Season of Storms

by Andrzej Sapkowski

Harlan Tzara—it transpired—had never made it to Poviss.

  Things were suspended in other jars: various blue and pale horrors. But there were no more heads.

  There was a table in the middle of the room. A steel, purpose-built table with a gutter.

  A naked corpse was lying on the table. A diminutive one. The remains of a child. A fair-haired little girl.

  The remains had been slit open with a cut in the shape of a letter “Y.” The internal organs, removed, had been arranged on both sides of the body, evenly, neatly and orderly. It looked just like an engraving from an anatomical atlas. All that was missing were plate numbers: fig. 1, fig. 2 and so on.

  He caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye. A large black cat flashed by close to the wall, glanced at him, hissed and fled through the open door. Geralt set off after him.

  “Mester …”

  He stopped. And turned around.

  In the corner stood a low cage, resembling a chicken coop. He saw thin fingers clenching the iron bars. And then two eyes.

  “Mester … Help me …”

  It was a little boy, no more than ten years old. Cowering and trembling.

  “Help me …”

  “Sssh, be quiet. You’re in no danger now, but hold on a little longer. I’ll be back soon to get you.”

  “Mester! Don’t go!”

  “Be quiet, I said.”

  First there was a library with dust that made his nose tingle. Then something like a drawing room. And then a bedchamber. A huge bed with a black canopy on ebony columns.

  He heard a rustle. And turned around.

  Sorel Degerlund was standing in the doorway. Coiffured, in a mantle embroidered with gold stars. A smallish, quite grey creature armed with a Zerrikanian sabre was standing beside him.

  “I have a specimen jar full of formalin prepared,” said the sorcerer. “For your head, you abomination. Kill him, Beta!”

  The creature, an incredibly fast grey apparition, an agile and noiseless grey rat, had already attacked with a whistle and a flash of the sabre before Degerlund had finished his sentence and while he was still delighting in his own voice. Geralt avoided two blows, delivered diagonally in classic style. The first time he felt the movement of air pushed by a blade by his ear, and the second a brush on his sleeve. He parried the third blow, and for a moment they crossed swords. He saw the face of the grey creature, its large yellow eyes with vertical pupils, narrow slits instead of a nose and pointed ears. The creature had no mouth at all.

  They parted. The creature turned around nimbly, attacked at once, with an ethereal, dancing step, once again diagonally. Once again predictably. It was inhumanly energetic, incredibly agile, hellishly swift. But stupid.

  It had no idea how fast a witcher could be after drinking his elixirs.

  Geralt allowed it only one blow, which he outmanoeuvred. Then he attacked with a trained sequence of movements he had practised a hundred times. He encircled the grey creature with a fast half-turn, executed a deceptive feint and slashed it across the collarbone. The blood hadn’t even had time to spurt when he slashed it under the arm. And jumped aside, ready for more. But no more was needed.

  It turned out that the creature did have a mouth. It opened in the grey face like a wound, splitting widely from ear to ear, although no more than half an inch. But the creature didn’t utter a word or a sound. It fell onto its knees and then its side. For a moment it twitched, moving its limbs like a dog dreaming. And died. In silence.

  It was then that Degerlund committed an error. Rather than fleeing, he raised both hands and began to bark out a spell, in a furious voice full of rage and hatred. Flames whirled around his hands, forming a fiery globe. It looked a little like candyfloss being made. It even smelled similar.

  Degerlund didn’t manage to create a complete globe. He had no idea how fast a witcher could be after drinking his elixirs.

  Geralt was upon him and cut across the globe and the sorcerer’s hands. There was a roar like a furnace being ignited, and sparks flew. Degerlund yelled, releasing the flaming globe from his bloodied hands. The globe went out, filling the chamber with the smell of burning caramel.

  Geralt dropped his sword. He slapped Degerlund hard in the face with his open palm. The sorcerer screamed, cowered and turned his back on him. The Witcher seized him, caught him by a buckle and clasped his neck in his forearm. Degerlund yelled and began to kick out.

  “You cannot!” he wailed. “You cannot kill me! It is forbidden … I am … I am a human being!”

  Geralt tightened his forearm around his neck. Not too tightly at first.

  “It wasn’t me!” wailed the sorcerer. “It was Ortolan! Ortolan forced me! He forced me! And Biruta Icarti knew about everything! She did! Biruta! That medallion was her idea! She made me do it!”

  The Witcher tightened his grip.

  “Heeeeelp! Somebody heeelp meeee!”

  Geralt tightened his grip.

  “Somebody … Heeelp … Noooo …”

  Degerlund wheezed, saliva dripping copiously from his mouth. Geralt turned his head away. And tightened his grip.

  Degerlund lost consciousness and went limp. Tighter. The hyoid bone cracked. Tighter. His larynx gave way. Tighter. Even tighter.

  The cervical vertebrae cracked and dislocated.

  Geralt held Degerlund up a moment longer. Then he jerked the sorcerer’s head hard sideways, to be quite certain. Then he let him go. The sorcerer slid down onto the floor, softly, like a silk cloth.

  The Witcher wiped the saliva from his sleeve on a curtain. The large black cat appeared from nowhere. It rubbed itself against Degerlund’s body. Licked his motionless hand. Meowed and cried mournfully. It lay down beside the corpse, cuddling up against its side. And looked at the Witcher with its wide-open golden eyes.

  “I had to,” said the Witcher. “It was necessary. If anyone, you ought to understand.”

  The cat narrowed its eyes. To indicate it did.

  For God’s sake let us sit upon the ground

  And tell sad stories of the death of kings;

  How some have been depos’d, some slain in war,

  Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos’d;

  Some poison’d by their wives, some sleeping kill’d;

  All murder’d.

  William Shakespeare,

  Richard II

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The weather on the day of the royal wedding had been wonderful from early morning, the blue sky over Kerack not sullied by even a single cloud. It had been very warm since the morning, but the hot weather was tempered by a sea breeze.

  There had been a commotion in the upper town from the early morning. The streets and squares had been thoroughly swept, the house fronts decorated with ribbons and garlands, and pennants put on flagpoles. Since the morning, a line of suppliers had streamed along the road leading to the royal palace. Laden wagons and carts passed empty ones on their way back, and porters, craftsmen, merchants, messengers and couriers ran up the hill. Some time after, the road had teemed with sedan chairs carrying wedding guests to the palace. My nuptials are no laughing matter, King Belohun was heard to have said, my nuptials will become lodged in people’s memory and talked about through the whole wide world. On the order of the king, the celebrations were thus meant to begin in the morning and last long into the night. The guests would be facing quite unprecedented attractions throughout the whole day. Kerack was a tiny kingdom and actually fairly insignificant, hence Geralt doubted whether the world was particularly bothered about Belohun’s nuptials, even though he had decided to hold balls the entire week and God knows what attractions he had come up with, and there was no chance the people living more than a hundred miles away could have heard of the event. But to Belohun—as was universally known—the city of Kerack was the centre of the world and the world was the small region surrounding Kerack.

  Geralt and Dandelion were both dressed as elegantly as they could manage, and the Witcher had even purc
hased for the celebrations a brand new calfskin jacket, for which he had paid well over the odds. As for Dandelion, he had announced from the beginning that he would scorn the royal nuptials and take no part in them. For he had been added to the guest list as a relative of the royal instigator and not as the world-famous poet and bard. And he had not been invited to perform. Dandelion regarded that as a slight and took umbrage. As was customary with him his resentment didn’t last long, no more than half a day.

  Flagpoles were erected along the entire road winding up the hillside to the palace and on them hung yellow pennants with the coat of arms of Kerack, a blue dolphin naiant with red fins and tail, languidly fluttering in the breeze.

  Dandelion’s kinsman, Ferrant de Lettenhove, assisted by several royal guardsmen wearing livery with the heraldic dolphin—in other words blue and red—was waiting for them outside the entrance to the palace complex. The instigator greeted Dandelion and called over a page who was charged with assisting the poet and escorting him to the place of the party.

  “And I would ask you, M’lord Geralt, to come with me.”

  They walked through the grounds along a side avenue, passing an area obviously used for utilities, from where they could hear the clank of pots and kitchen utensils, as well as the vile insults the chefs were dishing out to the kitchen porters. On top of that, however, was the pleasant and appetising smell of food. Geralt knew the menu and knew what the guests would be served during the wedding party. A few days before, he and Dandelion had visited the Natura Rerum osteria. Febus Ravenga—not concealing his pride—had boasted that he and several other restaurateurs were organising the feast and composing a list of dishes, for the preparation of which only the most distinguished of local chefs would be hired. Sautéed oysters, sea urchins, prawns and crabs will be served for breakfast, he had said. For a mid-morning snack there will be meat jellies and various pasties, smoked and marinated salmon, duck in aspic, sheep and goat cheese. For luncheon there will be ad libitum meat or fish broth, on top of that meat or fish patties, tripe with liver meatballs, grilled monkfish glazed with honey and sea perch with saffron and cloves.

  Afterwards, Ravenga intoned, modulating his breathing like a trained orator, will be served cuts of roast meat in white sauce with capers, eggs and mustard, swans’ knees in honey, capons draped in fatback, partridges and quince conserve, roast pigeon and mutton liver pie with barley groats. Salads and diverse vegetables. Then caramels, nougats, stuffed cakes, roast chestnuts, preserves and marmalades. Wine from Toussaint, naturally, will be served continuously and without pause.

  Ravenga described it so vividly it was mouth-watering. Geralt doubted, however, that he would manage to taste anything from the extensive menu. He was by no means a guest at the nuptials. He was in a worse situation than the pages, who could always pluck some morsels from the dishes or at least stick a finger in the creams, sauces or forcemeats as they hurried by.

  The main location of the celebrations was the palace grounds, once the temple orchard, with modifications and extensions by the kings of Kerack, mainly in the form of colonnades, bowers and temples of contemplation. Today, many colourful pavilions had been additionally erected among the trees and buildings, and sheets of canvas stretched over poles offered shelter from the heat of the day. A small crowd of guests had already gathered. There weren’t meant to be too many; some two hundred in total. It was rumoured that the king himself had drawn up the list and only a select circle—la crème de la crème itself—would be receiving invitations. For Belohun, it turned out, his close and distant relatives constituted the larger part of the elite. Aside from them, the local high society, key administrative officials, and the wealthiest local and foreign businessmen and diplomats—meaning spies from neighbouring countries posing as commercial attachés—had also been invited. The list was completed by quite a large group of sycophants, grovellers and pre-eminent arse-kissers.

  Prince Egmund was waiting outside one of the side entrances to the palace, dressed in a short black jacket with rich silver and gold embroidery. He was accompanied by a few young men. They all had long, curled hair and were wearing padded doublets and tight hose with terribly fashionable and excessively large codpieces. Geralt didn’t like the look of them. Not just because of the mocking glances they were shooting at his apparel. They reminded him too much of Sorel Degerlund.

  At the sight of the instigator and the Witcher, the prince immediately dismissed his entourage. Only one individual remained. He had short hair and wore normal trousers. In spite of that, Geralt didn’t like the look of him either. He had strange eyes. And an unprepossessing look.

  Geralt bowed before the prince. The prince didn’t return the bow, naturally.

  “Hand over your sword,” he said to Geralt right after his greeting. “You may not parade around with a weapon. Don’t fret, although you won’t see your sword it will be close at hand the whole time. I’ve issued orders. Should anything occur, the sword will immediately be returned to you. Captain Ropp here will take charge of that.”

  “And what’s the likelihood of anything happening?”

  “Were there no chance or little chance, would I be bothering you?” Egmund examined the scabbard and blade. “Oh! A sword from Viroleda! Not a sword, but a work of art. I know, for I once had a similar one. My half-brother, Viraxas, stole it from me. When my father banished him, he appropriated a great deal of things that didn’t belong to him before leaving. No doubt as souvenirs.”

  Ferrant de Lettenhove cleared his throat. Geralt recalled Dandelion’s words. It was forbidden to utter the name of the banished first-born son at court. But Egmund was clearly ignoring the prohibitions.

  “A work of art,” repeated the prince, still examining the sword. “Without asking how you came by it, I congratulate you on the acquisition. For I can’t believe the stolen ones were any better than this.”

  “That’s a matter of taste and preference. I’d prefer to recover the stolen ones. Your Royal Highness and my Lord Instigator vouched that you would find the thief. It was, I take the liberty of recalling, the condition on which I undertook the task of protecting the king. The condition has clearly not been met.”

  “It clearly hasn’t,” Egmund admitted coldly, handing the sword to Captain Ropp, the man with the malevolent gaze. “I thus feel obliged to compensate you for it. Instead of the three hundred crowns I had planned to pay you for your services, you will receive five hundred. I also add that the investigation regarding your swords is ongoing and you may yet recover them. Ferrant allegedly has a suspect. Haven’t you?”

  “The investigation explicitly indicated the person of Nikefor Muus, a municipal and judicial clerk,” Ferrant de Lettenhove announced dryly. “He has fled, but his recapture is imminent.”

  “I trust so.” The prince snorted. “It can’t be such a feat to catch an ink-stained petty clerk. Who, in addition, must have acquired piles from sitting at a desk, which hinder escape, both on foot and horseback. How did he manage to escape at all?”

  “We are dealing with a very volatile person.” The instigator cleared his throat. “And probably a madman. Before he vanished, he caused a revolting scene in Ravenga’s restaurant, concerning, forgive me, human faeces … The restaurant had to be closed for some time, because … I shall spare you the gory details. The stolen swords were not discovered during a search carried out at Muus’s lodgings, but instead … Forgive me … A leather satchel, filled to the brim with—”

  “Enough, enough, I can guess what.” Egmund grimaced. “Yes, that indeed says a great deal about the individual’s psychological state. Your swords, Witcher, have probably been lost, then. Even if Ferrant captures him he won’t learn anything from a madman. It’s not even worth torturing men like him, they only talk gibberish on the rack. And now forgive me, duty calls.”

  Ferrant de Lettenhove escorted Geralt towards the main entrance to the palace grounds. Shortly after, they found themselves in a stone-slabbed courtyard where seneschals were greeting
the guests as they arrived, and guardsmen and pages were escorting them further into the grounds.

  “What may I expect?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What may I expect today? What part of that didn’t you understand?”

  “Prince Xander has boasted in front of witnesses that he will be crowned king tomorrow,” said the instigator in a low voice. “But it isn’t the first time he’s said that and he’s always been in his cups when he has.”

  “Is he capable of carrying out a coup?”

  “Not especially. But he has a camarilla, confidants and favourites. They are more capable.”

  “How much proof is there in the rumour that Belohun will today announce as his successor the son his betrothed is carrying?”

  “Quite some.”

  “And Egmund, who’s losing his chances for the throne, lo and behold, is hiring a witcher to guard and protect his father. What commendable filial love.”

  “Don’t digress. You took on the task. Now execute it.”

  “I did and I shall. Although it’s extremely vague. I don’t know who, if anything happens, will be pitted against me. But I probably ought to know who will support me if anything happens.”

  “If such a need arises, the sword, as the prince promised, will be given to you by Captain Ropp. He will also back you up. I shall help, as far as I’m able. Because I wish you well.”

  “Since when?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “We’ve never spoken face to face. Dandelion has always been with us and I didn’t want to bring up the subject with him there. The detailed documentation about my alleged frauds. How did Egmund come by it? Who forged it? Not him, of course. You did, Ferrant.”

  “I had nothing to do with it. I assure you—”

  “You’re a rotten liar for a guardian of the law. It’s a mystery how you landed your position.”

  Ferrant de Lettenhove pursed his lips.

  “I had to,” he said. “I was carrying out orders.”

  The Witcher looked long and hard at him.