Vascoigne sweepingly signed the report, then stamped it and called the messenger.
The contents of the report were known to Dijkstra the same evening. Philippa Eilhart knew the next day at noon.
When the horse carrying the witcher and Dandelion emerged from the alders, Milva and Cahir were very nervous. They had recently been hearing the sounds of battle carried along the waters of the Ina.
While helping lower the port from the saddle, Milva saw Geralt tense at the sight of the Nilfgaardian. She did not get to say a word to the witcher, as Dandelion moaned desperately and slid through her hands. They laid him in the sand, putting a coat under his head wound. Milva was about to remove the blood soaked bandages when she felt a hand on her shoulder and smelled the familiar scent of wormwood, anise and other herbs. Regis, as was his custom, appeared out of nowhere and no one knew how.
‘Allow me,’ he said, pulling utensils and medical instruments from his cavernous bag. ‘I’ll take care of him.’
When the surgeon removed the bandages from the wound, Dandelion moaned in pain.
‘Easy,’ Regis said, washing the wound. ‘This is nothing. Just a little blood. Just a little blood… Your blood smells good, poet.’
Just then the witcher behaved in a way that Milva did not expect. He went to the hose and pulled from a sheath under the saddle a long sword.
‘Get away from him,’ he snapped, standing next to the surgeon.
‘The blood smells good,’ Regis repeated without looking at the witcher, ‘I do not smell an infection, which in the case of a wound in the head could be fatal. The arteries and veins have not been affected… Now I need to cut you.’
Dandelion wailed and gasped violently. The sword in the witcher’s hand quivered, the light reflecting from the river flashed across its surface.
‘I will give you a few stitches,’ Regis said, still not paying any attention to the witcher or his sword. ‘Be brave, Dandelion.’
Dandelion was courageous.
‘I’m finished,’ Regis finished his treatment. ‘Between now and the wedding, as they say, you’ll heal. A wound is perfect for a poet, Dandelion. You will walk as a war hero with a big bandage on his head and the heart of the girls who look at you will melt like wax. Yes, truly a poetic wound. Not like an arrow in the belly. The liver destroyed, the kidneys and intestines cut up, feces spilling out, infection of the peritoneum… Well, you’re done. Geralt, I’m at your disposal.’
He stood up and the witcher placed his sword on his neck. With a movement that was too fast for the eye to follow.
‘Step back,’ Geralt growled at Milva. Regis did not tremble even though the sword was gently resting on the skin of his neck. The archer gasped when she saw how the surgeon’s eyes gleamed in the darkness, with a cat’s light.
‘Well, go on,’ Regis said calmly. ‘Push.’
‘Geralt,’ Dandelion moaned from the floor, fully conscious, ‘Are you crazy? He saved us from the gallows… He healed my head…’
‘He saved us and that girl in the camp.’ Milva gently reminded him.
‘Be silent. You do not know who he is.’
The surgeon did not move. Milva suddenly saw with horror what she should have seen long ago.
Regis did not cast a shadow.
‘True,’ he said slowly. ‘You do not know who I am. And it is time for you to know. My name is Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy. I have lived in this world for four hundred and twenty-eight years according to you humans, six hundred and forty-two years according to the calculations of the elves. I am a descendant of the survivors, hapless creatures trapped among you after the disaster, which you call the Conjunction of the Spheres. I am considered, to put it mildly, a monster. A horrible bloodsucker. And now I have stumbled upon a witcher, a professional whose job it is to eliminate those like me. That’s all.’
‘That’s enough,’ Geralt lowered his sword. ‘Get up. Get out of here, Emiel Regis and who knows what else. Goodbye.’
‘Unbelievable,’ Regis taunted. ‘Will you let me go? Me, who is a threat to humans? The witcher should take every opportunity to eliminate such hazards.’
‘Get up. Go away, quickly.’
‘And what faraway place shall I go?’ Regis asked slowly. ‘In the end, you are a witcher. You know about me. When you have dealt with your problem now, when you have settled what you have to do, you will surely return here. You know where I live, where I’m going, what I do. You will track me down to?’
‘I cannot exclude it. If there is a reward. I am a witcher.’
‘I wish you luck.’ Regis tied his bag and unrolled his cloak. ‘Goodbye. Ah, one more thing. How high would the reward be on my head for you to trouble yourself with me? How much am I worth?’
‘Bloody high.’
‘Indulge my vanity. How much exactly?’
‘Fuck off, Regis.’
‘Of course. But before that, my valuation, please.’
‘An ordinary vampire I would look at the equivalent of a good horse and saddle. But you are no ordinary vampire.’
‘How much?’
‘I doubt,’ The witcher’s voice was cold as ice. ‘I doubt anyone could afford it.’
‘I understand and thank you,’ the vampire smiled, this time revealing his teeth. At the sight of them, Milva and Cahir drew back, and Dandelion stifled a scream of terror.
‘Farewell and good luck.’
‘Goodbye, Regis. Same to you.’
Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy snapped his cloak, wrapped it around himself and disappeared. Simply disappeared.
‘Now,’ Geralt turned naked sword still in his hand, ‘it’s your turn, Nilfgaardian…’
‘No,’ Milva interrupted angrily. ‘I’ve had enough. Get the horses, and let’s get out of here! Sounds carry down the river, before we know it we’ll have enemies on our neck.’
‘I will not go with him.’
‘Then go alone!’ She shouted angrily, in earnest. ‘In another direction! I have had enough of your moods, witcher! Regis was expelled, even though he saved your lives, but that’s your business. But Cahir saved my life. But if we are your enemies, then go back to Armeria. Your friends are waiting there with a noose!’
‘Don’t shout.’
‘So don’t stand there like a post. Help me get Dandelion on the gelding.’
‘You saved our horses? Roach as well?’
‘He saved them,’ she nodded at Cahir. ‘We’re going.’
They crossed over the Ina. They rode along the right bank, alongside the river, through shallow backwaters and old river beds overrun with willows, through meadows and wetlands reverberating with the croaking of frogs, the cries of invisible ducks and cicadas. The day broke with a red sun, which shone blindingly off of the water lily covered lakes; they turned towards the spot where one of the many branches of the Ina flowed into the Yaruga. The now rode through the dark gloomy forests, where the trees grew directly from the duckweed from the green marshes.
Milva rode at the head, next to the witcher, all the while telling him in a low voice of her story of Cahir. Geralt was silent as a mute; he never once looked back, never once laid eyes on the Nilfgaardian, whose was bringing up the rear, helping the troubadour. Dandelion moaned and cursed, complaining of a headache, but held up bravely and did not inhibit the procession. The recovery of Pegasus and the lute strapped to his saddle had significantly improved his mood.
At around noon they came back to a sunny meadow behind which they could see the wide floodplain of the Great Yaruga. They crossed the old riverbed, across sandbars and shoals. And they came to an island, a dry place between the swamps and thickets surrounded by numerous branches of the river. The island was full of bushes and covered in reeds, trees also grew there, bare, dry and covered in white droppings of cormorants.
Milva was the first to see the boat among the reeds which must have been brought there by the current. She spotted a clearing among the willows, suitable for a pasture for the hor
ses.
They stopped and the witcher decided it was about time to talk to the Nilfgaardian. In private.
‘I gave you your life at Thanedd. I felt sorry for you, kid. That was the biggest mistake of my life. This morning I let a higher vampire get away from my sword, who surely has on his conscience many human lives. I should have killed him. I am only interested in one thing: to get at the skins of those who have hurt Ciri. I vowed to myself that those who have hurt her will pay for it with their blood.’
Cahir remained silent.
‘Your revelation, which Milva told me about, does not change anything. They only show one thing: At Thanedd you had not managed to kidnap Ciri, although you tried hard. So now you trail behind me, hoping that I will lead you to her again. So you can put your claws in her and take her back to your Emperor and hope that he forgives you and doesn’t send you to the gallows.’
Cahir remained silent. Geralt felt bad. Very bad.
‘Because of you she would wake screaming in the night. To her childish eyes you became a nightmare. And yet, you were only a tool, just a poor lackey of your emperor. I don’t know what you have done to become a nightmare to her. The worst thing is, I do not understand why, despite everything I can not kill you. I do not understand what stops me.’
‘It may be,’ Cahir said quietly, ‘that against all appearances, we have something in common, you and me?
‘I wonder what’
‘Like you, I want to save Ciri. Like you, I do not care if this is odd and surprises people. Like you, I have no intention of telling anyone my reasons.’
‘Is that all?’
‘No.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Ciri,’ the Nilfgaardian started slowly, ‘is on horseback riding through a dusty village, with six young people. Among these people is a girl with short-cut hair. Ciri dances in a shed on a table and is happy...’
‘Milva told you my dreams.’
‘No. She did not tell me anything. You do not believe me?’
‘No.’
Cahir bowed his head and a scuffed his heel in the sand.
‘I forgot,’ he said, ‘that you cannot believe m, you don’t have to trust me. I understand that. But you dreamed, like me, this dream. A dream that you have not told anyone. Because I doubt that you would want to tell anyone.’
You could say that Servadio was simply lucky. He came to Loredo with no intention of spying on anyone in particular. But the village was not called the Bandit’s Lair for no reason. Loredo lay along the bandit trail, brigands and thieves from all along the upper Velda area, met here to sell or exchange their spoils, get supplies, rest and play in the company of bandits. The village had been burned several times, but a few of the permanent inhabitants and numerous newcomers continued to rebuild it. They lived off of the bandits, and also lived comfortably. So the spies and informers like Servadio always had the possibility of obtaining some information in Loredo that was worth a few florins from the Prefect.
Now Servadio was counting on more than a few. Because entering the village, were the Rats.
Giselher led, flanked by Spark and Kayleigh. Behind them rose Mistle and this new girl, called Falka, Reef and Asse closed the procession, leading spare horses, likely stolen and had to be sold here. They were tired and dusty, but they kept straight in their saddles, responding enthusiastically to the greetings of comrades and acquaintances that were staying in Loredo. They sprang from their horses, were offered beer, and immediately proceeded to negotiate with noisy traders and buyers of stolen goods. All but Mistle and the new gray-haired girl, wearing a sword strapped across her back. These two went among the stalls that as usual, filled the square. Loredo had it market days, when the goods from the bandits were particularly rich and diverse. Today was such a day.
Servadio carefully followed the girls. To make money, he had to gain information and to gain information he had to listen.
The girls examined the colorful scarves, corals, as well as embroidered blouses, Saddle bags, and ordinate trappings for horses. They looked at the goods, but did not buy anything. Almost the whole time, Mistle held the hand of the gray-haired girl.
The spy cautiously moved closer, pretending to examine straps and belts at a saddlers stall. The girls talked, but quietly, he could not catch any of the word, but was afraid to move any closer. If might note him and become suspicious.
One of the stalls was selling cotton candy. The young girls approached it. Mistle bought two stick wrapped in snowy sweetness and gave one to the gray-haired girl. She delicately nibbled. The white flacks stuck to her lips. Mistle wiped them off with gentle movements and careful treatment. The gray-haired ones emerald eyes widened, she slowly licked her lips, smiled and shook her head mockingly. Servadio felt a chill, a cold stream of sweat ran down his neck between his shoulder blades. He recalled the rumors circulation about the two bandits.
He was intended to withdraw in secret, it was clear that he would not be able to hear or learn anything. The girls were not talking about anything important, while not far away, where the elders of the gang gathered, Giselher, Kayleigh and the others argued noisily, bargained, shouted, again and again putting their cups under the tap of the keg. With them, Servadio was more likely to learn something important. Any of the Rats could shed a word, or even a sentence, that could betray future plans of the gang, their routes or destinations. If he could hear something and transmit the news in time to the soldiers of the Prefect or Nilfgaardian agents, who were keenly interested in the Rats, the reward would be practically in his pocket. And if on the basis of the information the Prefect managed to organize a successful ambush, Servadio could count on a substantial influx of cash. I’ll buy my wife a coat, he thought feverishly, I can finally buy the children some shoes and toys... And I...
The girls were walking along the stalls, licking and nibbling sticks of cotton candy. Servadio suddenly realized that they were being watched. And having fingers pointed at them. He knew that the pointing fingers belonged to thieves and cattle rustlers of the Pinto gang.
The thieves yelled several obscene remarks and laughed defiantly. Mistle narrowed her eyes and put her hand on shoulder of the gray-haired girl.
‘Come on sister!’ bellowed one of the thieves with a moustache that looked like a bunch of tow. ‘Come closer and give us a kiss!’
Servadio saw the gray-haired one trembling and saw Mistle tighten her fingers on her shoulder. The thieves laughed in chorus. Mistle turned slowly; some of them stopped laughing immediately. But the one with the moustache was too drunk or completely devoid of sense.
‘Do any of you wretched sluts need a man?’ He walked closer performing disgusting and unambiguous gestures, ‘Believe me, the best thing to do is to have a good fuck and in a flash those perversion are gone. Hey! I’m talking to you...’
He never managed to touch them. The girl with the gray hair struck like a snake on the attack, her sword had been drawn and struck before the cotton candy had hit the floor. The thief with the moustache staggered about, blood spurting from the cut in his neck in a long stream.
The girl reached out again caught up in the two-step dance, struck again, a wave of blood splattered the stalls, the body fell to the floor, the sand around him turned red immediately. Someone screamed. The second thief bent down and drew a knife from his boot, but at the same time was felled by Giselher with the blunt shaft of a lance.
‘One corpse is enough!’ the leader of the Rats shouted. ‘This man alone is to blame, he did not know who he messed with! Back off, Falka!’
The gray haired one finally lowered her sword. Giselher raised a purse and shook it.
‘According to the laws of our brotherhood, I will pay for the dead. Honestly, by weight, A thaler for each pound of his disgusting body. And that is the end of the row! Am I right, comrades? Hey, Pinto, what do you say?’
Spark, Kayleigh, Asse and Reef stood behind their leader. Their faces were like stone and their hands were on the hilts of their sw
ords.
‘Honestly,’ said one of the bandits of the Pinto, a short man with bowed legs wearing a leather jacket. ‘You speak truly, Giselher. End of row.’
Servadio swallowed hard, trying to melt into the crowd surrounding the incident. Suddenly he felt no desire to walk around near the Rats or near the girl with the ash colored hair, called Falka. He suddenly realized that the reward offered by the Prefect was not as high as he thought.
Falka quietly slid the sword into its sheath while looking around. Servadio was amazed when he saw her tiny face suddenly change.
‘My cotton candy,’ cried the girl, looking at the candy lying in the sand. ‘I dropped my cotton candy...’
Mistle hugged her.
‘I’ll buy you another.’
The Witcher was sitting on the sand among the reeds, sullen, angry and pensive. He watched the cormorants sitting withered in a tree.
Cahir, after the talk, disappeared into the bushes and did not come back. Milva and Dandelion were looking for something to eat. Inside the boat they had found under the seats a copper saucepan and a basket of vegetables. They made a trap out of wicker found in the boat and waded around the shore with sticks beating the seaweed, trying to propel the fish into the trap. The poet was feeling better already and walked with his head bandaged heroically, proud as a peacock.
The Witcher was thoughtful and angry.
Dandelion and Milva pulled the wicker trap from the water and started to curse, because instead of carp, they had caught little fish among the weeds.
The Witcher stood.
‘Come here you two! Leave the casket and come here. I have something to say.’
‘Go home,’ he began bluntly when they came over wet and reeking of fish. ‘To the north, towards Mahakam. I will continue alone.’
‘What?’
‘Our paths diverge, Dandelion. Enough of these games. Go home and write songs. Milva will lead you through the woods... What is it?’
‘Nothing.’ Milva brushed her hair from her shoulders. ‘Nothing. Speak, witcher. I want to know what else you have to say.’
Baptism of Fire Page 23
