The Time of Contempt

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘Let’s just leave it,’ cut Codringher coldly. ‘Too many matters solved at the same time, too many magpies caught by their tails, too many prophecies and secrets. That’s enough for now. Thank you and goodbye. Let’s go, Geralt. We shall return to the guestroom.’

  ‘Not enough, eh?’ inquired the witcher the moment they settled themselves in the armchairs. ‘The fee is too low?’

  Codringher picked up a metal star-shaped object from the top of the desk and spun it around his fingers.

  ‘Too low, Geralt. Digging in elven prophecies is a huge burden, loss of time and resources. The need of searching for a contact with the elves because nobody else can comprehend their language in all its entirety. Elven manuscripts are usually filled with twisted symbolism, acrostics, sometimes even codes. The Elder Speech always has at least a double meaning and when written it can have dozens of meanings. Elves have never been happy to help anyone trying to crack their prophecies. And in these times, when there’s a bloody war with the Squirrels in the forests and pogroms in the cities, it’s not safe to approach them. It’s a double risk. Elves can take you for a provocateur, humans can accuse you of treason…’

  ‘How much, Codringher?’

  The advocate was silent for a while, constantly playing with the metal star.

  ‘Ten percent,’ he said finally.

  ‘Ten percent of what?’

  ‘Don’t insult me, witcher. It’s a serious matter. I’m less and less sure of what is going on and whenever something isn’t certain then everything is certainly about money. Therefore I’m more content on percentages than fees. You will give me ten percent of whatever you are going to get yourself, discounting the sum already paid. Do we have a deal?’

  ‘No. I don’t want you to end with losses. Ten percent of nothing equals nothing, Codringher. I, dear colleague, will get nothing out of this.’

  ‘Don’t insult me, I said. I don’t believe that you are not doing this for cash. I don’t believe that behind it there’s no…’

  ‘I don’t give a damn about your beliefs. There will be no deal. And no percentages. Make up your mind about the price for the information.’

  ‘Had it been anybody else,’ Codringher coughed. ‘I would have thrown them out the doors, convinced that they’re trying to deceive me. But such a noble and naive generosity fits an anachronistic witcher like you perfectly. This is so like you, beautifully and pathetically old-fashioned… getting yourself killed for nothing…’

  ‘Stop wasting time. How much, Codringher?’

  ‘Double the amount. Five hundred in total.’

  ‘I regret,’ Geralt shook his head, ‘That I’m unable to afford such a sum. Not at the moment, at least.’

  ‘In that case, I renew my proposition from when we first met,’ said the advocate slowly, still fiddling with the star. ‘Work for me and you will be able to afford everything. Information and other luxuries.’

  ‘No, Codringher.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You won’t be able to understand.’

  ‘This time you’re hurting not my heart, but rather my pride. Because I pride myself in always understating everything. The backbone and foundation of our professions lies in wickedness, yet you still prefer the anachronistic one to the modern one.

  The witcher smiled.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Codringher started coughing again, wiped his lips and then opened his yellowish-green eyes.

  ‘Have you taken a peek at the list of magicians which lay on the desktop? The one with Rience’s potential employers?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘I won’t give it to you until I check it carefully. Don’t put too much trust in what you have read. Dandelion told me that Phillippa Eilhart probably knows who’s backing Rience but she refused to share her knowledge with you. Phillippa wouldn’t bother protecting just any sucker. There must be some important person behind all this.’

  The witcher was silent.

  ‘Watch your step, Geralt. You’re in great danger. Someone is playing a game with you. Someone is watching your every move, maybe even directing them. Don’t let arrogance and confidence take hold of you. The one who’s toying with you isn’t a striga or a werewolf. It’s not the Michelet brothers. Not even Rience. The Child of Elder blood, my ass. As if it wasn’t enough with the throne, wizards, kings and Nilfgaard, now we also have the elves. Stop this game, witcher, leave it. Ruin their plans by doing something they won’t expect. Break up this insane relationship; don’t let anyone associate you with Cirilla. Leave her to Yennefer, go back to Kaer Morhen and don’t show yourself outside. Hide in the mountains while I peruse the elven manuscripts, slowly, carefully, with no rush. And once I gain the information about the Elder Blood and the wizard, you will gain enough money and we will make the deal.’

  ‘I can’t wait. The girl is in danger.’

  ‘True. But I also know that you are believed to be an obstacle on the way to her. An obstacle that must be neutralized. As a result, you are the one in danger. They get to the girl only after eliminating you.’

  ‘Or after I stop the game and retreat to Kaer Morhen. I paid you too much, Codringher, for advice like this.’

  The advocate turned the iron star around his fingers.

  ‘For the amount which you paid me today. I’ve been working actively for quite some time, witcher,’ he said, coughing. ‘The advice I gave you is well-thought out. Hide in Kaer Morhen; disappear. And then, those who are looking for Ciri shall get her.’

  Geralt’s eyes narrowed and he smiled. Codringher didn’t pale.

  ‘I know what I’m talking about,’ he added looking him straight in the eyes. ‘Ciri’s adversaries will find her and do with her whatever they want. While both you and her will be safe.’

  ‘Explain, please. But quick.’

  ‘I found a certain girl. A war orphan from a Cintran noble family. She’s been through the refugee camps and is currently measuring and cutting fabrics in Brugge, having been taken in by a clothier. Seemingly nothing about her stands out. Except one thing. She quite resembles a person from a portrait of the Lion Cub of Cintra… Would you like to see her picture?’

  ‘No, Codringher. I don’t wish to. And I won’t agree to this sort of thing.’

  ‘Geralt.’ The advocate closed his eyes. ‘Tell me, what exactly leads you to such decisions? If you want to save your Ciri… then you can’t afford the luxury of contempt. No, sorry. You can’t afford holding contempt in contempt. The times of contempt are approaching, colleague, the times of terrible, boundless contempt. You must fit in. My proposition is simple. Someone will die, so that someone else can live. A person you love will survive. Some other girl will die, a girl you don’t even know, someone whom you’ve never seen, someone whom…’

  ‘Whom I can hold in contempt?’ interrupted the witcher. ‘Am I supposed to pay for what I love with contempt for myself? No, Codringher. Leave that other child alone, let her continue measuring fabric. Destroy her picture. Burn it. And for my two hundred and fifty crowns, which you have put inside your drawer, give me something else. Information. Yennefer and Ciri have left Ellander. I’m sure that you know about it. I’m sure that you know where they’re going. I’m sure that you know if someone is following them.’

  Codringher tapped his fingers on the desk and coughed.

  ‘The Wolf, unmoved by the warnings, still wants to hunt,’ he said. ‘He cannot see that he is the prey, that he’s running straight into a trap set by the real hunter.’

  ‘Don’t be so banal. Be consistent.’

  ‘As you wish. It’s not hard to figure that Yennefer is going on the convent of Wizards, which will take place on the Thanedd Island in Garstang at the beginning of July. She’s moving slyly, doesn’t use magic, so it’s hard to trace her. She was still in Ellander a week ago, so I presume that it will take her three, four more days to reach the city Gors Velen, just a stone throw away from Thanedd. On the way of Gors Velen she will have to go through Anc
hor village. If you set out now you will be able to take out those who are following her. Because, indeed, she is being followed.’

  ‘I hope,’ Geralt smiled nastily. ‘That those aren’t royal agents?’

  ‘No,’ said the advocate, looking at the iron star. ‘These are not agents. But it’s also not Rience, who’s smarter than you because he stopped showing himself in public after the ordeal with the Miechelet brothers. Yennefer is followed by three paid mercenaries.’

  ‘I presume that you know who they are?’

  ‘I know everybody. Which is why my advice is as follows: don’t bother them. Don’t go to Anchor. I will make use of my links and connections. I will try to bribe the thugs and reverse the contract. In other words, I will send them after Rience. If it works…’

  He stopped suddenly and threw the iron star. The weapon howled through the air and pierced the portrait right in the middle of Senior Codringher’s forehead.

  ‘Nice, isn’t it?’ the advocate smiled broadly. ‘It’s called an orion. An invention from overseas. I’ve been practicing for over a month and scoring almost every time. Could be useful. In the range of thirty meters such a star is deadly and in addition to that it can be easily hidden in a glove or hat. Nilfgaardian Special Forces have been using them since last year. Ha, ha, if Rience is indeed spying for Nilgaard it would be ironic if he were found with an orion in the skull… Don’t you think?’

  ‘I don’t. You’re the one supposed to be doing the thinking. You’re the one with two hundred and fifty crowns in your drawer.’

  ‘Sure,’ Codringher nodded. ‘I assume that you are giving me a free rein in this aspect. Let us commemorate Rience’s impending death with a minute of silence. Why the scowl, dammit? Have you no respect for death?’

  ‘Too much to stand still when idiots are jeering at it. Have you ever pondered your own death, Codringher?’

  The advocate coughed again and stared at the handkerchief.

  ‘I have,’ he said quietly. ‘A lot. But that is none of your business, witcher. Are you going to Anchor?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Ralf Blunden, known as ‘Professor’. Heimo Kantor. ‘Short’ Yaxa. Do any of those names ring a bell?’

  ‘No, they don’t.’

  ‘They’re all good with swords. Better than the Michelets. I advise a better weapon. Like the Nilfgaardian stars. I could sell you a few. I have lots of them.’

  ‘I’m not interested. They’re impractical. Too much noise.’

  ‘The noise works in the psychological way. It can paralyse the victim with fear.’

  ‘It’s possible. But it can also alert. I could dodge it.’

  ‘If you saw the throw, perhaps. I know that you can dodge the spears… but from behind…’

  ‘From behind as well.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Let’s make a bet,’ said Geralt coldly. ‘I will turn in the direction of your moronic father and you will throw the orion at me. If you hit me, then you win. If you don’t, then you lose. If you lose, you will decrypt the elven manuscripts. You will get information about the Child of Elder Blood. Fast. And on credit.’

  ‘What if I win?’

  ‘You will do it anyway and pass the results to Yennefer. She will pay. It’s a win-win situation for you.’

  Codringher opened the drawer and brought out a second orion.

  ‘You’re hoping that I won’t accept the challenge.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘No,’ smiled the witcher. ‘I’m sure that you will.’

  ‘You’re quite a dare-devil. Did you forget? I have no conscience.’

  ‘I didn’t forget. After all, the times of contempt are approaching and you are always going with the times. But I have remembered your remarks about my anachronistic naiveté and so this time I’m taking a risk with no hopes for a profit. How’s that?’

  ‘Very well then.’ Codringher picked up the iron star and stood. ‘My curiosity has always been stronger than reason and mercy. Turn around.’

  The witcher complied. He looked at the portrait and then closed his eyes.

  The star howled and pierced the wall four inches from the frame.

  ‘Holy shit!’ yelled Codringher. ‘Son of a whore, you didn’t even flinch!’

  Geralt turned around and smiled. In a very nasty way.

  ‘Why should I have flinched? I could hear that you aimed so as not to hit.’

  * * *

  The inn was deserted. On a bench, in a corner, sat a young woman with circles under her eyes. Turned modestly to one side, she nursed an infant. A man -- possibly her husband -- dozed next to her, his broad shoulders resting against the wall. In the shadows, behind the stove, sat another person which Aplegatt could not quite distinguish.

  The innkeeper raised his head, saw Aplegatt and, upon noticing his uniform and the Aedirn coat of arms on his chest, frowned momentarily. Aplegatt was used to this kind of welcome. He was a royal messenger, and as such had the unquestioned right to a fresh mount. The royal decrees were explicit: in every town, village, inn and county, messengers had the right to a fresh horse, and woe betide those who failed to comply. Messengers, of course, left their own mount behind and issued a receipt for the new one which the innkeeper could present to the local mayor for compensation. But things could go rather differently. As well, messengers were always viewed with fear and suspicion: will he, won't he? Will he take our Precious to her doom? our little Sparrow, barely weaned? or our beloved Little Crow? Aplegatt had seen it before, children sobbing as their favourite horse was saddled and lead from the stable, clinging to their playmate; more than once he saw the faces of adults pale at the injustice, at their helplessness.

  ‘I don't need a fresh horse’ he said brusquely. (He had the impression that the innkeeper breathed a sigh of relief.) ‘I just need to eat, because the road really did me in. Got something in that pot of yours?’

  ‘There's a bit of soup left, I'll bring it right away, have a seat. Will you be staying with us tonight? It's already getting dark.’

  Aplegatt thought for a moment. Two days earlier he had met Hansom, a messenger he knew, and as per the usual orders, they exchanged missions. Hansom was carrying letters and a message for king Demavend, and he took off at great speed through Temeria and Mahakam, towards Vengerberg. As for Aplegatt, having taken the mail for king Vizimir of Redania, he continued towards Oxenfurt and Tretogor. He still had more than three hundred miles to cover.

  ‘I'll eat and then I'll be on my way’, he decided. ‘It's a full moon, and the road is clear enough’.

  ‘Your choice’.

  The soup he was served was thin and had little flavour, but the messenger didn't notice such details. At home, he savoured his wife's cooking; at work, he ate what he was given. He ingested his meagre meal slowly, holding his spoon rather awkwardly with fingers still stiff from holding the reins.

  A cat who had been dozing on the bench near the stove raised its head suddenly and hissed.

  ‘King's messenger?’

  Aplegatt shuddered. The question came from the man who had only a moment before been sitting in shadow; now suddenly close to the messenger. His hair was white as milk, plastered to his forehead by a leather headband, and we wore a black jacket covered in silver studs, as well as heavy boots. Above his right shoulder shone the pommel of his sword which he wore across his back.

  ‘Where does your road take you?’

  ‘Wherever the royal will takes me’, replied Aplegatt coldly.

  He never answered such questions any differently.

  The man with the white hair was quiet for a while; watching the messenger intently. His face was abnormally pale with strangely dark eyes.

  ‘The royal will’, he said finally, his voice unpleasant, a bit hoarse, ‘probably orders you to make haste. You are no doubt anxious to be on your way.’

  ‘And how does that concern you? Who are you to rush me?’

  ‘I'm nobody’, said the man with the white h
air with a horrible smile. ‘And I'm not rushing you. But if I were you, I'd get out of here as quickly as possible. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you.’

  For such statements, Aplegatt had another well worn reply. Short and sweet. Calm and composed, but leaving no doubt by whom a royal messenger was employed and the punishment which met anyone daring to touch even a single hair on his head. But something in the man with the white hair's voice convinced Aplegatt not to use that reply.

  ‘I've got to let my horse rest a bit, sir. An hour, maybe two.’

  ‘I understand’. The man with the white hair nodded, then turned his head as if to listen to something outside. Aplegatt listened too, but all he could hear were the crickets. ‘Rest then’, said the man with the white hair as he adjusted the belt of his scabbard which crossed his chest. ‘But don't go out into the yard. No matter what happens, don't go outside.’

  Aplegatt refrained from asking any questions. He knew instinctively that it was best not to. He leaned over his bowl and continued fishing for the few pieces of ham floating on the surface of his soup. When he looked up again, the man with the white hair was gone.

  A moment later, there was the neighing of a horse and the hammering of horseshoes in the yard.

  Three men entered the inn. When he saw them, the innkeeper began feverishly wiping his tankard. The woman with the nursling moved closer to her husband who was dozing and woke him with a jab of her elbow. Discretely, Aplegatt moved the stool where he had set his belt and knife closer to him.