“You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve heard similar words,” he finally said. “But it’s comforting to think it was usually from the mouths of men who were about to hang.”
Lytta Neyd was among the guests. He spotted her easily. Because she looked eye-catching.
The bodice of her vivid green crêpe de chine gown with its plunging neckline was decorated with embroidery in the form of a stylised butterfly sparkling with tiny sequins. It was edged with frills. Frilly dresses on women older than ten usually evoked ironic sympathy in the Witcher, while on Lytta’s dress they harmonised with the rest of it with more than attractive results.
The sorceress’s neck was adorned with a necklace of polished emeralds. None smaller than an almond. And one considerably larger.
Her red hair was like a forest fire.
Mozaïk was standing at Lytta’s side. In a black and astonishingly bold dress of silk and chiffon, quite transparent on the shoulders and sleeves. The girl’s neck and cleavage were veiled in something like a fancifully draped chiffon ruff which, in combination with the long black sleeves, gave her figure an aura of flamboyance and mystery.
They were both wearing four-inch heels. Lytta’s were made of iguana skin and Mozaïk’s of patent leather.
Geralt hesitated to approach for a moment. But only a moment.
“Greetings,” Lytta said guardedly. “What a pleasant surprise, it’s lovely to see you. Mozaïk, you won, the white slippers are yours.”
“A wager,” he guessed. “What did it concern?”
“You. I thought we wouldn’t see you again and wagered that you wouldn’t show up. Mozaïk took the bet, because she thought differently.”
Lytta gave him a deep, jade-green glance, clearly waiting for a response. For a word. For anything. Geralt remained silent.
“Greetings, fair ladies!” said Dandelion, springing up from nowhere, a veritable deus ex machina. “My respects, I bow before your beauty. Madame Neyd, Miss Mozaïk. Forgive the absence of flowers.”
“We forgive you. What of the arts?”
“All that you’d expect: everything and nothing,” said Dandelion, snatching two goblets of wine from a passing page and handing them to the women. “The party’s somewhat dull, isn’t it? But the wine’s good. Est Est, forty a pint. The red’s not bad, either, I’ve tried it. Just don’t drink the hippocras, they don’t know how to spice it. And there’s no end of guests, have you seen? As usual in high society, the race is back-to-front, it’s à rebours; whoever arrives last wins and claims the laurels. And will have a splendid entrance. I think we’re observing the finish right now. The owner of a chain of lumber mills and wife are crossing the finishing line, losing out in the process to the harbourmaster and wife who are just behind. Who in turn are losing out to a dandy I don’t know …”
“That’s the head of the Koviran commercial mission. And wife,” explained Coral. “I wonder whose.”
“Pyral Pratt, that old villain, will make it into the leading pack. With a pretty good-looking partner … Bloody hell!”
“What’s the matter?”
“The woman beside Pratt …” Dandelion choked. “Is … is Etna Asider … The little widow who sold me the sword …”
“Is that how she introduced herself?” snorted Lytta. “Etna Asider? A cheap anagram. She’s Antea Derris. Pratt’s eldest daughter. And no little widow, for she’s never married. Rumour has it she isn’t fond of men.”
“Pratt’s daughter? Impossible! I’ve visited him—”
“But you didn’t meet her there,” the sorceress cut him off. “Nothing strange. Antea doesn’t get on very well with her family, she doesn’t even use her surname, but an alias made up of two given names. She only contacts her father regarding her business affairs, which as a matter of fact are booming. But I’m surprised to see them here together.”
“They must have their reasons,” the Witcher observed astutely.
“I dread to think what. Officially, Antea is a commercial agent, but her favourite sports are swindles, fraud and rackets. Poet, I have a favour to ask. You’re worldly-wise, but Mozaïk isn’t. Lead her among the guests and introduce her to anyone worth knowing. And point out any who aren’t.”
Assuring Coral that her wish was his command, Dandelion proffered Mozaïk his arm. They were left alone.
“Come,” Lytta interrupted the lengthening silence. “Let’s take a walk. Up that little hill over there.”
A view of the city, Palmyra, the harbour and the sea, spread out from high up on the hill, from the temple of contemplation. Lytta shielded her eyes with a hand.
“What’s that sailing into harbour? And dropping anchor? A three-masted frigate of curious construction. Under black sails, ha, it’s quite remarkable—”
“Forget the frigates. Dandelion and Mozaïk having been sent away, we’re alone and out of the way.”
“And you’re wondering why.” She turned around. “Waiting for me to tell you something. You’re waiting for the questions I shall ask you. But perhaps I only want to tell you the latest gossip? From the wizarding community? Oh, no, never fear, it’s not about Yennefer. It’s about Rissberg, a place you know well, after all. Plenty of changes have taken place there … But I fail to see the glint of curiosity in your eyes. Shall I go on?”
“By all means, do.”
“It began when Ortolan died.”
“Ortolan’s dead?”
“He passed away almost a week ago. According to the official version he was lethally poisoned by the fertiliser he was working on. But rumour has it that it was a stroke caused by the news of the sudden death of one of his favourites, who died as a result of an unsuccessful and highly suspicious experiment. I’m talking about a certain Degerlund. Does that name ring a bell? Did you meet him when you were at the castle?”
“I may have. I met many sorcerers. They weren’t all memorable.”
“Ortolan apparently blamed the entire council at Rissberg for his favourite’s death, became enraged and suffered a stroke. He was really very old and had suffered from high blood pressure. His addiction to fisstech was an open secret, and fisstech and high blood pressure are a potent mixture. But there must have been something fishy, because significant staffing changes have taken place at Rissberg. Even before Ortolan’s death there had been conflicts. Algernon Guincamp, more commonly known as Pinety, was forced to resign, among others. You remember him, I’m certain. Because if anyone was memorable there, he was.”
“Indeed.”
“Ortolan’s death—” Coral glared at him keenly “—provoked a swift response from the Chapter, who had much earlier been aware of some worrying tidings concerning the antics of the deceased and his favourite. Interestingly—and increasingly typically in our times—a tiny pebble triggered the landslide. An insignificant commoner, an over-zealous shire-reeve or constable. He forced his superior—the bailiff from Gors Velen—to take action. The bailiff took the accusations higher up and thus, rung by rung, the affair reached the royal council and thence the Chapter. To keep things brief: people were accused of negligence. Biruta Icarti had to leave the board. She went back to lecture at Aretuza. Pockmarked Axel and Sandoval left. Zangenis kept his job, gaining the Chapter’s pardon by informing on the others and shifting all the blame onto them. What do you say to that? Do you have anything to say?”
“What can I say? It’s your business. And your scandals.”
“Scandals that erupted at Rissberg soon after your visit.”
“You overrate me, Coral. And my influence.”
“I never overrate anything. And seldom underrate.”
“Mozaïk and Dandelion will be back any moment,” he said, looking her in the eyes. “And after all, you didn’t bring me here without a reason. Will you tell me what this is about?”
She withstood his gaze.
“You know very well what this is about,” she replied. “So don’t offend my intelligence by lowering your own. You haven’t come to see me in over a
month. No, don’t think I desire mawkish melodrama or pathetic sentimental gestures. I don’t expect anything more from the relationship that’s finishing than a pleasant memory.”
“It seems to me you used the word ‘relationship’? Its semantic capacity is indeed astounding.”
“Nothing but a pleasant memory,” she said, ignoring his comment and holding his gaze. “I don’t know what it’s like for you, but as far as I’m concerned, I’ll be frank, things aren’t that good. It would, I think, be worth making some serious efforts to that end. I don’t think much would be necessary. Why, something small but nice, a nice final note, something to leave a pleasant memory. Could you manage something like that? Would you like to visit me?”
He didn’t manage to answer. The bell in the belfry began to toll deafeningly, striking ten times. Then trumpets sounded a loud, brassy and slightly cacophonous fanfare. The crowd of guests was parted by blue and red guardsmen forming a double file. The marshal of the court appeared beneath the portico in the entrance to the palace wearing a gold chain around his neck and holding a staff as a big as a fence post. Behind him strode heralds and behind the heralds, seneschals. And behind the seneschals, wearing a sable calpac and holding a sceptre, marched Belohun, King of Kerack, in bony and wiry person. At his side walked a willowy young blonde in a veil, who could only have been the royal betrothed, and in the very near future his wife and queen. The blonde was wearing a snow-white dress and was bedecked in diamonds, perhaps rather too lavishly, in a rather nouveau-riche and rather tasteless style. Like the king, she bore on her shoulders an ermine cloak which was held by pages.
The royal family followed on behind the royal couple, at least a dozen paces behind the pages holding the train, which spoke volumes about their status. Egmund was there, naturally, and beside him a man as fair-skinned as an albino, who could only have been his brother Xander. Beyond the brothers walked the rest of the relatives: several men, several women, and a few teenaged boys and girls, evidently the king’s legitimate and illegitimate offspring.
Amid the bowing male and low-curtsying female guests, the royal procession reached its destination, which was a raised platform somewhat resembling a scaffold. Two thrones had been placed on the platform, which was roofed over by a canopy and covered at the sides by tapestries. The king and the bride sat down on the thrones. The rest of the family had to stand.
The trumpets assaulted the ears a second time with their brassy braying. The marshal of the court—brandishing his arms like a conductor in front of an orchestra—encouraged the guests to shout, cheer and toast the duo. The guests and courtiers tried to outdo each other by showering the soon-to-be-wed couple from all sides with wishes for eternal good health, happiness, success, long, longer and even longer lives. King Belohun maintained his haughty and huffy expression, and only demonstrated his pleasure with the good wishes, compliments and praises being sung to him and his bride-to-be by subtle twitches of his sceptre.
The marshal of the court silenced the guests and gave a long speech, smoothly shifting from grandiloquence to bombast and back again. Geralt devoted all his attention to watching the crowd, hence he only listened with half an ear. King Belohun—the marshal of the court proclaimed to all and sundry—was genuinely glad that so many people had come, was overjoyed to welcome everybody on such an auspicious occasion and wished them precisely the same as they wished him. The wedding ceremony would be taking place in the afternoon, and until then the guests were invited to eat, drink and be merry and avail themselves of the numerous attractions planned for the event.
The braying of the trumpets proclaimed the end of the official part. The royal procession began to leave the gardens. Among the guests, Geralt had managed to observe several small groups behaving quite suspiciously. One group in particular bothered him, because they hadn’t bowed to the procession as low as the others and were attempting to shove their way towards the palace gate. He drifted towards the double file of soldiers in blue and red. Lytta walked beside him.
Belohun strode with his eyes fixed straight ahead. The bride-to-be was looking around, occasionally nodding at the guests greeting her. A gust of wind raised her veil for a moment. Geralt saw her large blue eyes. He saw those eyes suddenly find Lytta Neyd amid the throng. And saw the eyes light up with hatred. Pure, unadulterated, distilled hatred.
It lasted a second and then the trumpets resounded, the procession passed and the guardsmen marched on. The suspiciously behaving little group had, as it turned out, only been aiming at the table laden with wine and hors d’oeuvres, which they besieged and stripped ahead of the other guests. Performances began on makeshift stages dotted here and there: musicians played fiddles, lyres, pipes and recorders, and choirs sang. Jugglers took turns with tumblers, strongmen made way for acrobats, and tightrope walkers were replaced by scantily clad dancers with tambourines. People became merrier and merrier. The ladies’ cheeks began to glow, the gentlemen’s foreheads to glisten with sweat, and the speech of both the former and the latter became very loud. And somewhat incoherent.
Lytta pulled him beyond a pavilion. They surprised a couple that had concealed themselves there for explicitly sexual purposes. The sorceress wasn’t bothered and paid almost no attention to them.
“I don’t know what’s afoot,” she said. “And I don’t know why you’re here, though I can guess. But keep your eyes open and anything you do, do with prudence. The royal betrothed is none other than Ildiko Breckl.”
“I won’t ask you if you know her. I saw that look.”
“Ildiko Breckl,” Coral repeated. “That’s her name. She was turfed out of Aretuza in the third year. For petty theft. She’s done well for herself, as you can see. She didn’t become a sorceress, but she’ll be a queen in a few hours. The cherry on the tart, dammit? She’s only meant to be seventeen. The old fool. Ildiko is a good twenty-five.”
“And appears not to like you.”
“The feeling’s mutual. She’s a born schemer, trouble always follows her around. But that’s not all. The frigate that sailed into the harbour under black sails? I know what she is, I’ve heard about her. She’s the Acherontia. And is extremely infamous. Wherever she appears something happens.”
“What, for example?”
“She has a crew of mercenaries who can allegedly be hired to do anything. And what do you hire mercenaries for? Bricklaying?”
“I have to go. Forgive me, Coral.”
“Whatever occurs,” she said slowly, looking him in the eyes, “whatever happens, I can’t be embroiled in it.”
“Never fear. I don’t mean to ask for your help.”
“You misunderstood me.”
“No doubt. Forgive me, Coral.”
Just beyond the ivy-grown colonnade he bumped into Mozaïk coming the other way. Astonishingly calm and cool among the heat, hubbub and commotion.
“Where’s Dandelion? Did he leave you?”
“He did,” she sighed. “But excused himself politely and also asked me to apologise to you. He was invited to perform in private. In the palace chambers, for the queen and her ladies-in-waiting. He couldn’t refuse.”
“Who asked him?”
“A man with a soldierly look. And a strange expression in his eyes.”
“I have to go. Forgive me, Mozaïk.”
A small crowd had gathered beyond the pavilion, which was decorated with colourful ribbons. Food was being served: pasties, salmon and duck in aspic. Geralt cleared a path for himself, looking out for Captain Ropp or Ferrant de Lettenhove. Instead he ran straight into Febus Ravenga. The restaurateur resembled an aristocrat. He was dressed in a brocade doublet, while his head was adorned with a hat bearing a plume of ostrich feathers. He was accompanied by Pyral Pratt’s daughter, chic and elegant in a black male outfit.
“Oh, Geralt,” said Ravenga, looking pleased. “Antea, let me introduce you: Geralt of Rivia, the famous witcher. Geralt, this is Madam Antea Derris, commercial agent. Have a glass of wine with us …”
“Forgive me but I’m in a hurry,” he apologised. “I’m aware of Madam Antea, although I haven’t met her personally. In your shoes, I wouldn’t buy anything from her, Febus.”
The portico over the palace entrance had been decorated by some scholarly linguist with a banner reading CRESCITE ET MULTIPLICAMINI. And Geralt was stopped by crossed halberd shafts.
“No entry.”
“I have to see the royal instigator urgently.”
“No entry.” The commander of the guard emerged from behind the halberdiers. He was holding a half-pike in his left hand. He aimed the dirty index finger of his right hand straight at Geralt’s nose. “No entry, do you understand, sire?”
“If you don’t take that finger away from my face, I’ll break it in several places. Ah, precisely, that’s much better. And now take me to the instigator.”
“Whenever you happen upon guards there’s always a row,” said Ferrant de Lettenhove from behind the Witcher. He must have followed Geralt. “It’s a grave character flaw. And may have disagreeable consequences.”
“I don’t like it when anybody bars my way.”
“But that’s what guards and sentries are for, after all. They wouldn’t be necessary if there was free entry everywhere. Let him through.”
“We have orders from the king himself.” The commander of the guard frowned. “We’re to admit no one without being searched!”
“Then search him.”
The search was thorough and the guardsmen took it seriously. They searched him thoroughly, not limiting themselves to a cursory pat. They didn’t find anything, Geralt hadn’t taken the dagger he usually carried stuck down his boot to the wedding.
“Happy?” asked the instigator, looking down at the commander. “Now step aside and let us through.”
“May Your Excellency forgive me,” the commander drawled. “The king’s order was unequivocal. It applied to everyone.”
“Whatever next? Don’t forget yourself, lad! Do you know who stands before you?”
“Everyone is to be searched,” said the commander, nodding towards the guardsmen. “The order was clear. Please don’t make problems, Your Excellency. For us … or for yourself.”
Season of Storms Page 29
