Season of Storms
Page 26
In hopes that the above explanation will turn out to be sufficient for the Chapter to close the matter, bene valere optamus and we remain yours sincerely
on behalf of the Rissberg Complex research team
semper fidelis vestrarum bona amica
Biruta Anna Marquette Icarti manu propria
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Just in time,” said Frans Torquil morosely. “You made it on time, Witcher, right on time. The spectacle’s about to begin.”
He lay on his back on a bed, as pale as a whitewashed wall, his hair wet with sweat and plastered to his forehead. He was wearing nothing but a coarse linen shirt that at once reminded Geralt of a winding sheet. His left thigh was swathed down to the knee in a blood-soaked bandage.
A table had been put in the centre of the room and covered in a sheet. A squat individual in a black jerkin was setting out tools on the table, one after the other, in turn. Knives. Forceps. Chisels. Saws.
“I regret but one thing,” said Torquil, grinding his teeth. “That I didn’t catch the whoresons. It was the gods’ will, it wasn’t written for me … And now it won’t come to pass.”
“What happened?”
“The sodding same as in Yew Trees, Rogovizna and Pinetops. Except it wasn’t like the others, but at the very edge of the forest. And not in a clearing, but on the highway. They’d surprised some travellers. They killed three and abducted two bairns. As luck would have it, I was nearby with my men. We gave chase at once, soon had them in sight. Two great bruisers as big as oxen and one misshapen hunchback. And that hunchback shot me with a crossbow.”
The constable gritted his teeth and waved a hand at his bandaged thigh.
“I ordered my men to leave me and follow them. They disobeyed, the curs. And as a result, they made off. And me? So what if they saved me? When they’re cutting my leg off now? I’d rather have fucking pegged it there, but seen them ’uns kicking their legs on the scaffold before my eyes clouded over. The wretches didn’t obey my orders. Now they’re sitting there, hangdog.”
To a man, the constable’s subordinates were indeed sitting shamefacedly on a bench by the wall. They were accompanied by a wrinkled old woman with a garland on her head that didn’t match her grey hair at all, who looked completely out of place.
“We can begin,” said the man in the black jerkin. “Put the patient on the table and strap him down tightly. All outsiders to leave the chamber.”
“They can stay,” growled Torquil. “I want to know they’re watching. I’ll be too ashamed to scream.”
“One moment,” Geralt said, straightening up. “Who decided that amputation is inevitable?”
“I did,” said the man in black, also drawing himself up to his full height, but having to lift his head up high to look Geralt in the face. “I’m Messer Luppi, physician to the bailiff in Gors Velen, specially sent for. An examination has confirmed that the wound is infected. The leg has to go, there’s no hope for it.”
“How much do you charge for this procedure?”
“Twenty crowns.”
“Here’s thirty,” said Geralt, digging three ten-crown coins from a pouch. “Take your instruments, pack up and return to the bailiff. Should he ask, say the patient is improving.”
“But … I must protest …”
“Get packed and return. Which of those words don’t you understand? And you, nana, to me. Unwind the bandage.”
“He forbade me from touching the patient,” she said, nodding at the court physician. “Says I’m a quack and a witch. Threatened to inform on me.”
“Ignore him. Indeed, he’s just leaving.”
The old woman, whom Geralt at once recognised as a herbalist, did as she was told. She unwound the bandage with great care, but it was enough to make Torquil shake his head, hiss and groan.
“Geralt …” he groaned. “What are you playing at? The physician said there’s no hope … Better to lose a leg than my life.”
“Bullshit. It’s not better at all. And now shut up.”
The wound looked hideous. But Geralt had seen worse.
He took a box from the pouch containing elixirs. Messer Luppi, now packed, looked on, shaking his head.
“Those decocts are fit for nothing,” he pronounced. “Those quack tricks and that bogus magic is fit for nothing. It’s nothing but charlatanism. As a physician, I must protest—”
Geralt turned around and stared. The physician exited. In a hurry. Tripping over the doorstop.
“Four men to me,” said the Witcher, uncorking a vial. “Hold him fast. Clench your teeth, Frans.”
The elixir foamed copiously as it was poured over the wound. The constable groaned heart-rendingly. Geralt waited a while and then poured on another elixir. That one also foamed, and hissed and smoked as well. Torquil screamed, tossed his head around, tensed up, rolled his eyes and fainted.
The old woman took a canteen from her bundle, scooped out a handful of green ointment, smeared it thickly on a piece of folded linen and applied it to the wound.
“Knitbone,” guessed Geralt. “A poultice of knitbone, arnica and marigold. Good, Nana, very good. Goatweed and oak bark would also come in use—”
“’Ark at ’im,” interrupted the old woman, without raising her head from the constable’s leg. “Trying to teach me herbalism. I was healing people with herbs when you were still puking your porridge over your wet nurse, laddie. And you, lummoxes, away with you, for you’re blocking out the light. And you stink dreadfully. You ought to change your footwraps. From time to time. Out with you, hear me?”
“His leg will have to be immobilised. Set in long splints—”
“Don’t instruct me, I said. And get you gone as well. Why are you still here? What are you waiting for? For thanks that you nobly gave up your magical witcher medicaments? For a promise that he won’t forget it till his dying day?”
“I want to ask him something.”
“Promise me, Geralt, that you’ll catch them,” said Frans Torquil, suddenly quite lucid. “That you won’t let them off—”
“I’ll give him a sleeping draught and something for the fever, because he’s raving. And you, Witcher, get out. Wait in the yard.”
He didn’t have to wait long. The old woman came out, hitched up her dress and straightened her crooked garland. She sat beside him on the step. And rubbed one foot against the other. She had extremely small feet.
“He’s sleeping,” she announced. “And will probably live, if nothing evil sets in, touch wood. The bone will knit. You saved his pin with them witcher charms. He’ll always be lame and he’ll never mount a horse again, I dare say, but two legs are better than one, hee, hee.”
She reached into her bosom, beneath her embroidered sheepskin vest, making the air smell even more strongly of herbs. She drew out a wooden casket and opened it. After a moment’s hesitation, she proffered it to Geralt.
“Want a snort?”
“No thank you. I don’t use fisstech.”
“But I …” said the herbalist, sniffing up the drug, first into one, then the other nostril. “But I do, from time to time. Sharpens up the mind like no one’s bloody business. Increases longevity. And improves the looks. Just look at me.”
He did.
“Thanking you for the witcher medicaments for Frans,” she said, wiping a watering eye and sniffing. “I won’t forget it. I know you jealously guard those decocts of yours. And you gave them to me, without a second thought. Even though you may run short when you’re next in need. Aren’t you afraid?”
“I am.”
She turned her head to show her profile. She must indeed have been a beautiful woman once, a long time ago.
“And now.” She turned to face him. “Speak. You meant to ask Frans something?”
“Never mind. He’s sleeping and it’s time I was off.”
“Speak.”
“Mount Cremora.”
“You should have said. What do you want to know about that mountain?”
The guinea fowl scurrying around by the wattle fencing noticed him first, raising the alarm with a hellish screeching. Some children playing in the farmyard dashed towards the cottage. A woman appeared in the doorway. Tall, fair-haired and wearing an apron over a coarse linen frock. He rode closer and dismounted.
“Greetings,” he said. “Is the man of the house at home?”
The children—all of them little girls—clung to their mother’s skirts and apron. The woman looked at the Witcher and any search for friendliness in those eyes would have been in vain. No wonder. She caught a good sight of the sword hilt over his shoulder. Of the medallion on his neck. And of the silver studs on his gloves which the Witcher was by no means hiding. Rather, he was flaunting them.
“The man of the house,” he repeated. “I mean Otto Dussart. I want to talk to him about something.”
“What?”
“It’s private. Is he at home?”
She stared at him in silence, slightly tilting her head. She had rustic looks and he guessed she might be aged anything between twenty-five and forty-five. A more precise assessment—as with the majority of village women—was impossible.
“Is he at home?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll wait until he returns,” he said, tossing the mare’s reins over a pole.
“You might have to wait a while.”
“I’ll hold out somehow. Although in truth I’d prefer to wait inside than by the fence.”
The woman eyed him up and down for a moment. Him and his medallion.
“Accept our invitation, guest,” she said finally. “Step inside.”
“Gladly,” he answered, using the customary formula. “I won’t transgress the rules of hospitality.”
“You won’t,” she repeated in a slow, drawling voice. “Yet you wear a sword.”
“Such is my profession.”
“Swords injure. And kill.”
“So does life. Does the invitation still apply?”
“Please enter.”
One entered—typically for such homesteads—through a gloomy, cluttered passage. The main chamber turned out to be quite spacious, light and clean, with only the walls near the range and chimney bearing sooty streaks. Otherwise, the walls were painted freshly white and decorated with gaily embroidered wall hangings. Various household utensils, bunches of herbs, plaits of garlic and strings of capsicums enlivened the walls. A woven curtain separated the chamber from the larder. It smelt of cooking. Cabbage, to be precise.
“Please be seated.”
The housewife remained standing, crumpling her apron in her hands. The children crouched by the stove on a low bench.
The medallion on Geralt’s neck was vibrating. Powerfully and constantly. It fluttered under his shirt like a captured bird.
“You ought to have left the sword in the passage,” the woman said, walking over to the range, “It’s indecent to sit down to table with a weapon. Only brigands do so. Be you a brigand—?”
“You know who I am,” he cut her off. “And the sword stays where it is. To act as a reminder.”
“Of what?”
“That hasty actions have perilous consequences.”
“There’s no weapons here, so—”
“Yes, yes,” he interrupted bluntly. “Let’s not kid ourselves, missus. A peasant’s cottage and farmyard is an arsenal; many have died from hoes, not to mention flails and pitchforks. I heard that someone was killed with the plunger from a butter churn. You can do harm with anything if you want to. Or have to. And while we’re on the subject, leave that pot of boiling water alone. And move away from the stove.”
“I meant nothing,” the woman said quickly, evidently lying. “And it’s not boiling water, it’s borscht. I meant to offer you some—”
“No, thank you. I’m not hungry. So don’t touch the pot and move away from the stove. Sit down by the children. And we’ll wait nicely for the man of the house.”
They sat in a silence broken only by the buzzing of flies. The medallion twitched.
“A pan of cabbage in the oven is almost ready,” said the woman, interrupting the awkward silence. “I must take it out and stir it, or it’ll burn.”
“Her.” Geralt pointed to the smallest of the girls. “She can do it.”
The girl stood up slowly, glaring at him from under a flaxen fringe. She took hold of a long-handled fork and bent over towards the stove door. And suddenly launched herself at Geralt like a she-cat. She aimed to pin him by his neck to the wall with the fork, but he dodged, jerked the fork handle, and knocked her over. She began to metamorphosise before even hitting the floor.
The woman and the other two girls had already managed to transform. Three wolves—a grey she-wolf and two cubs—bounded towards the Witcher, with bloodshot eyes and bared fangs. They bounded apart, quite like wolves, attacking from all sides. He dodged, shoved the bench at the she-wolf, fending the cubs away with blows of his fists in his silver-studded gloves. They howled and flattened themselves against the floor, baring their fangs. The she-wolf howled savagely and leaped again.
“No! Edwina! No!”
She fell on him, pressing him to the wall. But now in human form. The wolf-girls immediately fled and hunkered down by the stove. The woman remained, crouching before him, staring with embarrassed eyes. He didn’t know if she was ashamed because of attacking him, or because the attack had failed.
“Edwina! What is the meaning of this?” bellowed a bearded man of impressive height, arms akimbo. “What are you doing?”
“It’s a witcher!” the woman snorted, still on her knees. “A brigand with a sword! He came for you! The murderer! He reeks of blood!”
“Silence, woman. I know him. Forgive her, Master Geralt. Everything in order? Forgive her. She didn’t know … She thought that since you’re a witcher—”
He broke off and looked nervously. The woman and the little girls were gathered by the stove. Geralt could have sworn he heard a soft growling.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I bear no ill will. But you showed up just in time. Not a moment too soon.”
“I know,” said the bearded man, shuddering perceptibly. “Sit you down, sir, sit down at table … Edwina! Bring beer!”
“No. Outside, Dussart. For a word.”
In the middle of the farmyard sat a grey cat that fled in a trice at the sight of the Witcher and hid in the nettles.
“I don’t wish to upset your wife or frighten your children,” Geralt announced. “And what’s more, I have a matter I’d prefer to talk about in private. It concerns a certain favour.”
“Whatever you want, sir,” said the bearded man. “Just say it. I’ll fulfil your every wish, if it’s in my power. I am indebted to you, greatly indebted. Thanks to you I walk alive through this world. Because you spared me then. I owe you—”
“Not me. Yourself. Because even in lupine form you remained a man and never harmed anybody.”
“I never harmed anybody, ’tis true. And how did I benefit? My neighbours, having become suspicious, brought a witcher down on me at once. Though paupers, they scrimped and saved in order to hire you.”
“I thought about giving them back their money,” admitted Geralt. “But it might have aroused suspicion. I gave them my witcher word that I’d removed the werewolf spell from you and had completely healed you of lycanthropy, that you are now as normal as the next man. Such a feat has to cost. If people pay for something they believe in it: whatever is paid for becomes real and legal. The more expensive, the better.”
“Recalling that day sends shivers down my spine,” said Dussart, paling under hi
s tan. “I almost died of fear when I saw you with that silver blade. I thought my last hour had come. There’s no end of stories. About witcher-murderers relishing blood and torture. You, it turned out, are a decent fellow. And a good one.”
“Let’s not exaggerate. But you followed my advice and moved out of Guaamez.”
“I had to,” Dussart said gloomily. “The people of Guaamez believed in theory that I was free of the spell, but you were right, a former werewolf doesn’t have it easy either. It was as you said: what you used to be means more to people than what you are. I was compelled to move out, and roam through strange surroundings where no one knew me. I wandered and wandered … Until I finally ended up here. And met Edwina.”
“It rarely happens for two therianthropes to form a couple,” said Geralt, shaking his head. “It’s even more seldom for children to be born to such couples. You’re a lucky man, Dussart.”
“If only you knew,” grinned the werewolf. “My children are as pretty as a picture, they’re growing up into beautiful maidens. And Edwina and I were made for each other. I wish to be with her to the end of my days.”
“She knew me as a witcher at once. And was prepared to defend herself. She meant to throw boiling borscht over me, would you believe? She must also have heard her fill of werewolf tales about bloodthirsty witchers relishing torture.”
“Forgive her, Master Geralt. And we shall soon savour that borscht. Edwina makes delicious borscht.”
“It might be better if I don’t impose,” said the Witcher, shaking his head. “I don’t want to scare the children, much less worry your wife. To her I’m still a brigand with a sword, it’d be hard to expect her to take to me at once. She said I reek of blood. Metaphorically, I understand.”