Season of Storms

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  “I know. But perhaps something will happen in the meantime. Something lucky, let’s say? After the streak of unfortunate incidents, we could do with a change.”

  “I don’t deny it. But if—”

  “I’ll think it over and make a decision.” Geralt didn’t let the bard finish. “Nothing in principle binds me to appear at the royal nuptials as his bodyguard: Egmund and the instigator didn’t recover my swords, and that was the condition. But I absolutely don’t rule out fulfilling the ducal wish. Material considerations—if nothing else—argue for it. The prince boasted he wouldn’t skimp on a penny. And everything suggests that I’ll be needing new swords, bespoke ones. And that will cost a great deal. What can I say? Let’s go and eat. And drink.”

  “To the Natura in Ravenga?”

  “Not today. Today I feel like simple, natural, uncomplicated and honest things. If you know what I mean.”

  “Of course, I do,” said Dandelion, standing up. “Let’s go down to the sea, to Palmyra. I know a place there. They serve herrings, vodka and soup made from a fish called the bighead carp. Don’t laugh! That really is its name!”

  “They can call themselves whatever they want. Let’s go.”

  The bridge over the Adalatte was blocked, for at that very moment a column of laden wagons and a troop of horsemen pulling riderless horses were passing over it. Geralt and Dandelion had to wait and step out of the way.

  A rider on a bay mare brought up the rear of the cavalcade. The mare tossed her head and greeted Geralt with a long-drawn-out neigh.

  “Roach!”

  “Greetings, Witcher,” said the horseman, removing his hood to reveal his face. “I was just coming to visit you. Although I hadn’t expected we’d bump into each other so soon.”

  “Greetings, Pinety.”

  Pinety dismounted. Geralt noticed he was armed. It was quite strange, since mages almost never bore arms. A sword in a richly decorated scabbard was hanging from the sorcerer’s brass-studded belt. There was also a dagger, solid and broad.

  He took Roach’s reins from the sorcerer and stroked the mare’s nostrils and mane. Pinety took off his gloves and stuck them into his belt.

  “Please forgive me, Master Dandelion,” he said, “but I’d like to be alone with Geralt. What I must say to him is meant for his ears only.”

  “Geralt has no secrets before me,” Dandelion said, puffing himself up.

  “I know. I learned many details of his private life from your ballads.”

  “But—”

  “Dandelion,” the Witcher interrupted. “Take a walk.”

  “Thank you,” he said when they were alone. “Thank you for bringing me my horse, Pinety.”

  “I observed that you were attached to her,” replied the sorcerer. “So, when I found her in Pinetops—”

  “You were in Pinetops?”

  “We were. Constable Torquil summoned us.”

  “Did you see—?”

  “We did.” Pinety cut him off curtly. “We saw everything. I don’t understand, Witcher. I don’t understand. Why didn’t you hack him to death when you could? On the spot? You didn’t act too prudently, if I may say so.”

  I know, thought Geralt to himself. I know, how well I know. I turned out to be too stupid to take advantage of the chance fate had given me. For what harm would there have been in that, one more corpse in the statistics? What does that mean to a hired killer? So what if it sickened me to be your tool? I’m always somebody’s tool, after all. I ought to have gritted my teeth and done what had to be done.

  “This is sure to astonish you,” said Pinety, looking him in the eyes, “but we immediately came to help, Harlan and I. We guessed you were in need of assistance. We caught Degerlund the following day when he was tearing apart some random gang.”

  You caught him, the Witcher thought to himself. And broke his neck without thinking twice? Since you’re cleverer than me, you didn’t repeat my mistake? Like hell you didn’t. If it had been like that you wouldn’t be wearing a face like that now, Guincamp.

  “We aren’t murderers,” stammered the sorcerer, blushing. “We hauled him off to Rissberg. And caused a mild commotion … Everybody was against us. Ortolan, astonishingly, behaved cautiously, and we’d actually expected the worst from him. But Biruta Icarti, Pockmarked Axel, Sandoval, even Zangenis, who had previously been on our side … We had to listen to a lengthy lecture about the solidarity of the fellowship, about fraternity, about loyalty. We learned that only utter good-for-nothings send hired killers after confraters, that you have to fall very low to hire a witcher to go after a comrade. For low reasons. Out of envy for our comrade’s talent and prestige; jealousy over his scientific achievements and successes.”

  Citing the incidents in the Hills and the forty-four corpses achieved nothing, the Witcher thought to himself. Unless you count shrugs of the shoulders. And probably a lengthy lecture about science and the need to make sacrifices. About the end justifying the means.

  “Degerlund,” Pinety continued, “was hauled before the commission and dealt a severe reprimand. For practicing goetia, for the people killed by the demon. He was haughty, clearly counting on an intervention by Ortolan. But Ortolan had somehow forgotten about him, having devoted himself utterly to a fresh new passion: developing a formula for an extremely effective and universal manure, meant to revolutionise agriculture. Left to fend for himself, Degerlund struck a different tone. Tearful and pathetic. He played the victim. A victim in equal measure of his own ambition and magical talent, owing to which he evoked a demon so powerful it was uncontrollable. He swore to abandon the practice of goetia, that he would never touch it again. That he would utterly devote himself to research into perfecting the human species, into transhumanism, speciation, introgression and genetic modification.”

  And they lent credence to him, the Witcher thought to himself.

  “They lent credence to him. Ortolan, who suddenly appeared before the commission stinking of manure, influenced them. He denominated Degerlund a ‘dear youth’ who had admittedly committed grievous miscalculations, but who is infallible? He didn’t doubt that the youth would calibrate himself and that he would vouch for it. He asked for the commission to temper its ire, to show compassion and not excoriate the youth. He finally promulgated Degerlund his heir and successor, fully transferring his private laboratory in the Citadel to him. He himself, he declared, didn’t need a laboratory, for he had resolved to toil and take exercise under the open sky, on vegetable patches and flower beds. This plan appealed to Biruta, Pockmarked Axel and the rest. The Citadel, bearing in mind its inaccessibility, could successfully be considered a place of correction. Degerlund had ensnared himself. He found himself under house arrest.”

  And the affair was swept under the carpet, the Witcher thought to himself.

  “I suspect that consideration for you and your reputation had an influence on it,” said Pinety, looking at him keenly.

  Geralt raised his eyebrows.

  “Your witcher code,” continued the sorcerer, “reportedly forbids the killing of people. But it is said about you that you don’t treat the code with due reverence. That this and that has occurred, that several people have departed this life thanks to you. Biruta and the others got cold feet, fearing that you’d return to Rissberg and finish the job, and that they were in line for a beating too. But the Citadel is a fully secure refuge, a former gnomish mountain fortress converted into a laboratory and currently under magical protection. No one can get into the Citadel, there is no possibility. Degerlund is thus not only isolated but also safe.”

  Rissberg is also safe, the Witcher thought to himself. Safe from scandals and embarrassment. With Degerlund in isolation there’s no scandal. No one will ever know that the crafty bastard and careerist tricked and led up the garden path the sorcerers of Rissberg, who believe themselves and declare themselves to be the elite of the magical fraternity. Or know that a degenerate psychopath took advantage of the naivety and stupidity of that elit
e and managed without any hindrance to kill almost four dozen people.

  “Degerlund will be under supervision and observation in the Citadel,” the sorcerer said, looking him in the eye the whole time. “He won’t call forth any demon.”

  There never was a demon. And you, Pinety, know that only too well.

  “The Citadel,” said the sorcerer, looking away and observing the ships at anchor, “is built into the rock of the Mount Cremora massif, at the foot of which lies Rissberg. An attempt to storm it would be tantamount to suicide. Not only owing to the magical protection. Do you remember what you told us back then? About that possessed person whom you once killed? In case of absolute necessity, protecting one good at the cost of another, precluding the lawlessness of a forbidden deed in the process. Well, you must understand that the circumstances are now quite different. In isolation, Degerlund doesn’t represent a genuine or direct threat. Were you to lay a finger on him, you would be committing a forbidden and lawless deed. Were you to try to kill him, you would go to court accused of attempted murder. Some of our people, I happen to know, hope you will nonetheless try. And end up on the scaffold. So, I advise you: let it go. Forget about Degerlund. Leave it to run its course.

  “You say nothing.” Pinety stated a fact. “You’re keeping your comments to yourself.”

  “Because there’s nothing to say. I’m only curious about one thing. You and Tzara. Will you remain at Rissberg?”

  Pinety laughed. Dryly and hollowly.

  “Both Harlan and I were asked to tender our resignation, at our own request, by virtue of our state of health. We left Rissberg and we’ll never return there. Harlan is going to Poviss to serve King Rhyd. And I’m inclined to continue travelling. In the Empire of Nilfgaard, I hear, they treat mages functionally and without undue respect. But they pay them well. And while we’re on the subject of Nilfgaard … I almost forgot. I have a farewell gift for you, Witcher.”

  He undid his baldric, wrapped it around the scabbard and handed the sword to Geralt.

  “It’s for you,” he said before the Witcher could speak. “I received it on my sixteenth birthday. From my father, who couldn’t get over the fact that I’d decided to study magic. He hoped the gift would influence me and that as the owner of such a weapon I would feel obliged to continue the family tradition and choose a military career. Why, I disappointed my father. In everything. I didn’t like hunting, I preferred angling. I didn’t marry the only daughter of his closest friend. I didn’t become a military man, and the sword gathered dust in a cupboard. I have no need of it. It will serve you better.”

  “But … Pinety …”

  “Take it, don’t make a fuss. I know your swords went missing and you’re in need.”

  Geralt grasped the lizard-skin hilt and drew the blade halfway out of the scabbard. One inch above the cross guard, he saw a punch in the shape of the sun in its glory with sixteen rays, alternating straight and wavy, symbolising heraldically the light and heat of the sun. A beautifully executed inscription in stylised lettering—a famous trademark—began two inches beyond the sun.

  “A blade from Viroleda.” The Witcher stated a fact. “This time authentic.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nothing, nothing. I’m admiring it. And I still don’t know if I can accept it …”

  “You can. In principle, you already have received it, since you’re holding it. Hell’s bells, don’t make a fuss, I said. I’m giving you the sword because I like you. So that you’ll realise not every sorcerer has it in for you. Anyway, fishing rods are more use to me. The rivers are beautiful and crystal clear in Nilfgaard, there’s plenty of trout and salmon in them.”

  “Thank you. Pinety?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you giving me the sword purely because of liking me?”

  “Why, because I like you, indeed.” The sorcerer lowered his voice. “But perhaps not only. What does it bother me what happens here and what purposes that sword will serve? I’m leaving these parts, never to return. You see that splendid galleon lying at anchor? It’s Euryale, its home port is Baccalá. I sail the day after tomorrow.”

  “You arrived a little early.”

  “Yes …” said the mage, stammering slightly. “I wanted to say goodbye … to someone.”

  “Good luck. Thanks for the sword. And for the horse, thanks again. Farewell, Pinety.”

  “Farewell.” The sorcerer shook Geralt’s extended hand without thinking. “Farewell, Witcher.”

  He found Dandelion—where else?—in the portside tavern, slurping fish soup from a bowl.

  “I’m leaving,” he announced briefly. “Right away.”

  “Right away?” Dandelion froze with the spoon halfway to his mouth. “Right now? I thought—”

  “It doesn’t matter what you thought. I ride immediately. Reassure your cousin, the instigator. I’ll be back for the royal nuptials.”

  “What’s that?”

  “What does it look like?”

  “A sword, naturally. Where did you get it? From the sorcerer, was it? And the one I gave you? Where’s that?”

  “It got lost. Return to the upper town, Dandelion.”

  “What about Coral?”

  “What about Coral?”

  “What do I say if she asks …”

  “She won’t. She won’t have time. She’ll be saying farewell to somebody.”

  INTERLUDE

  CONFIDENTIAL

  Illustrissimus et Reverendissimus

  Magnus Magister Narses de la Roche

  The Head of the Chapter of the Gift and the Art

  Novigrad

  Datum ex Castello Rissberg,

  die 15 mens. Jul. anno 1245 post Resurrectionem

  Re:

  Master of the Arts

  Sorel Albert Amador Degerlund

  Honoratissime Grandmaster,

  Rumours about the incidents which occurred on the western borders of Temeria, in the summer of anno currente, have doubtless reached the ears of the Chapter. The result of the said incidents, presumably, is that around forty—it is impossible to state precisely—persons, mainly unschooled forestry labourers, lost their lives. These incidents are associated—regrettably—with the person of Master Sorel Albert Amador Degerlund, a member of the research team at the Rissberg Complex.

  The research team of the Rissberg Complex is united in sympathy with the families of the victims of the incidents, although the victims—who stand very low in the social hierarchy, abusing alcohol and leading immoral lives—were probably not in legalised unions.

  We wish to remind the Chapter that Master Degerlund, a pupil and acolyte of Grandmaster Ortolan, is an outstanding scientist, a specialist in the field of genetics, boasting immense, simply incalculable accomplishments in transhumanism, introgression and speciation. The research that Master Degerlund is conducting may turn out to be pivotal for the development and evolution of the human race. As is known, the human race is no match for the non-human races in terms of many physical, psychological and psychomagical traits. Master Degerlund’s experiments, based on the hybridisation and combination of the gene pool, are intended—in the beginning—to equalise the human race with non-human races, while in the long term—by the application of speciation—to permit humans to dominate non-humans and subdue them utterly. It is probably unnecessary to explain what cardinal significance this matter has. It would be inadvisable for some trifling incidents to impede or stop the above-mentioned scientific studies.

  As far as Master Degerlund himself is concerned, the research team of the Rissberg Complex takes full responsibility for his medical care. Master Degerlund was previously diagnosed with narcissistic tendencies, absence of empathy and slight emotional disturbances. During the time preceding the perpetration of the acts he is accused of, the condition intensified until symptoms of bipolar disorder occurred. It may be stated that at the time the acts he is accused of were committed Master Degerlund was not in control of his emotional reactions
and his ability to differentiate between good and evil was impaired. It may be assumed that Degerlund was non compos mentis, eo ipso was temporarily insane, hence he cannot take criminal responsibility for the acts ascribed to him, since impune est admittendum quod per furorem alicuius accidit.

  Master Degerlund has been placed ad interim in a secret locality where he is being treated and is continuing his research.

  Since we consider the matter closed, we wish to draw the Chapter’s attention to Constable Torquil, who is conducting the investigation into the matter of the Temerian incidents. Constable Torquil, a subordinate of the bailiff in Gors Velen, otherwise known as a diligent functionary and staunch defender of law, is exhibiting excessive zeal as regards the incidents in the above-mentioned settlements and is following—from our point of view—a decidedly inappropriate trail. His superiors ought to be persuaded to temper his enthusiasm. And were that not to be effective it would be worth investigating the personal files of the constable, his wife, parents, grandparents, children and other members of his family, paying special attention to his private life, past, criminal record, material affairs and sexual preferences. We suggest contacting the law firm of Codringher and Fenn, whose services, if I may remind the Chapter, were taken advantage of three years ago with the aim of discrediting and ridiculing the witnesses in the case known as the “corn affair.”

  Item, we would like to draw the Chapter’s attention to the fact that unfortunately the witcher called Geralt of Rivia has become embroiled in the matter in question. He had direct access to the incidents in the settlements, and we also have reason to suppose that he connects those events with Master Degerlund. The said witcher ought also to be silenced, should he begin to delve too deeply into the matter. We would like to point out that the asocial attitude, nihilism, emotional instability and chaotic personality of the aforementioned witcher may mean that a stark warning may prove to be non sufficit and extreme measures will turn out to be necessary. The witcher is under permanent surveillance and we are prepared to apply such measures if, naturally, the Chapter approves and orders it.