“Own up, Addario. You made up that story. Or greatly embellished it.”
“Why the suspicion?”
“Because I often keep company with a certain poet. And he, when he has to choose between the real version of an event and a more attractive one, always chooses the latter, which he moreover embroiders. Regarding that, he laughs off all accusations using sophistry, saying that if something isn’t truthful it doesn’t mean at all that it’s a lie.”
“Let me guess who the poet is. It’s Dandelion, of course. And a story has its own rules.”
“‘A story is a largely false account, of largely trivial events, fed to us by historians who are largely idiots,’” smiled the Witcher.
“Let me also guess who the author of that quotation is.” Addario Bach grinned. “Vysogota of Corvo, philosopher and ethicist. And also a historian. However, regarding the prophet Lebioda … Why, history, as it’s been said before, is history. But I heard that in Novigrad the priests sometimes remove the prophet’s remains from its sarcophagus and give them to the faithful to be kissed. If I were there, however, I’d refrain from kissing them.”
“I shall too,” promised Geralt. “But as regards Novigrad, since we’re on the subject—”
“Be at ease,” interrupted the dwarf. “You won’t be late. We’ll rise early and go at once to Wiaterna. We’ll find a good deal and you’ll be in Novigrad on time.”
Let’s hope, thought the Witcher. Let’s hope.
People and animals belong to various species, while foxes live among people and animals. The quick and the dead wander along various roads, while foxes move between the quick and the dead. Deities and monsters march down various paths, while foxes walk between deities and monsters. The paths of the light and the darkness never join up or cross; vulpine ghosts lurk between them. The immortal and demons tread their own ways—vulpine ghosts are somewhere between.
Ji Yun, a scholar from the times of the Qing Dynasty
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A storm passed in the night.
After sleeping in a hay barn, they set off at dawn on a chilly, though sunny, morning. Keeping to the waymarked path, they passed through broadleaved woodland, peat bogs and marshy meadows. After an hour of heavy marching they reached some buildings.
“Wiaterna.” Addario Bach pointed. “This is the harbour I was telling you about.”
They arrived at the river, where a brisk wind fanned them. They stepped onto a wooden jetty. The river formed a broad water there as large as a lake and the current was scarcely perceptible, as it was flowing some way off. The branches of willows, osiers and alders on the bank hung down to the water. Waterfowl, emitting various sounds, were swimming all around: mallards, garganeys, pintails, divers and grebes. A little ship was gliding gracefully over the water, merging into the landscape without frightening the whole feathered rabble. It had a single mast, with one large sail astern and several triangular ones aft.
“Someone once rightly listed the three most beautiful sights in the world,” said Addario Bach, staring at the spectacle. “A ship in full sail, a galloping horse and you know … a naked woman lying in bed.”
“Dancing.” A faint smile played around the Witcher’s lips. “A woman dancing, Addario.”
“If you say so,” the dwarf agreed. “A naked woman dancing. And that little boat, ha, you have to admit, looks lovely on the water.”
“It’s not a little boat, it’s a little ship.”
“It’s a cutter,” a stout, middle-aged man in an elk-skin jerkin corrected him as he approached. “A cutter, gentlemen. Which can easily be seen from the rig. A large mainsail, a jib and two staysails on the forestays. Classic.”
The little ship—or cutter—sailed close enough to the jetty for them to admire the figurehead on the prow. The carving depicted a bald old man with an aquiline nose rather than the standard large-breasted woman, mermaid, dragon or sea serpent.
“Dammit,” Addario Bach grunted to himself. “Does the prophet have it in for us, or what?”
“A sixty-four-footer,” went on the elderly gentleman in a proud voice. “With a total sail area of three thousand three hundred square feet. That, gentlemen, is the Prophet Lebioda, a modern Koviran-type cutter, built in the Novigradian shipyard and launched almost a year ago.”
“You’re familiar with that craft, as we can see.” Addario Bach cleared his throat. “You know plenty about her.”
“I know everything about her, since I’m the owner. Do you see the ensign at the stern? There’s a glove on it. It’s my company’s emblem. If I may: I am Kevenard van Vliet, a merchant in the glove-making trade.”
“Delighted to make your acquaintance.” The dwarf shook his right hand, eyeing up the merchant astutely. “And we congratulate you on the little ship, for it is well-favoured and swift. It’s a wonder that it’s here, in Wiaterna, on the broad water, away from the main Pontarian shipping lanes. It’s also a wonder that the ship’s on the water and you, its owner, are on the land, in the middle of nowhere. Is anything the matter?”
“Oh, no, no, nothing the matter,” said the glove merchant, in Geralt’s opinion too quickly and too emphatically. “We’re taking on provisions here, nothing more. And in the middle of nowhere, oh well, cruel necessity rather than our wishes has brought us here. For when you are hastening to rescue someone you don’t pay heed to the route you take. And our rescue mission—”
“Let’s not go into details, Mr. van Vliet, sir,” interrupted one of a group of characters whose steps made the jetty suddenly tremble as they came closer. “I don’t think that interests the gentlemen. Nor ought it to.”
Five characters had stepped onto the jetty from the direction of the village. The one who had spoken, wearing a straw hat, was conspicuous by his well-defined jaw with several days’ stubble and large protruding chin. His chin had a cleft, owing to which it looked like a miniature arse. He was accompanied by a tall bruiser, a veritable giant, although from his face and expression he was by no means a moron. The third—stocky and weather-beaten—was every inch a sailor, down to the woollen cap and earring. The other two, clearly deckhands, were lugging chests containing provisions.
“I don’t think,” continued the one with the cleft chin, “that these gentlemen, whoever they are, need know anything about us, what we’re doing, or about our other private affairs. These gentlemen certainly understand that no one has the right to know our private business, in particular total strangers who we’ve come across by accident—”
“Perhaps not total strangers,” interjected the giant. “Master Dwarf, I know you not, indeed, but this gentleman’s white hair betrays his identity. Geralt of Rivia, I believe? The Witcher? Am I not mistaken?”
I’m becoming popular, thought Geralt, folding his hands on his chest. Too popular. Should I dye my hair, perhaps? Or shave it off like Harlan Tzara?
“A witcher!” Kevenard van Vliet was clearly delighted. “A real witcher! What a stroke of luck! Noble gentlemen! Why he’s a veritable godsend!”
“The famous Geralt of Rivia!” repeated the giant. “What a stroke of luck that we’ve met him now, in our situation. He’ll help get us out of it—”
“You talk too much, Cobbin,” interrupted the one with the chin. “Too fast and too much.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Fysh?” snorted the glove-maker. “Can’t you see what a turn-up this is? The help of someone like a witcher—”
“Mr. van Vliet! Leave it to me. I have more experience in dealings with such as this one here.”
A silence fell, in which the character with the cleft chin eyed the Witcher up and down.
“Geralt of Rivia,” he finally said. “Vanquisher of monsters and supernatural creatures. A legendary vanquisher, I would say. If I believed in the legends, that is. And where are your celebrated witcher swords? I can’t seem to see them.”
“It’s no wonder you can’t see them,” replied Geralt. “Because they’re invisible. What, haven’t you heard the legends
about witcher swords? The uninitiated can’t see them. They appear when I utter a spell. When the need arises. If one arises. Because I’m capable of doing a lot of damage even without them.”
“I’ll take your word for it. I am Javil Fysh. I run a company in Novigrad offering various services. This is my partner, Petru Cobbin. And this is Mr. Pudlorak, captain of the Prophet Lebioda. And the honourable Kevenard van Vliet, whom you’ve already met, the owner of this little ship.
“I see, Witcher, that you’re standing on a jetty in the only settlement within a radius of twenty-odd miles,” Javil Fysh continued, looking around. “In order to get out of here and find civilised roads, one must tramp through forests. It looks to me like you’d prefer to sail from this wilderness, embarking on something that floats on water. And the Prophet is sailing to Novigrad this very moment. And can take on passengers. Like you and your companion dwarf. Does that suit you?”
“Go on, Mr. Fysh. I’m all ears.”
“Our ship, as you see, isn’t any old tub, you have to pay to sail on her, and a pretty penny. Don’t interrupt. Would you be prepared to take us under the protection of your invisible swords? We can pay for your valuable witcher services, meaning escorting us and protecting us during the voyage from here to the Novigradian port, as payment for the trip. What price, I wonder, do you put on your witcher services?”
Geralt looked at him.
“Including the price of getting to the bottom of this?”
“What?”
“There are tricks and catches concealed in your proposition,” Geralt said calmly. “If I have to find them myself, I’ll put a higher price on it. It’ll be cheaper if you decide to be honest.”
“Your mistrust arouses suspicion,” Fysh replied coldly. “Since swindlers forever sniff out deviousness. As it’s said: a guilty conscience needs no accuser. We wish to hire you as an escort. It’s rather a simple task, free of complications. What tricks could be hidden in it?”
“This whole escorting business is a tall story,” Geralt said, without lowering his gaze. “Thought up on the spot and patently obvious.”
“Is that what you think?”
“It is. Because my lord the glove merchant let slip something about a rescue expedition, and you, Mr. Fysh, are rudely silencing him. In no time, your associate will spill the beans about the situation you have to be extracted from. So, if I’m to co-operate, please leave out the fabrication. What kind of expedition is it and to whose rescue is it hastening? Why so secretive? What trouble do you need to get out of?”
“We shall explain it.” Fysh forestalled van Vliet. “We shall explain everything, my dear witcher—”
“But on board,” croaked Captain Pudlorak, who had been silent up to then. “There’s no point dallying any longer on this jetty. We have a favourable wind. Let’s sail, gentlemen.”
Once it had the wind in its sails, the Prophet Lebioda sped swiftly across the widely spread waters of the bay, holding a course for the main channel, dodging between islets. The lines rattled, the boom groaned, and the ensign with a glove flapped briskly on the flagpole.
Kevenard van Vliet kept his promise. No sooner had the cutter pushed off from the jetty in Wiaterna than he called Geralt and Addario to the bow and set about explaining.
“The expedition undertaken by us,” he began, constantly glancing at a sullen Fysh, “is aimed at freeing a kidnapped child. Xymena de Sepulveda, the only daughter of Briana de Sepulveda. That name rings a bell with you, no doubt. Fur tanneries, soaking and stitching workshops, and furrieries. Huge annual production, immense sums of money. If you ever see a lady in a gorgeous and expensive fur, it’s sure to be from her factory.”
“And it’s her daughter that was abducted. For a ransom?”
“Actually no. You won’t believe it, but … A monster seized the little girl. A she-fox. I mean a shape-changer. A vixen.”
“You’re right,” said the Witcher coldly. “I won’t. She-foxes or vixens, or more precisely aguaras, only abduct elven children.”
“That’s right, that’s absolutely right,” snapped Fysh. “Because although it’s an unprecedented thing, the furriery in Novigrad is run by a non-human. The mother, Breainne Diarbhail ap Muigh, is a pure-blooded she-elf. The widow of Jacob de Sepulveda, whose entire estate she inherited. The family didn’t manage to nullify the will, or declare the mixed marriage invalid, even though it’s against custom and divine law—”
“Get to the point,” interrupted Geralt. “Get to the point, please. You claim that this furrier, a pure-blood she-elf, charged you with recovering her kidnapped daughter?”
“You having us on?” Fysh scowled. “Trying to catch us out? You know very well that if a she-fox kidnaps an elven child they never try to recover it. They give up on it and forget it. They accept that it was fated to happen—”
“At first, Briana de Sepulveda also pretended,” Kevenard van Vliet butted in. “She despaired, but in the elven fashion, secretly. Outside: inscrutable, dry eyes … Va’esse deireádh aep eigean, va’esse eigh faidh’ar, she repeated, which in their tongue comes out as—”
“—something ends, something begins.”
“Indeed. But it’s nothing but stupid elf talk, nothing is ending, what is there to end? And why should it? Briana has lived among humans for many years, observing our laws and customs, and is only a non-human by blood; in her heart, she’s almost a human being. Elven beliefs and superstitions are powerful, I agree, and perhaps Briana is just feigning her composure to other elves, but it’s clear she secretly misses her daughter. She’d give anything to get her only daughter back, she-fox or no she-fox … Indeed, Lord Witcher, she asked for nothing, she didn’t expect help. Despite that we determined to help her, unable to look on her despair. The entire merchants’ guild clubbed together and funded the expedition. I offered the Prophet and my own participation, as did the merchant Mr. Parlaghy, whom you’ll soon meet. But since we’re businessmen and not thrill-seekers, we turned for help to the honourable Javil Fysh, known to us as a shrewd fellow and resourceful, unafraid of risk, adept in exacting matters, famous for his knowledge and experience …”
“The honourable Fysh, famous for his experience—” Geralt glanced at him “—neglected to inform you that the rescue expedition is pointless and was doomed to failure from the start. I see two explanations. Firstly: the honourable Fysh has no idea what he’s landing you in. Secondly, and more likely: the honourable Fysh has received a payment, sizeable enough to lead you around the middle of nowhere and return empty-handed.”
“You toss accusations around too eagerly!” With a gesture, Kevenard van Vliet held back Fysh, who was spoiling to give a furious rejoinder. “You also too hastily predict a failure. While we, merchants, always think positively …”
“You deserve credit for such thinking. But in this case it won’t help.”
“Why?”
“It’s impossible to recover a child kidnapped by an aguara,” explained Geralt calmly. “Absolutely impossible. And it’s not even that the child won’t be found owing to the fact that she-foxes lead extremely secretive lives. It’s not even that the aguara won’t let you take the child away; and it’s not an opponent to be trifled with in a fight, either in vulpine or human form. The point is that a kidnapped child ceases to be a child. Changes occur in little girls abducted by she-foxes. They metamorphosise and became she-foxes themselves. Aguaras don’t reproduce. They maintain the species by abducting and transforming elven children.”
“That vulpine species ought to perish.” Fysh finally had the floor. “All those shape-changing abominations ought to perish. It’s true that she-foxes seldom get in people’s way. They only kidnap elven pups and only harm elves, which is good in itself, for the more harm is done to non-humans, the greater the benefits for real folk. But she-foxes are monsters, and monsters should be exterminated, destroyed, should be wiped out as a race. You live from that, after all, Witcher, you contribute to it. And I hope you won’t bear us a grudg
e either that we’re contributing to the extermination of monsters. But, it seems to me, these digressions are in vain. You wanted explanations; you’ve got them. You know now what you’re being hired to do and against what … against what you have to defend us.”
“No offence, but your explanations are as foggy as urine from an infected bladder,” Geralt commented calmly. “And the loftiness of your expedition’s goal is as dubious as a maiden’s virginity after a village fête. But that’s your business. It’s my job to advise you that the only way to defend yourself against an aguara is to stay well away from it. Mr. van Vliet?”
“Yes?”
“Return home. The expedition is senseless, so it’s time to accept that and abandon it. That’s as much as I can advise you as a witcher. The advice is free.”
“But you won’t disembark, will you?” mumbled van Vliet, paling somewhat. “Lord Witcher? Will you stay with us? And were … And were something to happen, will you protect us? Please agree … by the Gods, please say yes …”
“He’ll agree, don’t worry,” snorted Fysh. “He’ll sail with us. For who else will get him out of this wilderness? Don’t panic, Mr. van Vliet. There’s nothing to fear.”
“Like hell there isn’t!” yelled the glove-maker. “That’s a good one! You got us into this mess, and now you’re playing the hero? I want to sail to Novigrad safe and sound. Someone must protect us, now that we’re in difficulties … When we’re in danger of—”
“We aren’t in any danger. Don’t fret like a woman. Go below decks like your companion Parlaghy. Drink some rum with him, then your courage will soon return.”
Kevenard van Vliet blushed, then blanched. Then met Geralt’s eyes.
“Enough fudging,” he said emphatically, but calmly. “Time to confess the truth. Master Witcher, we already have that young vixen. She’s in the afterpeak. Mr. Parlaghy’s guarding her.”
Geralt shook his head.
“That’s unbelievable. You snatched the furrier’s daughter from the aguara. Little Xymena?”
Season of Storms Page 20
