She rose unsteadily and began to unlace laces and open buttons with shaky hands. The nearby population of Jealousy’s The Chimera’s Head inn began to murmur, clear their throats, and stare. The inn’s landlady, a widow of the blaze, bent down behind the counter and pretended to be looking for something.
‘Take everything off. Even the last shreds.’
I am not here, thought Ciri while she undressed and stared dully at the floor. No one is here. I'm not even here.
‘Stand legs apart.’
I'm not here. What is happening right now is nothing to me at all. Nothing at all. I feel nothing.
Bonhart laughed. ‘I have the impression that you flatter yourself too much. I must dispel these fantasies. I’m having you disrobe, you idiot, so that I can be sure that you have not hidden any magical seals, talismans or amulets somewhere on your body. Not for me to enjoy the pathetic sight of your nudity. I can’t imagine who would. You're a scrawny adolescent, as flat as a pancake and as ugly as sin. Even if I were keen on those attributes, I think I'd rather fuck a turkey.’
He stepped closer and separated her clothes with his toe, looking appraisingly. ‘I said all of it! Rings, earrings, necklace, bangles!’
She hastily took off her jewellery. With a kick he pushed her blue fox collared jacket, her colourful scarves, her belts made of silver chains, and her gloves into a corner.
‘You aren’t going to doll yourself up like a parrot or a half-elf from a brothel! You can wear the rest of the clothes. And what you all gaping at? Someone bring me some food, because I am hungry! And you, fat man, look after my stuff at the laundry!’
‘I'm the Alderman here!’
‘That is good’ Bonhart said emphatically. Under his gaze the Alderman of Jealousy seemed to become thinner. ‘If the washing has damaged any of my stuff, I'll officially hold you accountable. March off to the laundry! The rest of you, get out of here! And you, boy, why are you still waiting around here? You have the letters and the horse is saddled, so get onto the road and gallop! And remember: If you do not keep your word, if you lose the letters lose or confuse the addresses – I will find you and arrange you so that even your own mother will not recognize you!’
‘On my way, sir! Incoming!’
* * *
‘That day’ – Ciri pursed her lips -’he hit me twice with his fist and belt. Then he lost interest. He just sat there and stared at me silently. His eyes were… something fish-like.’
‘No eyebrows, no eyelashes… Such aqueous globules, each sunk in a black core. He stared at me with those eyes and remained silent. It scared me more than the hitting. I had no idea what he planned.’
Vysogota remained silent. Mice ran through the cabin.
‘He constantly asked me who I was, but I said nothing. Like the time when I had been captured in the Pan of the Korath Desert, I fled deep into myself, if you know what I mean. It was as if I was a doll, a wooden puppet, and I was numb and dead to everything that happened to this doll. I looked down as if from above. What did it matter if he hit me, trampled on me, garnished me with a collar like a dog? That was not me. I was not there at all… Do you understand?’
‘I understand.’ Vysogota nodded. ‘I understand, Ciri.’
* * *
‘This time, High Tribunal, it was our turn. Our group. Neratin Ceka received our command and Boreas Mun was assigned our tracker. Boreas Mun, High Tribunal, could find the trail of a fish in water, it was said. What a tracker he was! It was said that he once…’
‘The witness should refrain from such digressions.’
‘What? Ah, yes… I see. So, we saddled the horses and rode to Fano. This was the morning of the sixteenth day of September…’
* * *
Neratin Ceka and Boreas Mun rode in front, behind them – side by side – were Cabernet Turent and Cyprian Fripp, following them were Kenna Selborne and Chloe Stitz , and in the rear rode Andres Vierny and Dede Vargas. The latter two sang a newly fashionable soldier's song, which had been funded and distributed by the War Ministry. Even the animals that lived in the barren wasteland the company travelled through were stung by the song’s terribly bitter rhymes and disarming disregard for the basics of grammar. It was titled ‘Yes, at the Front’, and all of the verses – there were over forty – started with those very words.
Yes, it happens at the front,
That time whoever lost his head,
Or on the morrow it turns out
Depends on the giblets you let out
Kenna whistled softly. She was satisfied that she had been able to stay with the good people she had met on the long journey from Aetolia had to Rocayne. After speaking with The Owl, she had rather expected to be assigned to random squad, such as the group consisting of people from Brigden and Harsheim. Til Echrade had been assigned to such a group, but the elf knew most of his new comrades, and they knew him.
Although Dacre Silifant had ordered them to ride with all speed, they rode at a walk. They were professionals. They galloped and spurted for as long as you could see them from the fort, then they slowed down. Crazy riding and galloping was fine for brats and amateurs, but haste, it is well known, is only appropriate if you’ve caught fleas!
Chloe Stitz, the professional thief from Ymlac, told Kenna of her previous collaboration with Coroner Stefan Skellen. Cabernet Turent and Fripp the Younger curbed their horses, frequently turning around and listening.
‘I know him well. I have already served under him a couple of times…’
Chloe stumbled a little as the double meaning of her own statement occurred to her, but she immediately forced an unconcerned smile. ‘Under his command, I served very well,’ she blurted out. ‘No, Kenna, do not worry. It is not mandatory with The Owl. He did not force me – I myself sought and found the opportunity. But to be clear I will tell you that protection is not obtained in this way, not with him.’
‘I've never done anything like that’ Kenna pursed her lips and looked defiantly into the grinning faces of Turent and Fripp. ‘I'm not looking for an opportunity or for protection. I am not so easily intimidated. Especially not by a cock!’
‘Let's not turn this into a cock fight, ladies,’ noted Boreas Mun, who had reined in his dun stallion, waiting for Chloe and Kenna. ‘Let us talk of something else,’ he continued, and rode along beside them. ‘Bonhart has no equal with the sword. I would be happy if it turned out there was no dispute or hostility between him and Mr. Skellen – if everything were to be resolved well.’
‘I'm not looking forward to fastening my sword belt,’ confessed Andres Vierny from behind. ‘I thought we’d be tracking the magician, since they’ve given us the psionic, this here Kenna Selborne. And now we're after Bonhart and some girl!’
‘Bonhart, the bounty hunter’ – Boreas Mun cleared his throat -’had a contract with Mr. Skellen. And he has broken it. Although he had promised Mr. Skellen that he would kill the girl, he left her alive.’
‘Certainly because someone else gave him more money for her alive than The Owl did for her dead,’ Chloe Stitz said, shrugging. ‘That's bounty hunters for you. No trace of honour!’
‘Bonhart was different,’ contradicted Fripp the Younger , his face turned backward. ‘It used to be his trademark that he had never broken his word.’
‘All the more strange that he suddenly starts now.’
‘But why?’ inquired Kenna, ‘Why is this girl is so important? Why should she have been killed, and why was she not?’
‘What do we care?’ Boreas Mun grimaced. ‘We have orders! And Mr. Skellen has the right to what is rightfully his. Bonhart should have made Falka cold, but he has not done so. Mr. Skellen demands accountability.’
‘This Bonhart’ repeated Chloe Stitz, full of conviction, ‘must be getting even more for her alive than for her dead. That's the whole secret.’
‘That was the Lord Coroner's first thought as well,’ said Boreas Mun, ‘Bonhart was hired by one of the Barons of Geso, who was terribly angry at the ban
d of Rats and promised a reward to whoever captured Falka alive – so he could slowly torture her to death. But it has been shown that it is not so. We do not know who Bonhart is saving this Falka for, but he is certainly not saving her for that Baron.’
* * *
‘Mr. Bonhart!’ The thick Alderman of Jealousy came storming into the inn, panting and gasping for air. ‘Mr. Bonhart, there are armed men in the village! They came riding in on horses!’
‘Well, something like that,’ Bonhart wiped his plate with bread. ‘would be miracle if they, say, came riding in on monkey-men. How many?’
‘Four.’
‘And where are my clothes?’
‘Only just washed… not yet dry…’
‘You can all go to the devil. Because I'm going to have to welcome the guests my underpants. Of course, such as the guests, such as the greeting.’
He moved his belt over his underwear, strapped on his sword, tucked the ends of his pants legs into his boot tops, then tightened Ciri's collar and pulled on the chain. ‘On your feet, little rat.’
By the time he brought her out on the porch, the four horsemen had already approached the inn. You could tell that they had travelled a long way through the wild – bedrolls, dishes, and horses were stained with dried mud and dust.
There were four of them, but they also led a packhorse. When Ciri saw this packhorse she suddenly became very hot, although the day was very cold. It was her white mare, still wearing her bridle and saddle. And her headband, a gift from Mistle. The mounted horsemen were the same that had killed Hotsporn.
They stopped in front of the inn. One, certainly the leader, came on, riding closer and greeting Bonhart with his marten fur cap. His skin was well tanned and he wore a black moustache that looked like someone had applied a line on his upper lip with charcoal. Ciri notice that he shrugged his upper lip again and again – a tick that made him look constantly angry. Perhaps he was.
‘Howdy, Mr. Bonhart!’
‘Howdy, Mr. Imbra. Hello to you, gentlemen.’ Without haste, Bonhart fixed Ciri's chain to a hook on the porch. ‘Forgive me for the inexplicable outfit in front of you, but I was not expecting you. You have come a long way… Did you drift up here to Ebbing from Geso? And how is the highly esteemed Baron? Is he in good health?’
‘He is flourishing with life,’ the tanned man replied indifferently, and then shrugged his upper lip. ‘But we have no time to waste with small talk. We're in a hurry.’
Bonhart pulled his belt and underpants. ‘Don't let me delay you.’
‘We heard that you've done in the Rats.’
‘That is true.’
‘And according to the promise that you gave the Baron’ – the tanned man continued his lip shrugging when he saw Ciri on the porch – ‘You have not killed Falka.’
‘Also, I believe, true.’
‘So you had all the luck, and we had none.’ The man glanced at the white mare. ‘Oh well. We’ll take the girl and ride home. Rupert, Stavro, take her.’
‘Easy, Imbra.’ Bonhart raised his hand. ‘You will not be taking anyone. For the simple reason that I will not be giving you anyone. I've changed my mind. I’m keeping the girl for my own use.’
The tanned man, who Bonhart called Imbra, leaned over in his saddle, coughed, and spat impressively far, almost to the stairs to the porch. ‘You promised the Baron!’
‘I did. But I've changed my mind.’
‘What? Did I hear that right?’
‘I do not care, Imbra, what you heard.’
‘For three days you were entertained in the castle. Because of the promise that you gave the Baron, you drank and ate for three days. The best wines from the cellar, roasted peacocks, venison, pies, pike in cream. For three nights you slept like a king in a bed of the best down. And now you've changed your mind? Yes?’
Bonhart remained silent, wearing an indifferent and bored expression.
Imbra gritted his teeth to suppress the twitch of his lip. ‘You realize, Bonhart, that we could take the Rat from you by force?’
Bonhart’s face, until then bored and amused, immediately became focused. ‘Try it. You are four, I am one. Moreover, I am in my underwear. But for you bastards I don’t need to wear pants.’
Imbra spat again, pulled on his reins, and turned his horse. ‘Ugh, Bonhart what's wrong with you? You were said to be a solid, true professional who infallibly kept his word. But now it turns out that your word is worth less than shit! And since you can judge a man according to his word, it follows that you yourself are worth…’
‘Be careful,’ Bonhart interrupted the speech in a cold voice, resting his hand on his belt buckle, ‘that you do not let anything too coarse slip out. Because it will hurt when I return it to you, stuffing it down your throat…’
‘You are courageous against four! But do you also have sufficient courage for fourteen? For I can assure you that Baron Casadei will not let this pass!’
‘I’d tell you I would come visit your Baron – if it were not for the people around him, among them women and children. So instead I tell you that I will remain for about ten days in Claremont. Any who want to take Falka away or take revenge on me are welcome to come to Claremont.’
‘I’ll be there!’
‘I'll be waiting. Now get out of here.’
* * *
‘They were afraid of him. Monstrously afraid. I could feel the fear that they exuded.’
Kelpie whinnied loudly and tossed her head back and forth.
‘There were four of them, armed to the teeth. And he was alone, in his underwear and a frayed short sleeve shirt. It would have been laughable if… if he had not been so terrible.’
Vysogota silently closed his eyes, which were watering from the wind. They stood on a hill that towered above the marshes of Pereplut, near the spot where the old man had found Ciri two weeks ago. The wind bent the reeds and made the water ripple on the flood plains of the river.
‘One of the four,’ continued Ciri, while they allowed the mare to go to the water and drink, ‘had a small crossbow on his saddle, and his hand crept towards it a bit. I could almost hear his thoughts and feel his dismay. ‘Can I manage to stretch the tendon? To shoot? And what if I am too slow?’ Bonhart also noticed this crossbow and the hand creeping toward it, and even guessed the rider’s thought like I did, I am sure. And I am sure that rider would not have been able to stretch the crossbow.’
Kelpie lifted her head and began to neigh, her teeth clinking on the bit.
‘I knew better. I, who had fallen into his hands. Though, I still did not understand his motives. Their conversation had reminded me of what Hotsporn had said earlier. This Baron Casadei wanted me brought to him alive, and Bonhart had promised to do so for him. But now Bonhart was ready to fight him for me. Why? Did he want to deliver me to someone who paid more? Had he somehow found out my secret, who I was in truth? And was he about to hand me over to the Nilfgaardians?’
‘We rode out from the settlement that evening. He allowed me to ride Kelpie. But my hands were handcuffed in front of me and he held me all the time with the collar and leash. All the time. We rode, almost without stopping, all night and all day. I thought I was dying of exhaustion. But somehow he was not tired at all. He was not a man. He was the devil incarnate.’
‘Where did he take you?’
‘To a place called Fano.’
* * *
‘When we arrived in Fano, High Tribunal, it was already dark, a darkness where your eyes couldn’t even see your head. It was actually only the sixteenth of September, but with a night like that – cursed, cloudy, and cold – one could think it was November. We didn’t need to look long to find the workshop of swordsmith, not only because it was the largest estate in the whole town, but also because it constantly produced the sound of hammering of steel. Neratin Ceka… Mr. Writer does not need to write down this name, because I don’t know if I had already said, but Neratin is no longer alive, he was killed in a village called One-Horn…’
‘Please do not instruct the minute-taker. Please continue in the statement.’
‘Neratin knocked on the gate. We were asked politely, who we were and what we wanted. We asked politely for a hearing. They let us in. The workshop of the swordsmith was a beautiful building, as well as a virtual fortress – a palisade of pine beams, oak turrets, interior walls made of brushed larch-wood…’
‘The court is not interested in architectural details. The witness may come to the point. But first I ask you to repeat the name of the sword smith for the record.’
‘Esterhazy, High Tribunal. Esterhazy of Fano.’
* * *
The swordsmith Esterhazy looked at Boreas Mun for a long time and did not hurry to answer to the question he had been asked.
‘Maybe Bonhart was here,’ he finally said, playing with a bone whistle that hung at his neck. ‘Or maybe he was not? Who knows? Ladies and gentlemen, this is a workshop that manufactures swords. For any matters relating to the swords, we will gladly give a fast, flowing and exhaustively thorough answer. But I see no reason to answer questions related to our guests and customers.’
Kenna pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and acted as if she was brushing her nose.
‘A reason can be found,’ said Neratin Ceka. ‘You can find it, Mr. Esterhazy. Or I can. Would you like to choose?’ Contrary to Neratin’s effeminate impression, his face could be hard and his voice threatening.
But the swordsmith just snorted as he played with his whistle. ‘Choose between bribery and threats? I would not like to. Both the one and the other are only worthy of spitting on.’
Boreas Mun cleared his throat. ‘Just a little information. Is that so much? We’ve known each other for some time, Mr. Esterhazy, and the name of Coroner Skellen is not strange…’
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 05] Page 14
