The Sword of Destiny

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  Geralt didn't add that the current situation could also be down to those actually driving the wagon, because the joke, although well known, wasn't funny to everyone.

  ‘Every new governor,’ continued Herbolth, warming up, ‘starts by getting rid of all the chief magistrates and aldermen and replacing them with friends and relatives. But after what The Cicada did to the envoy of one of the governors, nobody has dared to replace me and I'm the longest serving alderman from the oldest regime, so old, even I don't recall which. But here we are, chatting away and polishing peanuts, as my first wife used to say, may she rest in peace. Let's get to the point. What kind of creature crept into our dump?’

  ‘A zeugl.’

  ‘I've never heard of such a creature. I suppose it's dead?’

  ‘Yes, it's dead.’

  ‘And how much is it going to cost the municipal fund? Seventy?’

  ‘One hundred.’

  ‘Well, well, Sir Witcher! I think you've been at the henbane! One hundred marks for killing a foul worm living in a shit heap?

  ‘Worm or not, alderman, it devoured eight people, as you told me yourself.’

  ‘People? Good one! The monster, as I told you, ate old Hylaste, who had famously never been sober, an old woman from the suburbs and some of Sulirad the Rafter's children. We didn't even know how many straight away, because even Sulirad doesn't know how many children he has. He makes them at such a rate, he doesn't have time to count them. Some people! Eighty.’

  ‘If I hadn't killed the zeugl, it would have eventually eaten somebody more important. The apothecary, say. Where would you buy your chancre ointment? One hundred.’

  ‘One hundred marks is a lot of money. I don't know if I'd give you that much for a nine-headed hydra. Eighty five.’

  ‘A hundred, Lord Herbolth. It may not have been a nine-headed hydra, but nobody here, including the famous Cicada, was able to handle the zeugl.’

  ‘Because nobody here wanted to go wading through trash and manure. My final offer: ninety.’

  ‘One hundred.’

  ‘Ninety five, by all the demons and devils!’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Well.’ Herbolth smiled broadly. ‘That's settled. Do you always barter so wonderfully, witcher?’

  ‘No.’ Geralt did not smile. ‘It's quite rare. I just wanted to impress you, alderman.’

  ‘That you did and may the plague take you,’ laughed Herbolth. ‘Hey, Peregrine! Come here! Bring me the ledger and a purse and count out ninety marks for me.’

  ‘We agreed on ninety five.’

  ‘What about tax?’

  The witcher cursed softly. The alderman signed the receipt with a flourish, then scratched his ear with the end of the quill.

  ‘I hope that the dump is safe now. Eh, witcher?

  ‘It should be. There was only one zeugl. Although it's possible that it reproduced. Zeugls are hermaphrodites, like snails.’

  ‘Now what are you saying?’ Herbolth looked at him with narrowed eyes. ‘Reproduction takes two: a male and a female. Is it possible for zeugls to multiply like fleas or mice in a rotten straw mattress? Every idiot knows there are no male and female mice; they are all identical and just hatch by themselves from the rotten straw.’

  ‘And snails hatch from damp leaves,’ added the secretary, Peregrine, still busy placing the coins in piles.

  ‘Indeed, everybody knows,’ Geralt agreed, smiling reassuringly. ‘That there are no male or female snails. There are only snails and leaves. And anyone who says otherwise is wrong.’

  ‘Enough,’ the alderman cut in, eyeing him suspiciously. ‘No more about bugs. I want to know if there's still something dangerous in the dump, and please have the courtesy reply plainly and succinctly.’

  ‘In a month or so, you'll have to search the dump again, preferably with dogs. Young zeugls are not very dangerous.’

  ‘Can't you do that, witcher? We can discuss prices.’

  ‘No.’ Geralt took the money from Peregrine. ‘I have no intention of staying in your lovely town for a week, never mind a month.’

  ‘It's interesting that you should say that.’ Herbolth smiled wryly, looking him in the eye. ‘Very interesting, in fact. Because I think you're going to stay here longer.’

  ‘You think wrongly, alderman.’

  ‘Really? You came here with that dark-haired sorceress, I've forgotten her name… Guinevere, I think. You stayed with her at The Sturgeon. They say in the same room.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Whenever she visits Aedd Gynvael, she does not leave too quickly. And she's been here many times before.’

  Peregrine smiled significantly; a wide, toothless grin. Herbolth still met Geralt's eyes, unsmiling. Geralt smiled as threateningly as he could.

  ‘Anyway, what do I know?’ The alderman looked away and dug a heel into the ground. ‘And I don't give a shit. But just so you know, the wizard Istredd is a very important person. He is irreplaceable in this town, priceless, I might say. He is respected by all, locals and outsiders too. We don't stick our noses into his business, magical or otherwise.’

  ‘Perhaps rightly so,’ agreed the witcher. ‘Where does he live, if I may ask?’

  ‘Don't you know? It's right here. Do you see that house? The tall, white one between the warehouse and the armoury, standing up like a candle stuck in an arse. But you won't find him there now. Istredd recently unearthed something next to the south wall and is currently digging around there like a mole. So many people were milling around the excavation site, that I went to take a look. I politely asked him: 'Why, sir, are you digging in the ground like a small child?' and everybody started to laugh, 'What's hidden there, in the ground?' He looked at me as if I were a beggar and said: 'History.' 'What history is that, then?' I asked, and he replied: 'The history of mankind. Answers to questions. The answer to what was and what shall be.' 'There was only a pile of shit here before the town was built,' said I, 'fallow land, shrubs and werewolves. And what will be depends on who is next governor appointed by the administration of Rakverelin - another mangy half-elf, I fear. The earth holds no answers, only worms.' Do you think he listened? He's still there, still digging. If you want to see him, go to the south wall.’

  ‘Oh, Lord Alderman,’ Peregrine snorted. ‘He's at home now. He doesn't care about the excavations now that…’

  Herbolth looked at him menacingly. Peregrine turned away and coughed, shifting from one foot to the other. The witcher continued to smile forcedly, crossing his arms over his chest.

  ‘Yes, ahem, ahem.’ The alderman cleared his throat. ‘Who knows, maybe Istredd has returned home now. What's it to me, anyway?’

  ‘Take care of yourself, alderman,’ said Geralt, not bothering with the pretence of a bow. ‘I wish you a good day.’

  He returned to The Cicada, who met him with a clinking of weaponry. Without a word, the witcher reached for his sword which The Cicada held in the crook of his elbow. The Cicada stood back.

  ‘In a hurry, witcher?’

  ‘Yes, I'm in a hurry.’

  ‘I took a look at your sword.’

  Geralt threw him a look that could never have been considered warm.

  ‘That's something to boast about,’ nodded the witcher. ‘Few have seen it. Even fewer are able to talk about it.’

  ‘Ho, ho!’ The Cicada grinned. ‘That sounded so much like a threat, I've got goosebumps. I've always been curious, witcher, why people are so afraid of you. Now I think I know why.’

  ‘I'm in a hurry, Cicada. Give me my sword, if you please.’

  ‘Smoke in the eyes, witcher, nothing but smoke in the eyes. You confound people like a beekeeper smokes out bees with your stone-like faces, your bravado and your reputation - likely contrived by yourselves. The bees stupidly flee the smoke rather than stinging you in the arse, which would swell up just like any other's. They say that you don't feel like humans do. Nonsense. If any one of you got a good jab, you'd feel it.’

  ‘Finished?’
>
  ‘Yes,’ said The Cicada as he gave the witcher his sword. ‘Do you know what intrigues me, witcher?’

  ‘Yes. Bees.’

  ‘No. I wonder, if you came walking down an alley, armed with your sword, from one direction and me from the other, which of us would reach the end of the street? It's something, in my opinion, worthy of a bet.’

  ‘Why are you pestering me, Cicada? Are you looking for a fight? Is that what you want?’

  ‘Not especially. I'm just curious to see if there's any truth to what people say. That you witchers are so good in battle because you have no heart, no soul, no mercy and no conscience. Is that all? Because they say exactly the same things about me. And not without reason. So I'm terribly curious to know which of us two that entered that alley would come out alive. Huh? Is it worth a bet? What do you think?’

  ‘I told you that I'm in a hurry. I won't waste time splitting hairs. I'm not a gambling man, but if it ever occurs to you to get in my way while I'm walking down an alley, I strongly recommend that you think again.’

  ‘Smoke.’ The Cicada smiled, ‘Smoke in the eyes and nothing more. See you later, witcher; who knows, maybe in an alley somewhere?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  IV

  ‘Here we can talk freely. Sit down, Geralt.’

  The most striking thing about the studio was the impressive number of books that occupied the vast interior. Thick tomes filled the libraries that lined the walls, bowing the shelves and piled up on cupboards and chests. The witcher assessed that they must have cost a fortune. There was certainly no lack of other common elements of decor: a stuffed crocodile, a dried porcupine fish hanging from the ceiling, a dusty skeleton, an imposing collection of bottles filled with alcohol that contained every beast imaginable: centipedes, spiders, snakes, toads and countless human and non-human samples, mostly internal organs. There was even a homunculus, or something that resembled a homunculus; it could just as easily have been a preserved foetus.

  Geralt wasn't particularly impressed with the collection. He had lived at Yennefer's house in Vengerberg for six months and she possessed an even more interesting collection, including a phallus of unprecedented proportions, apparently from a mountain troll. She also had a magnificent stuffed unicorn, upon whose back she liked to make love. Geralt was of the opinion that the only place even less suited for lovemaking would be the back of a live unicorn. In contrast to the witcher, who considered a bed a luxury and valued all possible applications such a wonderful piece of furniture offered, Yennefer was wildly inventive. Geralt recalled pleasant moments spent with the sorceress on the slope of a roof, in the hollow of a dead tree, on the balcony, and those of others, the railing of a bridge, a canoe, rocking unsteadily on a rushing stream and lastly while levitating thirty fathoms above the ground. But worst of all was the unicorn. One happy day, however, the thing collapsed beneath them. It ripped open and broke into pieces, causing the pair to burst into wild laughter.

  ‘What amuses you so, witcher?’ Istredd asked, sitting behind a long table upon which rested a large number of rotting skulls, bones and rusty iron pots.

  ‘Every time I see stuff like this,’ the witcher sat opposite, indicating to the bottles and jars, ‘I wonder to myself whether it's possible to practice magic without the use of such monstrosities, considering the sight of them turns the stomach.’

  ‘It's a matter of taste,’ said the sorcerer, ‘And tradition. What's repugnant to some, doesn't affect others in the same way. And you, Geralt, what disgusts you? I'm curious to know what is considered repugnant by someone who, so I've heard, is able to wade neck deep through filth and garbage if the price is right. Please don't take this question as an insult or provocation. I'm genuinely curious to know what can provoke a feeling of disgust in a witcher.’

  ‘Didn't I happen to hear that you keep a jar containing the menstrual blood of a maiden, Istredd? It disgusts me to picture you, a professional magician, bottle in hand, on your knees, trying to collect this precious liquid - drop by drop - from the source, so to speak.’

  ‘Good one.’ Istredd smiled. ‘I speak, of course, of your incisive wit, because you're not right about the contents of the vial.’

  ‘But sometimes you need to use blood, right? Certain spells, or so I've heard, you can't even begin without the blood of a virgin; all the better if she was killed by a bolt of lightning on a cloudless night. I'm just curious, what makes it better than that of an old prostitute who fell off a wall while drunk?’

  ‘Nothing,’ agreed the magician, a friendly smile on his lips. ‘But if it gets out that the blood of a pig works just as well, considering how much easier it is to get, the riffraff would start experimenting with sorcery. But if the rabble has to collect the blood of the maiden that interests you so much, or dragon's tears, tarantula venom, broth made with the severed hands of a newborn or a corpse exhumed at midnight, most of them will think twice about such an enterprise.’

  They were silent for a moment. Istredd, giving the impression of being deeply absorbed in his thoughts, tapped his fingernails on a cracked skull, browned and missing the lower jaw, which lay before him. His finger traced the jagged edge of the hole that started at the temporal bone. Geralt looked at him discretely. He wondered how old the sorcerer was. He knew that the most talented magicians were able to stop the aging process permanently at their desired age. Men, by reason of reputation and prestige, preferred an age of advanced maturity, suggesting wisdom and experience. Women, such as Yennefer, cared less about prestige and more about attractiveness. Istredd was in the prime of life and did not seem to be more than forty. He had straight, slightly greying hair that fell to his shoulders and many small wrinkles on his forehead, around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. Geralt did not know if the depth and wisdom in those gentle grey eyes was natural or caused by a spell. After a while, he came to the conclusion that he didn't give a damn.

  ‘Istredd,’ he interrupted the awkward silence. ‘I came here because I wanted to see Yennefer. Although she's not here, you invited me in. To talk. About what? How the riffraff are trying to break your monopoly on the use of magic? I know that you count me as part of this rabble. It's nothing new to me. For a moment, I had the impression that you were going to be different from your colleagues who have often struck up a conversation with me for the sole purpose of expressing how much they don't like me.’

  ‘I will not apologise for my, as you say, colleagues,’ said the magician calmly, ‘I understand them, because, like them, I had to work hard to master the magical arts. When I was just a boy and all my peers were running through the fields with bows and arrows, fishing or playing leapfrog, I pored over manuscripts. The bitter cold from the stony floors of the tower froze my bones and joints. That was in the summer; in the winter it cracked my tooth enamel as well. The dust from the old books and scrolls made my cough until tears came to my eyes, and my teacher, old Roedskilde, never missed an opportunity to take his whip to my back, apparently when I was not making enough progress in my studies. I didn't get to fight, or chase girls or drink beer during the years when such diversions are best appreciated.’

  ‘Poor thing,’ replied the witcher with a frown. ‘Indeed, it brings tears even to my eyes.’

  ‘Why the sarcasm? I'm trying to explain to you why magicians don't like shamen, enchanters, healers, witches and witchers. Call it want you want, even simple jealousy, but here lies the reason for antipathy. It bothers us when we see magic, an art we were taught to regard as a gift to the adept, a privilege of the elite and the most sacred mystery of all, fall into the hands of the inferior and the lay practitioner. Even if the magic in question is incompetent, wretched and ridiculous. That is why my colleagues don't like you. I don't like you, either.’

  Geralt was sick and tired of this conversation, so much so that a growing feeling of unease crawled like a snail across the back of his neck and down his spine. He look straight into Istredd's eyes and gripped the edge of the table with the tips of
his fingers.

  ‘This is about Yennefer, isn't it?’

  The sorcerer raised his head, still lightly tapping his fingers on the skull lying on the table.

  ‘Bravo for your insight,’ he said, holding the witcher's gaze. ‘Please accept my congratulations. Yes, this is about Yennefer.’

  Geralt fell silent. Once, long ago, many, many years ago, while still a young witcher, he was waiting to ambush a manticore. He felt the manticore approaching. He could not see it or hear it, but that feeling; he could never forget that feeling. And now he felt exactly the same.

  ‘Your insight,’ said the wizard, ‘saves a lot of time that otherwise would have been spent beating around the bush. So now the matter is out in the open.’

  Geralt did not respond.

  ‘My deep friendship with Yennefer,’ continued Istredd, ‘started quite some time ago, witcher. It has long been a friendship without obligations, based on long or short, but more or less regular, periods spent with one another. This type of casual relationship is often practiced amongst our profession. It's just that it's suddenly not enough for me. I decided to propose that she remain with me permanently.’