Geralt took advantage of the crew’s stupor. He took the dead girl from the hands of the sailor and returned to the bow. Addario Bach stood beside him, armed with a boat hook.
But neither Cobbin, nor any of the sailors tried to stop them. On the contrary, all hastily retreated to the stern. Hastily, one could say in a panic. Their faces were covered with a sudden deathly pallor. Crouching at the side, Kevenard van Vliet sobbed, burying his head between his knees and clasping his hands.
Geralt looked around.
Whether it was from Boxcray’s gaping, or the damage to the rudder or he was not listening, the sloop floated under the overhanging branches and buried itself into the trunks of the fallen trees. The fox took advantage of this. She jumped onto the nose of the craft, quickly and quietly. In the guise of a fox. Earlier when they had seen her see looked black, a blue-black. She was not that colour at all. Her fur was dark, and the tip of her tail a snow white, but the shades of her fur, especially on her head, was dominated by grey, rather than the blue-black or brown of other foxes.
Before them she changed, growing into a tall woman. With a fox head. With pointed ears and an elongated muzzle. In her mouth, when she opened it, was a number of gleaming fangs.
Geralt leaned forward and lowered the girl’s body onto the deck, and took a step back. The vulpess’s howl was shrill, she snapped her teeth together and came towards him. Parlaghy shouted frantically, waving his arms and broke away from Cobbin and jumped overboard. He immediately sank to the bottom.
Van Vliet was crying, Cobbin and the sailors, were still pale and crowded around Boxcray. Boxcray took off his cap.
The medallion around the witcher neck twitch violently, vibrating and shaking. The vulpess leaned over the girl, uttering strange sounds, murmuring and hissing. Suddenly she raised her head and bared her fangs. With a muffled growl, a fire ignited in her eyes. Geralt did not move.
‘We did wrong,’ he said. ‘They behaved badly. But let that be as bad as things get. I can’t let you butcher these people. Won’t allow it.’
The fox stood up, lifting the girl. She looked around at everyone. The she looked directly at Geralt.
‘You stood against me,’ she said, in a barking voice, impressively, slowly pronouncing each word. ‘In their defence.’
He did not answer.
‘I hold my daughter in my arms,’ she continued. ‘That is more important than your lives. But you stood in their defence, white-hair. For that I will come for you. Later. One day when you’ve forgotten. When you will no longer expect it.’
She jumped quickly to the gunwale, and from there to a fallen tree. And disappeared into the undergrowth.
In the silence that followed all that could be heard was the sobs of van Vliet.
The wind died down, and it became humid. They pushed “The Prophet Lebioda” off of the trunks and drifted into the middle of the duct. Boxcray wiped his eyes and forehead with his cap.
There was a cry from the lookout. It was taken up by Cobbin and the other sailors. Beyond the reeds appeared thatched roofed houses. All could see drying poles. A yellow sand beach. A pier. And then, behind the trees on the headland, the wide blue sky over a river.
‘The river! The river at last!’
Everyone yelled. The sailors, Peter Cobin and van Vliet. Only Geralt and Addario Bach did not join in the chorus. Boxcray was also silent, hold the wheel.
‘What’re you doing, Boxcray?’ Yelled, Cobbin. ‘Where’re you steering her? Steer her towards the river! There! The river!’
‘Ain’t no use,’ said the Captain, despair and powerlessness in his voice. ‘We’re becalmed, the ship won’t listen to a broken rudder, and the current grows mightier and mightier. We’ll drift on where it carries us. Back into the offshoot. Back into the swamp.’
‘No!’
Cobbin cursed and jumped overboard. He swam to the shore. Following him went all the sailors jumping into the water. Geralt could not stop anyone. Addario Bach kept a tight grip on van Vliet.
‘Clear skies,’ said the dwarf. ‘A beach o’ golden sand. The river. Too bonny to be true. Meaning it ain’t.’
Suddenly it shimmered like a picture. Suddenly where there had just been fishing houses, a golden beach, and a channel leading to the river, the witcher saw a web of vines, hanging from the branches of the dead trees. The marshy shore, the bristling cypresses. Black bubbles swelled in the swamp. Algae drifted on the water. An endless labyrinth of an offshoot.
For a moment, the witcher saw the vulpess’s farewell illusion. Those in the water suddenly began to cry out and thrash in the water. One by one they disappeared below. Peter Cobbin surfaced, gasping and screaming, covered with writhing, striped, thick eels. Then he disappeared under the water and no longer appeared.
‘Geralt!’
Addario Bach picked up a boat hook that had survived the scuffle with a crocodile. He pulled the dinghy close. The dwarf the jumped into it, followed by Geralt and the still petrified van Vliet.
‘Captain!’
Boxcray waved his cap.
‘No, Witcher! I’ll not abandon me ship. Gotta guide her to port. Come hell or high water. And if I can’t then I’ll go to the bottom with her! Farewell!’
“The Prophet Lebioda” drifted quietly and majestically, entering the duct and disappeared.
Addario Bach spat into his hands, hunched over and took hold of the oars. The boat moved forward rapidly.
‘Where to?’
‘Towards that blue water we saw, past the shallows. River’s that way, I’m sure of it. We’ll row to the fairway, hail a ship. And if that doesn’t work, we’ll row all the way to Novigrad.’
‘Boxcray…’
‘He’ll be fine. If that is his destiny.’
Kevenard van Vliet whimpered. Addario rowed. The sky darkened. The heard the sound of distant long-drawn out thunder.
‘Thunderstorm approaching,’ the dwarf said. ‘Fucking shit!’
Geralt snorted. And then began to laugh. With all his heart, sincerely. And contagiously. Because in a moment, they were both laughing. Addario rowed with strong smooth strokes. The boat speed through the water like an arrow.
‘You’re rowing,’ Geralt said, wiping tears of laughter from his face, ‘like you’ve done this all your life. I thought that dwarves had no idea about sailing and swimming.’
‘I don’t lend myself to stereotypes.’
Interlude
Four days later
The auction house of the Borsodi brothers was in an area near the main street – in fact, it was in the main thoroughfare of Novigrad connecting the market with the Temple of the Eternal Fire. The Brothers at the beginning of their career had traded horses and sheep, and worked out of a shed in the country. In the forty-two years since, they had founded an auction house in an impressive three-storey building in the most prestigious area of the city. The business still remained in the hands of the family, but the auction items have become precious stones, mostly diamonds, and well as works of arts, antiques and collectibles. The auction was held once every quarter, mostly on Fridays.
Today the auction room as filled almost to capacity. Antea Derris was present, along with a good hundred people.
The noise and voices subsided. The auctioneer Abner de Navarrete took his place at the table. Abner de Navarrete, as usual, looked lovely in a black velvet coat and a gold brocade waistcoat. The nobility of his appearance and countenance might envy princes, and his posture and manners – aristocrats. It was not a secret that Abner de Navarrete really was an aristocrat, banished from his family for drunkenness, debauchery and depravity. If not for the Borsodi family, Abner de Navarrete would have been forced to beg. But Borsodi needed an auctioneer with the appearance of an aristocrat. And none of the candidates could be compared in this respect to Abner de Navarrete.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ said the auctioneer, his voice the same velvet as his coat. ‘Welcome to the House
of Borsodi and the quarterly auction of works of art and antiques. The subject of this auction, with which you were pleased to be found in our gallery, is a collection of unique items exclusively from private owners.’
‘The vast majority of those present, I dare say, are those who are our constant visitors and customers who are familiar with the rules and actions of our House during the auction as well as our terms and conditions. All present were handed leaflets at the entrance with the rules. Therefore, I believe that all are informed about our rules and the consequences of their violation. So let us start without delay.’
‘Lot number one: a jade figurine, in a group, showing a nymph and … uh … three fauns. It is made, according to our experts, by dwarves, and at an age of a hundred years. A starting price of two hundred crowns. I see two hundred and fifty. Is that all? Does anyone offer more? No? Sold to the master with number thirty-six.’
Working at the next table, two clerks carefully wrote down the results of the sale.
‘Lot number two: “Aen N’og Mab Taedh’morce”, a collection of tales of elves and poetic parables. Richly illustrated. Perfect condition. A starting price of five hundred crowns. Five hundred and fifty, Master Merchant Hofmayer. Advisor to Master Dreyfuss, six hundred. Master Hofmayer, six hundred and fifty. And is that all? Sold for six hundred and fifty crowns to Master Hofmayer of Hirunda.’
‘Lot number three: an ivory instrument. Origin overseas, age unknown. The starting price of a hundred crowns. I can see a hundred and fifty. Two hundred, to the lady in the mask with the number forty-three. Two hundred and fifty, to the lady with the veil with the number eight. Will nobody give me more? Three hundred, to the chemist Forshterkrants. Three hundred and fifty! None of the ladies will give more? Sold for three hundred and fifty crowns to the lady with the number forty-three.’
‘Lot number four: “Antidotarius magnus”, a unique medical treatise published by the University of Castel Graupiane in the early founding of the Academy. A starting price of eight hundred crowns. I see eight hundred and fifty. Nine, to Doctor Ohnesorg. A thousand, to dear Marty Sodergren. And is that all? Sold for a thousand crowns to Miss Sodergren.’
“Lot number five: “Liber de naturis bestiarum”, white pages, bound in beech slat, richly illustrated with…’
“Lot number six: “Girl with a kitten”, portrait, oil canvas. Starting price…’
‘Lot number seven: A bell with a handle, brass, it’s age is hard to estimate, but the thing is, of course, ancient. Along the rim of the bell an inscription in runes reads: “What are you, an idiot, call.’ Starting price…’
“Lot number eight: canvas, oil painting, artist unknown. A masterpiece. Please pay attention to the unusual colours, shades and dynamics, to the game of light and shadow. The atmosphere of gloom and the noble flavour transmitted by the majestic forest. And in the centre, in a mysterious light, the main figure of the work: the dear during the rut. Starting price…’
“Lot number nine: “Imago mundi”, also known as “Mundus nouus”. The book is extremely rare and in the collection of the University of Oxenfurt there is only one copy, all other copies are in private hands. The binding is gilded goatskin. Ideal condition. Starting price is fifteen hundred crowns. Dear Vimme Vivaldi, one thousand six hundred. Reverend Prohazka, one thousand six hundred and fifty. One thousand seven hundred, to the lady at the end of the hall. One thousand eight hundred, Master Vivaldi. One thousand eight hundred and fifty. To the Reverend Prohazka. One thousand nine hundred and fifty, Mast Vivaldi. Two thousand crowns, bravo, Reverend Prohazka. Two thousand and one, Master Vivaldi. Who will give more?’
‘The godless book contains theoretical fabrications! It must be burned! I want to buy it to burn it! Two thousand two hundred crowns!’
‘Two thousand five hundred!’ barked Vimme Vivaldi, striking a white well-groomed beard. ‘You’ll give more, pious firebug?’
‘Disgusting! Moneybag here triumphs over the righteous! Pagan dwarves are place higher than people! I will complain to the authorities!’
‘The book is sold for two thousand five hundred crowns to Master Vivaldi,’ calmly announced Abner de Navarrete. ‘And a reminder to Reverend Prohazka about the existing rules and orders of the House of Borsodi.’
‘I’m leaving!’
‘Good-bye. My apologies. The uniqueness and richness of the proposals in the House of Borsodi sometimes raises emotions. Let’s continue. Lot number ten: totally unique, an incredible find of two Witcher’s swords. The House has decided not to offer them individually, but as a complete set, as tribute to the Witcher they once served. The first sword of steel obtained from a meteorite. The blade is forged and sharpened in Mahakam authenticity with stamps confirmed by our specialists.’
‘The second is a silver sword. On the handle and across the length of the blade are runes and symbols that prove its originality. The starting price of once thousand crowns per set. One thousand and fifty, to the gentleman with number seventeen. Is that all? Nobody will give more? For such rarities?’
‘This is shit, and not enough money,’ muttered Magistrate Nikefor Muus, sitting in the back row, nervously clenching his hands into fists, his fingers stained with ink. ‘I knew I should not have…’
Antea Derris’s hiss caused him to be quiet.
‘One thousand one hundred, to Count Horvath. One thousand two hundred to the gentleman with the number seventeen. One thousand five hundred to dear Nino Cianfanelli. One thousand six hundred, to the gentleman in the mask. One thousand seven hundred to the gentleman with the number seventeen. One thousand eight hundred, to Count Horvath. Two thousand to the gentleman in the mask. Two thousand one hundred, to dear Cianfanelli. Two thousand two hundred to the gentleman in the mask. Is that all? Two thousand five hundred, to Cianfanelli… Gentleman with the number seventeen…’
The man with the number seventeen was suddenly grabbed by the arms by two big men who had quietly entered the room.
‘Herzoa Fuerte, nicknamed Skewer,’ a third big man said, poking a stick her held into the man’s chest. ‘You are an assassin pursued by the law. You’re under arrest. Take him away.’
‘Three thousand!’ Yelled Herzoa Fuerte, nicknamed Skewer, waving his sign with the number seventeen, which he still held in his hand. ‘Three thousand…’
‘I’m sorry,’ Abner de Navarrete said coldly. ‘Rules. The arrest of the auction participant cancels his proposal. You have offered two thousand five hundred, dear Cianfanelli. Will anyone go higher? Two thousand six hundred, to Count Horvath. And is that all? Two thousand seven hundred to the gentleman in the mask. Three thousand, dear Canfanelli. I do not see any other offers…’
‘Four thousand.’
‘Oh, Master Molnar Giancardi. Bravo, bravo. Four thousand crowns. Can anyone give more?’
‘I want to by this for my son,’ Nino Cianfanelli snapped. ‘And you only have one daughter. Molnar. Why do you need these swords? Oh, all right. I concede.’
‘The swords are sold,’ said de Navarrete, ‘to Molnar Giancardi for four thousand crowns. We will continue, ladies and gentlemen. Lot number eleven: a cloak of monkey fur…’
Nikefor Muus, happy and grinning like a beaver, slapped Antea Derris on the shoulder. Hard. Antea with a huge effort refrained from giving his the same in the face.
‘Let’s go,’ she hiss
‘And the money?’
‘After the auction is finished we can complete the formalities. It takes time.’
Ignoring the nagging Muus, Antea went to the door. She felt someone’s eyes on her. She looked about furtively. A female. Black-haired. Dressed in black and white. With an obsidian star about her neck.
She shivered.
***
Antea was right. The formalities required time. Just two days later it was possible to go to the bank. In a branch in one of the banks in Novigrad, smelling, like all banks, of money, wax, and carved mahogany paneling.
‘The amount pay
able is three thousand three hundred and thirty-six crowns,’ the clerk said. ‘After the levy of the bank of one percent.’
‘Borsodi takes fifteen, the bank one,’ grumbled Nikefor Muus. ‘All in interest! Thieves upon thieves! Taking my money!’
‘One minute,’ Antea stopped his rant. ‘Please settle our business, yours and mine. My commission. Four hundred crowns.’
‘But, but!’ Growled Muus, attracting the attention of other clerks and bank customers. ‘What four hundred? From Borsodi I only received three thousand with small change…’
‘According to our contract I was supposed to get ten percent of the result of the auction. Expenses – that’s your business. And only your problem.’
‘What about…’
Antea Derris gave him a look. That was enough. Between Antea and her father there were not many similarities. But Antea was able to give the exact same look as her father. Pyrall Pratt. Muus shrunk under her gaze.
‘Of the amount to be paid,’ she indicated to the clerk, ‘please issue a check for four hundred crowns. I know that the bank will charge a commission, I agree with them.’
‘And my money in cash!’ The official for the city pointed to a large leather satchel, which he had brought with him. ‘I’ll take it home and hide it well! None of the banks or thieves will take a commission!’
‘This is a significant sum,’ the clerk stood up. ‘Please wait.’
Leaving from behind the desk, the clerk for a moment, opened a door to the back room, but Antea was ready to swear that at that moment she saw a black-haired woman, dressed in black and white.
She shivered.
***
‘Thank you, Molnar,’ Yennefer said. ‘I will not forget this service.’
‘Thanks for what?’ Molnar Giancardi smiled. ‘What did I do, what service? The fact that a lot at an auction was bought by me? To pay the money from your personal account? Or maybe that I turned away when you cast a spell a minute ago? I looked out the window at the Mediatrix when she left, delicately swaying this way and that. The lady is too my taste, I will not deny, though I’m not fond of human females. You cast a spell on her too… to multiply the problem?’
Stephen Hulin Page 22
