I don’t wish that witcher of yours any ill nor am I thinking of harming him. Who knows – maybe I’ll even come to some understanding with him, to the advantage of us both? But in order for that to happen I’ve got to see him. When he appears, bring him to me. I ask you sincerely, Dandilion, very sincerely. Have you understood how sincerely?’

  The troubadour snorted. ‘I’ve understood how sincerely.’

  ‘I’d like to believe that’s true. Well, go now. Ori, show our troubadour to the door.’

  ‘Take care.’ Dandilion got to his feet. ‘I wish you luck in your work and your personal life. My regards, Philippa. Oh, and Dijkstra! Those agents traipsing after me. Call them off.’

  ‘Of course,’ lied the spy. ‘I’ll call them off. Is it possible you don’t believe me?’

  ‘Nothing of the kind,’ lied the poet. ‘I believe you.’

  Dandilion stayed on the Academy premises until evening. He kept looking around attentively but didn’t spot any snoops following him. And that was precisely what worried him most.

  At the Faculty of Trouvereship he listened to a lecture on classical poetry. Then he slept sweetly through a seminar on modern poetry. He was woken up by some tutors he knew and together they went to the Department of Philosophy to take part in a long-enduring stormy dispute on ‘The essence and origins of life’. Before it had even grown dark, half of the participants were outright drunk while the rest were preparing for blows, out-shouting each other and creating a hullabaloo hard to describe. All this proved handy for the poet.

  He slipped unseen into the garret, clambered out by the window vent, slid down by way of the gutter onto the roof of the library, and – nearly breaking his leg – jumped across onto the roof of the dissecting theatre. From there he got into the garden adjacent to the wall. Amidst the dense gooseberry bushes he found a hole which he himself had made bigger when a student. Beyond the hole lay the town of Oxenfurt.

  He merged into the crowd, then quickly sneaked down the backstreets, dodging like a hare chased by hounds. When he reached the coach house he waited a good half hour, hidden in the shadows. Not spotting anything suspicious, he climbed the ladder to the thatch and leaped onto the roof of the house belonging to Wolfgang Amadeus Goatbeard, a brewer he knew. Gripping the moss-covered roof tiles, he finally arrived at the window of the attic he was aiming for. An oil lamp was burning inside the little room. Perched precariously on the guttering, Dandilion knocked on the lead frames. The window was not locked and gave way at the slightest push.

  ‘Geralt! Hey, Geralt!’

  ‘Dandilion? Wait . . . Don’t come in, please . . .’

  ‘What’s that, don’t come in? What do you mean, don’t come in?’ The poet pushed the window. ‘You’re not alone or what? Are you bedding someone right now?’

  Neither receiving nor waiting for an answer he clambered onto the sill, knocking over the apples and onions lying on it.

  ‘Geralt . . .’ he panted and immediately fell silent. Then cursed under his breath, staring at the light green robes of a medical student strewn across the floor. He opened his mouth in astonishment and cursed once more. He could have expected anything. But not this.

  ‘Shani.’ He shook his head. ‘May the—’

  ‘No comments, thank you very much.’ The witcher sat down on the bed. And Shani covered herself, yanking the sheet right up to her upturned nose.

  ‘Well, come in then.’ Geralt reached for his trousers. ‘Since you’re coming by way of the window, this must be important. Because if it isn’t I’m going to throw you straight back out through it.’

  Dandilion clambered off the sill, knocking down the rest of the onions. He sat down, pulling the high-backed, wooden chair closer with his foot. The witcher gathered Shani’s clothes and his own from the floor. He looked abashed and dressed in silence. The medical student, hiding behind him, was struggling with her shirt. The poet watched her insolently, searching in his mind for similes and rhymes for the golden colour of her skin in the light of the oil lamp and the curves of her small breasts.

  ‘What’s this about, Dandilion?’ The witcher fastened the buckles on his boots. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Pack your bags,’ he replied dryly. ‘Your departure is imminent.’

  ‘How imminent?’

  ‘Exceptionally.’

  ‘Shani . . .’ Geralt cleared his throat. ‘Shani told me about the snoops following you. You lost them, I understand?’

  ‘You don’t understand anything.’

  ‘Rience?’

  ‘Worse.’

  ‘In that case I really don’t understand . . . Wait. The Redanians? Tretogor? Dijkstra?’

  ‘You’ve guessed.’

  ‘That’s still no reason—’

  ‘It’s reason enough,’ interrupted Dandilion. ‘They’re not concerned about Rience any more, Geralt. They’re after the girl and Yennefer. Dijkstra wants to know where they are. He’s going to force you to disclose it to him. Do you understand now?’

  ‘I do now. And so we’re fleeing. Does it have to be through the window?’

  ‘Absolutely. Shani? Will you manage?’

  The student of medicine smoothed down her robe.

  ‘It won’t be my first window.’

  ‘I was sure of that.’ The poet scrutinised her intently, counting on seeing a blush worthy of rhyme and metaphor. He miscalculated. Mirth in her hazel eyes and an impudent smile were all he saw.

  A big grey owl glided down to the sill without a sound. Shani cried out quietly. Geralt reached for his sword.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Philippa,’ said Dandilion.

  The owl disappeared and Phillippa Eilhart appeared in its place, squatting awkwardly. The magician immediately jumped into the room, smoothing down her hair and clothes.

  ‘Good evening,’ she said coldly. ‘Introduce me, Dandilion.’

  ‘Geralt of Rivia. Shani of Medicine. And that owl which so craftily flew in my tracks is no owl. This is Philippa Eilhart from the Council of Wizards, at present in King Vizimir’s service and pride of the Tretogor court. It’s a shame we’ve only got one chair in here.’

  ‘It’s quite enough.’ The enchantress made herself comfortable in the high-backed chair vacated by Dandilion, and cast a smouldering glance over those present, fixing her eyes somewhat longer on Shani. The medical student, to Dandilion’s surprise, suddenly blushed.

  ‘In principle, what I’ve come about is the sole concern of Geralt of Rivia,’ Philippa began after a short pause. ‘I’m aware, however, that to ask anybody to leave would be tactless, and so . . .’

  ‘I can leave,’ said Shani hesitantly.

  ‘You can’t,’ muttered Geralt. ‘No one can until the situation’s made clear. Isn’t that so, my lady?’

  ‘Philippa to you,’ smiled the enchantress. ‘Let’s throw formalities aside. And no one has to go – no one’s presence bothers me. Astonishes me, at most, but what to do? – life is an endless train of surprises . . . as one of my friends says . . . As our mutual friend says, Geralt. You’re studying medicine, are you, Shani? What year?’

  ‘Third,’ grunted the girl.

  ‘Ah,’ Philippa Eilhart was looking not at her but at the witcher, ‘seventeen, what a beautiful age. Yennefer would give a lot to be that age again. What do you reckon, Geralt? Because I’ll ask her when I get the chance.’

  The witcher smiled nastily.

  ‘I’ve no doubt you will ask. I’ve no doubt you’ll follow the question with a commentary. I’ve no doubt it’ll amuse you no end. Now come to the point, please.’

  ‘Quite right.’ The magician nodded, growing serious. ‘It’s high time. And you haven’t got much time. Dandilion has, no doubt, already informed you that Dijkstra has suddenly acquired the wish to see and talk to you to establish the location of a certain girl. Dijkstra has orders
from King Vizimir in this matter and so I think he will be very insistent that you reveal this place to him.’

  ‘Of course. Thank you for the warning. Only one thing puzzles me a little. You say Dijkstra received instructions from the king. And you didn’t receive any? After all, you hold a prominent seat in Vizimir’s council.’

  ‘Indeed.’ The magician was not perturbed by the gibe. ‘I do. I take my responsibilities seriously, and they consist of warning the king against making mistakes. Sometimes – as in this particular instance – I am not allowed to tell the king outright that he is committing a mistake, or to dissuade him from a hasty action. I simply have to render it impossible for him to make a mistake. You understand what I’m saying?’

  The witcher confirmed with a nod. Dandilion wondered whether he really did understand, because he knew that Philippa was lying through her teeth.

  ‘So I see,’ said Geralt slowly, proving that he understood perfectly well, ‘that the Council of Wizards is also interested in my ward. The wizards wish to find out where my ward is. And they want to get to her before Vizimir or anybody else does. Why, Philippa? What is it about my ward? What makes her so very interesting?’

  The magician’s eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t you know?’ she hissed. ‘Do you know so little about her? I wouldn’t like to draw any hasty conclusions but such a lack of knowledge would indicate that your qualifications as her guardian amount to nothing. In truth, I’m surprised that being so unaware and so lacking in information, you decided to look after her. And not only that – you decided to deny the right to look after her to others, others who have both the qualifications and the right. And, on top of that, you ask why? Careful, Geralt, or your arrogance will be the end of you. Watch out. And guard that child, damn it! Guard that girl as though she’s the apple of your eye! And if you can’t do so yourself, ask others to!’

  For a moment Dandilion thought the witcher was going to mention the role undertaken by Yennefer. He would not be risking anything, and would flatten Philippa’s arguments. But Geralt said nothing. The poet guessed why. Philippa knew everything. Philippa was warning him. And the witcher understood her warning.

  He concentrated on observing their eyes and faces, wondering whether by any chance something in the past had tied the two together. Dandilion knew that similar duels of words and allusions – demonstrating a mutual fascination – waged between the witcher and enchantresses very often ended in bed. But observation, as usual, gave him nothing. There was only one way to find out whether something had tied the witcher to anyone – one had to enter through the window at the appropriate moment.

  ‘To look after someone,’ the enchantress continued after a while, ‘means to take upon oneself the responsibility for the safety of a person unable to assure that safety for herself. If you expose your ward . . . If she comes to any misfortune, the responsibility falls on you, Geralt. Only you.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m afraid you still know too little.’

  ‘So enlighten me. What makes so many people suddenly want to free me from the burden of that responsibility, want to take on my duties and care for my ward? What does the Council of Wizards want from Ciri? What do Dijkstra and King Vizimir want from her? What do the Temerians want from her? What does a certain Rience, who has already murdered three people in Sodden and Temeria who were in touch with me and the girl two years ago, want from her? Who almost murdered Dandilion trying to extract information about her? Who is this Rience, Philippa?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the magician. ‘I don’t know who Rience is. But, like you, I’d very much like to find out.’

  ‘Does this Rience – ’ Shani unexpectedly – ‘have a third-degree burn on his face? If so, then I know who he is. And I know where he is.’

  In the silence which fell the first drops of rain knocked on the gutter outside the window.

  Murder is always murder, regardless of motive or circumstance. Thus those who murder or who prepare to murder are malefactors and criminals, regardless of who they may be: kings, princes, marshals or judges. None who contemplates and commits violence has the right to consider himself better than an ordinary criminal. Because it is in the nature of all violence to lead inevitably to crime.

  Nicodemus de Boot, Meditations on Life, Happiness and Prosperity

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘Let us not commit a mistake,’ said Vizimir, King of Redania, sliding his ringed fingers through the hair at his temples. ‘We can’t afford to make a blunder or mistake now.’

  Those assembled said nothing. Demawend, ruler of Aedirn, sprawled in his armchair staring at the tankard of beer resting on his belly. Foltest, the Lord of Temeria, Pontar, Mahakam and Sodden, and recently Senior Protector of Brugge, presented his noble profile to everyone by turning his head towards the window. At the opposite side of the table sat Henselt, King of Kaedwen, running his small, piercing eyes – glistening from a face as bearded as a brigand’s – over the other participants of the council. Meve, Queen of Lyria, toyed pensively with the enormous rubies in her necklace, occasionally twisting her beautiful full lips into an ambiguous grimace.

  ‘Let us not commit a mistake,’ repeated Vizimir, ‘because a mistake could cost us too much. Let us make use of the experience of others. When our ancestors landed on the beaches five hundred years ago the elves also hid their heads in the sand. We tore the country away from them piece by piece, and they retreated, thinking all the while that this would be the last border, that we would encroach no further. Let us be wiser! Because now it is our turn. Now we are the elves. Nilfgaard is at the Yaruga and I hear: “So, let them stay there”. I hear: “They won’t come any further”. But they will, you’ll see. So I repeat, let us not make the same mistake as the elves!’

  Raindrops knocked against the window panes and the wind howled eerily. Queen Meve raised her head. She thought she heard the croaking of ravens and crows, but it was only the wind. The wind and rain.

  ‘Do not compare us to the elves,’ said Henselt of Kaedwen. ‘You dishonour us with such a comparison. The elves did not know how to fight – they retreated before our ancestors and hid in the mountains and forests. The elves did not treat our ancestors to a Sodden. But we showed the Nilfgaardians what it means to pick a quarrel with us. Do not threaten us with Nilfgaard, Vizimir, don’t sow the seeds of propaganda. Nilfgaard, you say, is at the Yaruga? I say that Nilfgaard is sitting as quiet as a church mouse beyond the river. Because we broke their spine at Sodden. We broke them militarily, and above all we broke their morale. I don’t know whether it is true that Emhyr var Emreis was, at the time, against aggression on such a scale, that the attack on Cintra was the work of some party hostile to him – I take it that if they had defeated us, he would be applauding, and distributing privileges and endowments amongst them. But after Sodden it suddenly turns out he was against it, and that everything which occurred was due to his marshals’ insubordination. And heads fell. The scaffolds flowed with blood. These are certain facts, not rumours. Eight solemn executions, and many more modest ones. Several apparently natural yet mysterious deaths, a good many cases of people suddenly choosing to retire. I tell you, Emhyr fell into a rage and practically finished off his own commanders. So who will lead their army now? The sergeants?’

  ‘No, not the sergeants,’ said Demawend of Aedirn coldly. ‘It will be young and gifted officers who have long waited for such an opportunity and have been trained by Emhyr for an equally long time. Those whom the older marshals stopped from taking command, prevented from being promoted. The young, gifted commanders about whom we already hear. Those who crushed the uprisings in Metinna and Nazair, who rapidly broke up the rebels in Ebbing. Commanders who appreciate the roles of outflanking manoeuvres, of far-reaching cavalry raids, of swift infantry marches and of landing operations from the sea. They use the tactics of crushing assaults in specific directions, they use the newest siege techniques instead of relying on the uncertainties of magic. They must not be underestimated. Th
ey are itching to cross the Yaruga and prove that they have learned from the mistakes of their old marshals.’

  ‘If they have truly learned anything,’ Henselt shrugged, ‘they will not cross the Yaruga. The river estuary on the border between Cintra and Verden is still controlled by Ervyll and his three strongholds: Nastrog, Rozrog and Bodrog. They cannot be seized just like that – no new technology is going to help them there. Our flank is defended by Ethain of Cidaris’s fleet, and thanks to it we control the shore. And also thanks to the pirates of Skellige. Jarl Crach an Craite, if you remember, didn’t sign a truce with Nilfgaard, and regularly bites them, attacking and setting fire to their maritime settlements and forts in the Provinces. The Nilfgaardians have nicknamed him Tirth ys Muire, Sea Boar. They frighten children with him!’

  ‘Frightening Nilfgaardian children,’ smiled Vizimir wryly, ‘will not ensure our safety.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Henselt. ‘Something else will. Without control of the estuary or the shore and with a flank exposed, Emhyr var Emreis will be in no position to ensure provisions reach any detachments he might care to send across the Yaruga. What swift marches, what cavalry raids? Ridiculous. The army will come to a standstill within three days of crossing the river. Half will lay siege to the stronghold and the rest will be slowly dispersed to plunder the region in search of fodder and food. And when their famed cavalry has eaten most of its own horses, we’ll give them another Sodden. Damn it, I’d like them to cross the river! But don’t worry, they won’t.’

  ‘Let us say,’ Meve of Lyria said suddenly, ‘that they do not cross the Yaruga. Let us say that Nilfgaard will simply wait. Now let us consider: who would that suit, them or us? Who can let themselves wait and do nothing and who can’t?’

  ‘Exactly!’ picked up Vizimir. ‘Meve, as usual, does not say much but she hits the nail on the head. Emhyr has time on his hands, gentlemen, but we don’t. Can’t you see what is happening? Three years ago, Nilfgaard disturbed a small stone on the mountainside and now they are calmly waiting for an avalanche. They can simply wait while new stones keep pouring down the slope. Because, to some, that first small stone looked like a boulder which would be impossible to move. And since it turned out that a mere touch sufficed to set it rolling, others appeared for whom an avalanche would prove convenient. From the Grey Mountains to Bremervoord, elven commandos rove the forests – this is no longer a small group of guerrilla fighters, this is war. Just wait and we’ll see the free elves of Dol Blathanna rising to fight. In Mahakam the dwarves are rebelling, the dryads of Brokilon are growing bolder and bolder. This is war, war on a grand scale. Civil war. Domestic. Our own. While Nilfgaard waits . . . Whose side you think time is on? The Scoia’tael commandos have thirty-or forty-year old elves fighting for them. And they live for three hundred years! They have time, we don’t!’