Not only did The Owl remain sitting, he never even took his legs off the table. He waved his hand briefly, a very stately gesture. ‘Finally,’ he said sullenly. ‘You’ve made me wait a long time for you, Silifant.’
‘Long?’ Dacre Silifant laughed. ‘That's a good one. You, Stefan, gave me four weeks time to find you about a dozen of the top guys in the Empire and its surroundings. I've brought you a crew that couldn’t be matched even with a year of recruiting! Is that not praise worthy, eh?’
‘Let's wait with the praise,’ said Skellen coldly, ‘until I've inspected your crew.’
‘I'm immediately concerned: They’re both mine and yours now, Mr. Skellen. Lieutenants, Neratin Ceka and Dufficey Kriel’
‘Greetings, greetings.’ The Owl finally decided to stand up, and his aides did likewise. ‘Make yourselves known, gentlemen… Bert Brigden, Ola Harsheim.’
‘We know each other well.’ Dacre Silifant said, as he and Ola Harsheim vigorously shook hands. ‘We crushed the rebellion under the old Braibant in Nazair. That was great, eh, Ola? Ah, classic! The horses were up to their fetters in blood! And Mr. Brigden is, if I'm not mistaken, from Gemmera? Of the Gemmeran Pacifiers? Well, he has friends in the crew! I've got some Pacifiers.’
‘I'm very excited to have a look at them,’ added The Owl. ‘Shall we go?’
‘Just a moment,’ said Dacre. ‘Neratin, go and tell the crew that they need to make a great impression during for the Lord Coroner’s inspection.’
‘Is that a him or a her, Neratin Ceka?’ The Owl's eyes narrowed as he watched the officer leave. ‘Is it a woman or a man?’
‘Mr. Skellen…’ Dacre Silifant cleared his throat, but when he spoke, his voice was sure and his eyes were cold. ‘That I do not know. Apparently it is a man, but I have not verified the claim. On the other hand, of Neratin Ceka’s qualities as an officer, I have no doubts. What you asked would be important if I wanted to court him. But I do not want to court him. Or her either, I suppose.’
‘You're right,’ admitted Skellen after a short deliberation. ‘There's nothing more to say. Let’s have a look at your crew, Silifant.’
Neratin Ceka, the individual of undetermined gender, had lost no time. When Skellen and his officers stepped into the courtyard, the division had assumed a well organized line formation. Neither a horse's head nor single foot stuck out as a prominent feature. The Owl cleared his throat for silence. What a nasty mob, he thought. Oh, if policy did not prohibit… Together such a mob could go into the border countries and rob, murder, rape and sow conflict… enough to make one feel young again… Oh, if only policy allowed it!
‘Well, Mr. Skellen?’ inquired Dacre Silifant, his flushed face with hidden enthusiasm. ‘How do you find them, my great Owl?’
The Owl let his gaze roam from face to face, from silhouette to silhouette. Some he knew personally – for better or for worse. Others he knew because he had heard of them, of their reputations.
Til Echrade, the bright-haired elf scout from the Gemmeran Pacifiers. Rispat La Pointe, a sergeant from the same company. And another gem: Cyprian Fripp the Younger. Skellen had been present at the execution of the elder. Both brothers were rumoured to have sadistic tendencies.
Then, casually and crookedly sitting in the saddle of a piebald mare was Chloe Stitz, a professional thief, who was occasionally hired and used by the Secret Services. The Owl quickly looked away from her brazen gaze and mischievous smile.
Andres Vierny, a Redanian Nordling and a butcher. Stigward, a pirate and a renegade from the Skellig Islands. Dede Vargas, a devil of an assassin. Cabernet Turent, a murderer of passion.
And others. All similar. They are all alike, thought Skellen. A brotherhood whose members had all killed at least five people. All of them are akin to each other. The same movements, the same gestures, the same kind of talk, walk, and dress.
The same eyes. Indifferent and cold, flat and motionless like snake eyes, whose expression would change for nothing, not even the most egregious atrocities.
‘Well? Mr. Stefan?’
‘Not bad. Not a bad crew, Silifant.’
Dacre flushed again and saluted in the Gemmeran way, knocking his fist to his chest.
‘In particular,’ Skellen reminded him, ‘I requested a few who are familiar with magic. That fear neither magic nor sorcerers.’
‘I've taken it into consideration. Indeed, here is Til Echrade! And another beside him there, the classy Miss on the tall chestnut mare, next to Chloe Stitz.’
‘Bring the latter to me.’
The Owl leaned on the railing, tapping it with the studded shaft of his whip. ‘Greetings, folks!’
‘Greetings, Mr. Coroner!’
‘Many of you,’ continued Skellen, as the echo of many greetings died down, ‘have previously worked with me, for me or under my orders. For those who do not know me, let me explain what I expect from my people and what I do not tolerate from my people. Know that I am not speaking to just to hear the sound of my own voice.’
‘Even today some of you will get jobs to start tomorrow morning. In the territory of Ebbing. I remember that Ebbing is officially an autonomous kingdom, and that we have no right to take violent action there, so I order that you will proceed with caution and discretion. You stand in the Imperial Service, but I forbid you to imagine that is a reason for you to brag and to treat the local authorities arrogantly. I prohibit anyone to display such behaviour. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, commander, sir!’
‘Here in Rocayne we are guests, and I expect you to act like guests. I prohibit you to leave your assigned quarters without a compelling reason. I prohibit you to contact anyone outside of the fort. Well, the officers will think of something to keep you from cracking out of boredom. Mr. Harsheim, Mr. Brigden, please point to the division to their accommodations!’
* * *
‘I had hardly dismounted, High Tribunal, when Dacre grabbed my arm. ‘Lord Skellen,’ he says, ‘wants to talk to you, Kenna.’ So we went. The Owl was sitting with his feet up on a table, tapping his whip against his boot tops. And he bursts out with the same question – whether I am the Joanna Selborne who was involved in the disappearance of the ship Star of the South. Then I told him that I had nothing to prove. He started laughing. ‘I like,’ he says, ‘people who have nothing to prove.’ Then he asked if I have an innate PPS talent. When I confirmed this, he turned serious and said, ‘I thought to use your talents on the magicians, but first you'll have to deal with another person, a person who is no less mysterious.’’
‘Is the witness is sure that Coroner Skellen used those exact words?’
‘Yes. I'm psionic.’
‘Continue please.’
‘Then a messenger interrupted us. He was very dusty and you could see that he had not spared his horse. He had urgent news for The Owl, so Silifant Dacre takes me to the stables and tells me he has a feeling we will spend the evening in the saddle, due to the messenger. And right he was, High Tribunal. Before anyone could even think about dinner, half of the division was already on horseback. I was lucky – they took Til Echrade, the Elf. And I was glad too, because I was saddle sore for the next few days and my butt hurt me something horrible… And just then I started to menstruate…’
‘The witness will not include vivid depictions of their own intimate feelings. And stay on topic. When did the witness discover the identity of this ‘mysterious person’, mentioned by the Coroner Skellen?’
‘I will tell you, but I must tell it in the proper sequence, or else everything will become so complicated that you will not be able to understand it! Back then, those who had to hurry to the horses before dinner were hunters. They rode from Rocayne to Malhoun, and they returned from there with some adolescent…’
* * *
Nycklar was furious with himself, so much so that he really would have loved to just get up and leave.
If only he had remembered the warnings that reasonable people had given him! Or even if he would ha
ve remembered the proverbs, specifically the tale of the raven, who could not keep his beak shut! If only he had just done what was he had to do and returned home to Jealousy! But no! Excited by pride, adventure, riding a horse, and a purse decorated with coins, Nycklar had not been able to resist the chance to shine. Instead of returning directly from Claremont to Jealousy, he had ridden to Malhoun, where he had many friends, many of whom were young ladies he was courting. In Malhoun he puffed himself up like a gander in the spring, clamoured, blustered, and galloped across the green He bought the bar rounds in the tavern and threw money around with a straight face, as he was a prince of the blood, or at least a count.
And he talked.
He told them what had happened four days earlier in Jealousy. He told it all, then changed to the long-nose version, exaggerated, fabled, and finally downright lied – which did not disturb the audience at all. The regulars of the pub, locals, and newcomers listened all too readily. And Nycklar was well informed. And he put more and more his own person in the centre of his inventions.
On the third evening his own tongue brought him trouble.
Dead silence fell at the sight of the people who entered the tavern. The silence was broken only by the sounds of the clink of spurs, the clatter of metal buckles, and the crunching of boots. The sounds were like the ominous bells that ring down from a tower before tragedy strikes a village.
Nycklar did not even get a chance to play the hero. He was packed so quickly out of the tavern that it was argued he had probably only touched the floor with his heels three times. His acquaintances, who the day before, when they were drinking at his expense, had declared friendship unto death, now silently lowered their heads almost under the table top, as if under the tables naked women danced or some other wonder demanded their attention. Even the deputy representative of the sheriff, who was present in the tavern, turned to the wall and said not a peep.
Nycklar also said not a peep, not asking who, what, where or why. The horror had transformed his tongue into a stiff, dry peg.
They put him on his horse and bade him ride. For several hours. Then there was a fort with stockade and tower. A yard full of arrogant, noisy, well armed soldiers. And a study. Three people in the room. A leader and two subordinates, which was immediately obvious. The leader, who was somewhat short, dark, and richly dressed, spoke with astonishing politeness. Nycklar’s mouth dropped when he heard the leader apologize for the trouble and inconvenience, and ensure him that no harm would be done. But he was not fooled. These people reminded him very much of Bonhart.
The impression proved to be surprisingly accurate. For these people were looking for Bonhart specifically. Nycklar, as might have been expected, since it was indeed his own tongue that had got him into this predicament, immediately began to talk when prompted.
He was warned to tell the truth and to not embellish anything. He was warned politely, but sternly and emphatically. The richly dressed man was the one who gave him these warnings; he constantly played with a metal-tipped whip and his eyes were disgusting and evil.
Nycklar, the son of the coffin-maker from the village of Jealousy, told the truth – the whole truth and nothing but the truth. He told of the morning of the ninth of September in Jealousy, when the bounty hunter Bonhart had exterminated the whole gang of Rats, sparing only one bandit’s life – the youngest of them, who was called Falka. He told how the people of Jealousy had gathered to see how Bonhart would finish and execute the prisoner, but crowd was deceived, because miraculously, Bonhart did not execute Falka – he didn’t even torture her! He did nothing to her, not even as much as an ordinary guy does to his wife on Saturday night when he comes home from the pub – that is to say, a few kicks, a couple to the face – and nothing more.
The richly dressed gentleman ceased playing with the whip as Nycklar told of how Bonhart later sectioned off the heads of the slain Rats before Falka’s eyes, and how he tore off the heads’ gold earrings like he was picking raisins from a cake. How Falka, tied to the hitching posts, had tossed back and forth vomiting at this sight.
He told how Bonhart had then garnished Falka with a collar, like the collar of a bitch, and tugged her into The Chimera’s Head. And then…
* * *
‘And then,’ said the lad, as he licked his lips over and over again, ‘the noble gentleman Bonhart ordered beer, because he had gotten into terrible sweat and his throat was parched. Then he suddenly cried that he would like to give someone a good horse and a full five florens in cash. That’s how he said it, with those exact words. I immediately reported so no one could volunteer for the opportunity before me, and because I was very keen on a horse and a bit of money. My father drank away all of the money he earned with the coffins. So I reported to him and asked which horse I could take, certainly one of the Rats’? The noble gentleman Bonhart looked at me, a look that made a chill run down my spine, and I said could take a kick in the ass, but that I would have to earn the other things. What could I do? A horse at my fingertips, quite literally, for the horses of the Rats were tethered to the post. Specifically, I wanted Falka’s black mare – a uniquely beautiful animal. So I bowed and asked what I should do to earn them. And Lord Bonhart replied that I should ride to Claremont, stopping in Fano on the way. On whichever horse I wanted. Though he must have known I had my eye on the black mare, because he prohibited me from taking it. So I took the mare with the blaze on her…’
‘Less colours of horses,’ Stefan Skellen admonished him dryly. ‘More concrete facts. What did Bonhart give to you?’
‘The noble gentleman Bonhart wrote letters and told me to take very good care of them. I was to hand deliver them over to people in Fano and Claremont.’
‘Letters? What did they say?’
‘How would I know that, sir? I couldn’t read them because they were sealed. Sealed by the ring of the Lord Bonhart.’
‘But do you remember who the letters were addressed to?’
‘Yes indeed, I do. Lord Bonhart made me repeat it ten times so I wouldn’t forget. I rode with no detours, and hand delivered the letters to the correct people personally. Both told me that I'm a bright lad, and this noble businessman Lord even gave me a penny…’
‘To whom did you hand over the letters? Stop your incoherent rambling!’
‘The first letter was sent to Master Esterhazy, a swordsmith and ironsmith in Fano. And the second to the noble Lord Houvenaghel, a merchant in Claremont.’
‘Did they perhaps open the letters in your presence? Maybe someone said something after reading? Think hard, boy.’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t pay attention at the time, and I can’t remember anything now…’
‘Ola, Mun.’ Skellen nodded to his adjutants, without raising his voice in the least. ‘Pull down the lad’s pants. I plan to leave about thirty whip marks.’
‘I remember,’ cried the lad. ‘It just came back to me!’
‘There is nothing better to recall memories’ – The Owl showed his teeth – ‘than nuts with honey or a whip on the ass. Start talking.’
‘In Claremont, the businessman Lord Houvenaghel read the letter out loud because there was another gentleman there – a little, pure halfling. To whom the Lord Houvenaghel said… uh… He said that at any moment there would be a rush to the bank, such as the world has not yet seen. That’s what he said!’
‘That’s all you can remember?’
‘By my mother's grave, I swear it! Please don’t beat me, sir! Have mercy!’
‘Well, well, get up. Don’t lick my boots! Here, have a penny.’
‘Thanks a million… Sir…’
‘I said, do not lick my boots. Ola, Mun, what do you make of it? What does a bank…’
‘Panic,’ Boreas Mun said suddenly. ‘Not a rush, but panic.’
‘Yes,’ cried the lad. ‘That's what he said! It’s as if you were there, sir!’
‘Panic and rush!’ Ola Harsheim pounded his fist into his palm. ‘A decent cipher, but not overly imag
inative. The word ‘rush’, or ‘panic’, is a warning against trackers or a raid. Bonhart has warned them that they should prepare for it! But from whom? Who is ahead of us?’
‘Who knows,’ The Owl said thoughtfully. ‘Who knows. We will have to send people to Claremont… And also to Fano. You’re in charge of it, Ola. Have the groups split the duties… So listen, boy…’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘While you were setting off to deliver Bonhart’s letters, he, I suppose, remained in Jealousy? But he was preparing to leave? Was he in a hurry? Did he perhaps say where he was going?’
‘He did not. But he wouldn’t have been ready to leave right away. He had commanded that his outer clothing, which was terribly stained with blood, was to be washed and cleaned, so he ran around in just his shirt, trousers, and sword belt. Nevertheless, I think he was in a hurry. He had killed the Rats and cut off their heads for a reward, and he had to ride off in order to turn them in. And in order to turn in this Falka he had captured alive for someone. That's his job, right?’
‘This Falka… Did you get a good look at her? What are you smirking at, you fool?’
‘Oh, sir! Did I get a good look at her? You bet! With all the details!’
* * *
‘Take off your clothes,’ repeated Bonhart. There was something in his voice that made Ciri flinch instinctively. But immediately rebellion won.
‘No!’
She never even saw the movement of his fist, which caught her in the eye. Her eyes flashed and the earth began to shake, giving way under her feet and slamming into her suddenly painful hip. Her cheeks and ears burned like fire – she realized that she had not been hit with a fist, but with the flat back of a hand.
He stood over her, holding his clenched fist to her face. She saw a heavy signet ring in the form of a skull, which had just stung her face like a hornet.
‘Since you didn’t lose a front tooth this time,’ he said with icy voice. ‘The next time that I hear the word ‘No’ from you, I will knock out both of them. Take off your clothes.’
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 05] Page 13
