‘It is not,’ interrupted the blacksmith. ‘Not at all. The investigations and actions with which the name is associated are also not strange to me. But here we are in Ebbing, a kingdom with its own government and autonomy. Even if only in appearance. Therefore, I will tell you nothing. Go on your way. As consolation, I promise that if someone should ask about you in a week or a month, they will learn nothing from me either.’
‘But, Mr. Esterhazy…’
‘Do you want it more clearly? Here you go – Get out of here!’
Chloe Stitz hissed angrily, Fripp’s and Vargas’ hands crawled toward their sword handles, and Andres Vierny's hand rested on the war hammer hanging at his hip. Neratin Ceka did not move, not even his face twitched. Kenna saw him turn an eye to the bone whistle. Before they had entered, Boreas Mun had warned them – the sound of the whistle was a signal to call hidden security guards on warhorses, who were employed by the factory as ‘quality inspectors’.
But Neratin and Boreas had anticipated and planned for all of this. They still had a trump card in reserve.
Kenna Selborne. The psionic.
Kenna had already probed the blacksmith, had carefully felt his pulses, and had cautiously advanced into the thicket of his thoughts. Now she was ready. With the cloth over her nose – there was always the danger of bleeding – she urged the pulsating, imperious will of his mind. Esterhazy began to choke and turned red. He grabbed the top of the table he was sitting at with both hands, as if he feared the table would fly away to warmer regions – along with a bundle of bills, an inkwell, and a paperweight in the shape of a sea nymph holding two tritons.
Quietly ordered Kenna, nothing, nothing is happening. You just want to tell us what interests us. You know, what interests us, and you already want to push the words out of you. So go ahead. Go on. You'll see that once you begin to talk, there will no longer sounds in your head, pounding at your temples and in your ears until you can no longer stand it. And the convulsion in the cheek will go away.
‘Bonhart’ said Esterhazy with croaking voice, lacking the usual syllable articulation, ‘was here four days ago, on the twelfth of September. He had brought a girl with him, which he called Falka. I had expected their visit, because two days earlier I had received a letter from him…’
A thin line of blood started to run from his left nostril.
Speak, ordered Kenna. Speak. Tell me everything. You'll see that it is easier for you.
* * *
The swordsmith Esterhazy looked curiously at Ciri, without getting up from behind the oak table. ‘For her,’ he guessed, as he tapped the barrel of his pen to his paper weight, which was a strange figure. ‘The sword that you asked for in your letter is for her. Is that correct, Bonhart? Well then, let's assess… check to see if this matches with what you wrote. Size is five foot nine inches… Right. Hundred and twelve ounces of weight… Well, we could give her less than one hundred and twelve, but that's beside the point. A handle, have you written, to fit a size-five glove… Let's see those hands, young lady… Well, you were right there.’
‘I always am,’ said Bonhart dryly. ‘Do you have any decent iron for them?’
‘In my business,’ Esterhazy replied proudly, ‘we do not offer anything that is made with iron that is not decent. I understand that you require a sword for a fight, not for a stroll. Oh yes, you've already written that. No question, a weapon for this young lady can be easily found. This weight and size of thirty inches fits a standard sword. For the light body and the little hand she needs a mini hybrid with a nine inch extended handle and ball knob. We could also offer her an Elven-Taldaga, or a Zerrikanian Sabre, or a Viroledaner…’
‘Show us the goods, Esterhazy.’
‘Do we have ants in our pants? Well, then we want… We want… hold on, Bonhart? What the hell? Why are you leading her on a leash?’
‘Keep your nose to yourself, Esterhazy. Don’t stick it where it does not belong, or else you might lose it!’
Esterhazy played with the whistle hanging around his neck and looked at the bounty hunter without fear or respect, even though he had to look up sharply.
Bonhart twirled his moustache and cleared his throat. ‘I,’ he said more quietly, but still angrily, ‘Do not interfere in your affairs and interests. Does it surprise you that I expect the same thing from you?’
‘Bonhart,’ – the swordsmith did not quiver or whimper -’if you leave my house and my yard, if you close my door behind you, then I will respect your privacy, the confidentiality of your interests, and the specificity of your profession. And I'm not going to be poking my nose into them, you can be sure. However, in my house, I do not permit human dignity to be violated. Do you understand me? Beyond my door, you can drag this little girl behind horses if it suits you. But in my house you will take off that collar. Now.’
Bonhart grabbed the collar and loosened it, but he did not fail to first jerk it so violently that Ciri nearly fell to her knees.
Esterhazy acted as if he had not seen and let go of the whistle. ‘That's better,’ he said. ‘Let's go.’
They went through a small gallery into another, slightly smaller courtyard, adjoining the rear of the forge on one side and an orchard on the other. Under a roof supported by carved posts was a table where servants waited, ready to design swords. Esterhazy gestured for Bonhart and Ciri to approach the table.
‘Please, this is what I have to offer.’
So they went.
‘Here’ – Esterhazy pointed at the long series of swords on the table -’we have my production, mainly all forged here. You can see the horseshoe, my blacksmith’s mark. Prices range from five to nine florens, because the swords are standard. Over here, on the other hand, we have swords I have only assembled or trimmed. For the most part, they are imports. Which you can see by the blacksmith marks. Those hallmarked with crossed hammers are from Mahakam, those with the head with a crown or a horse from Poviss, and those with a sun from the famous inscription firms of Viroleda. Prices start at ten florens.’
‘And at the end?’
‘It depends. Take for example this beautiful Viroledaner. ‘ Esterhazy took the sword from the table, saluted it, and then went into a fencing position where he moved the hand and forearm in a complicated trick called Moving the Angel. ‘It cost fifteen. An old work and the pommel is a collector's item. One can see that it was made to order. The motif engraved on the vessel indicates that it was intended for a woman.’ He turned the sword, holding it in his hand so that the flat of the blade was visible to them. ‘The traditional inscription describes how to handle a Viroledaner: ‘Not without reason drawn from the sheath, not without honour.’ Ha! In Viroleda such regulations are still engraved. But all over the country, such blades are drawn by crooks and fools.’
‘And as the country's honour has fallen down, so has the price, because these days hardly anyone wants these goods…’
‘Do not talk so much, Esterhazy. Give her the sword, she should try it in her hand. Take the weapon, girl.’
Ciri took the light sword and immediately felt the sure grip in her palm. The weight of the blade melted and invited her arm to cock and to strike.
‘It's a mini-bastard,’ she unnecessarily explained to Esterhazy. She could deal with the longer handle and three fingers on the ball knob.
Bonhart took two steps back into the yard. He drew his sword from its scabbard and made a dashing cut through the air. ‘Come on!’ he said to Ciri. ‘Kill me. You have a sword. You have an opportunity. You have a chance. Use it, for you will not get a second any time soon.’
‘Have you gone mad?’
‘Shut your mouth, Esterhazy.’
She deceived him with a sidelong glance, misled him with a shrug of the shoulder, and then struck like a bolt of lightning from a flat Sinister. The blade struck his parry, which was so strong that Ciri faltered and had to jump back, bumping her hip against the table with the swords. As she tried to keep her balance, she instinctively lowered her sword �
�� they both knew that at this moment, if he had wanted to, he could easily have killed her.
‘Have you all gone mad?’ Esterhazy raised his voice; the whistle was back in the hands of the gnomish looking man. Servants and workmen looked on stunned.
‘Put away the iron.’ Bonhart said, not looking away from Ciri. He did not pay any attention to the swordsmith at all. ‘Put it away, I said. Otherwise, I will cut off your hands!’
After a moment of brief hesitation, she complied.
Bonhart smiled eerily. ‘I know who you are, snake. But I'll make you to admit it yourself. With words or with deeds! I will force you to confess who you are. And then I'll kill you.’
Esterhazy hissed as if someone wounded him.
‘And that sword’ – Bonhart glanced at the piece -’is too heavy for you. So, you were too slow. You were as slow as a pregnant snail. Esterhazy! What you've given her was at least four ounces too heavy.’
The swordsmith was pale. His gaze wandered between her and Bonhart, back and forth, and he had a strange look on his face. Finally, he nodded to a servant and made arrangements in a low voice.
‘I have something,’ he said slowly, ‘that should satisfy you, Bonhart.’
‘So why did you not show it to me before?’ growled the bounty hunter. ‘I wrote that I wanted something exquisite. Did you think, perhaps, that I could not afford a better sword?’
‘I know what you can afford,’ Esterhazy said emphatically. ‘I learned it only a moment ago. And why I did not show it to you before? I could not know who you would bring me… leashed and collared. I could not imagine for whom the sword was for or for what purpose it was intended. Now I know everything.’
The servant came back, carrying an elongated display case.
‘Come here, girl,’ Esterhazy said quietly. ‘Look.’
Ciri approached. She looked. And sighed loudly.
* * *
She drew the sword with a rapid movement. The light of the fireplace shone red and sparkled brilliantly on the wavy edge of the blade.
‘This is it,’ said Ciri. ‘What do you think? Of course you can take it in your hand if you want. But beware, it is sharper than a razor. Do you feel how the handle sticks to the palm? It’s made from the skin of a flat fish, which has a poisonous sting in its tail.’
‘A ray.’
‘Maybe. This fish has very small teeth on its skin, so the handle does not slip out of your hand, even when you sweat. Look at what is etched on the blade.’
Vysogota leaned forward and looked down with his eyes screwed together in concentration.
‘An Elven Mandala,’ he said after a while and looked up. ‘A so-called Blathan Caerme, a sign of destiny: the stylized flowers of oak, spiraea and goat clover. The lightning struck tower is a symbol in the elder races of chaos and destruction… And on the tower…’
‘A swallow,’ concluded Ciri. ‘Zireael. My name.’
* * *
‘Indeed, not bad,’ said Bonhart eventually. ‘A Gnomish weapon – that can be seen immediately. Only the gnomes have forged such dark iron. Only the gnomes have sharpened flame-shaped blades, and only the gnomes have broken through the welds to reduce the weight… Admit it, Esterhazy. Is this an imitation?’
‘No,’ said the blacksmith. ‘An original. A real Gnomish-Gwyhyr. The knob is about two hundred years old. This version is, of course, much younger, but I would not call it an imitation. The gnomes of Tir Tochair made it on my order. According to the ancient techniques, methods, and patterns.’
‘Damn it. I actually might not be able to afford this sword. How much do you want for it?’
Esterhazy was silent for a while. His expression was inscrutable. ‘I ask nothing, Bonhart,’ he finally said flatly. ‘It is a gift. In order to fulfil what must be fulfilled.’
‘Thanks,’ replied Bonhart, visibly surprised. ‘Thank you, Esterhazy. A royal gift, truly regal… I guess so, yes. And I am in your debt.’
‘You are not. The sword is for her, not for you. Come here, girl with the collar. Look at the characters etched into the blade. You do not understand them, that's obvious. But I'll tell you. Look. The fate of pre-drawn line is crooked, but it leads to the tower here. To ruin, to the destruction of the existing values of the existing order. And here on the tower, you see? One swallow. The symbol of hope. Take this sword. May it fulfil what must be fulfilled.’
Ciri gently stretched out her hand and gently stroked the dark blade with edges like a shiny mirror.
‘Take it,’ Esterhazy said slowly, looking at Ciri with wide-open eyes. ‘Take it. Take it in your hand, girl. Take…’
‘No,’ Bonhart suddenly yelled. He jumped up, grabbed Ciri’s shoulder, and pushed her aside with a vengeance. ‘Away!’
Ciri fell to her knees and the gravel in the yard stuck painfully into her palms.
Bonhart slammed the box. ‘Not yet,’ he growled. ‘Not today! You are not yet ready.’
‘Obviously,’ Esterhazy agreed with him and looked into his eyes. ‘Yes, it is obvious she is not yet ready. Too bad.’
* * *
‘There wasn’t much useful information in the mind of the swordsmith, High Tribunal. We were there on the sixteenth of September, three days before full moon. But on our way back from Fano to Rocayne, we met up with a mounted Ola Harsheim, leading seven men – all that remained of the division. Because the day before, on the fifteenth of September, there had been a massacre in Claremont… of this I probably do not have to talk, since the High Tribunal surely knows about the massacre in Claremont…’
‘Please testify without worrying about what the Tribunal knows.’
‘Bonhart had anticipated us by a day. On the fifteenth of September he had brought Falka to Claremont…’
* * *
‘Claremont’ repeated Vysogota. ‘I know that town. Where did he take you?’
‘To a large house on the market square. With columns and arches at the entrance. You could see right away that a rich man lived there…’
* * *
The room’s walls were covered with rich tapestries and extremely ornate wall hangings, representing and depicting scenes from religion, hunting and rural life that involved women. The furniture shone with inlaid brass fittings, and the carpets were such that the foot sank to the ankle when one walked through them. But Ciri did not have time to notice these details because Bonhart walked through the room quickly, pulling her chain.
‘Hail, Houvenaghel.’
Rainbow-coloured light fell through a glass window and shone against a tapestry of hunting scenes. In front of the tapestry stood a massive, imposing man, dressed in a gold-embroidered jacket and a long, fur tunic. Although in the prime of his manhood, he was bald and his cheeks hung down like a bulldog’s.
‘Hail, Leo,’ he said. ‘And you, Miss…’
‘The young lady,’ Bonhart pointed to the chain and collar. ‘does not have to be greeted.’
‘Politeness costs nothing.’
‘Save your time.’ Bonhart pulled the chain, approached the man, and slapped the fat on his abdomen without further ado. ‘You have gained a great deal of weight,’ he said. ‘Really, Houvenaghel, it would be easier to jump over you than to go around you if you stood in the way.’
‘The good life.’ Houvenaghel said jovially and shook his cheeks. ‘Hail, Leo, welcome. You are a welcome guest, because I have ample reason to celebrate today. Business is going so amazingly well that you almost want to knock on wood – the cashier rings on and on! Only today, to give you an example fresh in my mind, I had a Nilfgaardian Captain of the Reserve, a quartermaster, sell me an equipment shipment from the front – six thousand warrior bows. I can charge ten times what I paid him by selling the bows to hunters, poachers, thieves, elves, and other freedom fighters. I also bought a castle at an inexpensive price from a local Marquis…’
‘What the hell are you doing with a castle?’
‘I must live representatively. Again, business is going well. Ther
e is one thing I actually owe to you. A seemingly hopeless debtor has paid. Literally a moment ago. His hands were shaking as he paid. The fellow had seen you and thought…’
‘I know what he thought. Did you receive my letter?’
‘Yes.’ Houvenaghel sat down heavily, hitting his stomach against the table so that the decanters and goblets clinked. ‘And I've prepared everything. Have you not seen the odds? She has certainly fulfilled the promise of drawing a crowd… People are already at the arena. The cash register is ringing… Sit down, Leo. We have time. Let us talk, have some wine…’
‘I do not want your wine. Which has certainly been stolen from one of the Nilfgaardian transports.’
‘You must be kidding. This is an Est Est Toussaint, and the grapes were prepared when our gracious Emperor Emhyr was a little kid, shitting in his little duvet diaper. A good year for wines… To your health, Leo.’
Bonhart silently saluted with his cup.
Houvenaghel began to cluck as he looked out over Ciri critically. ‘So this is the wide-eyed fawn,’ he said finally, ‘that the letter promised would guarantee entertainment? I've heard that Windsor Imbra is in town. And also that he has a few cutthroats with him…’
‘Have my goods ever disappointed you, Houvenaghel?’
‘No, that's right. But I also have had nothing from you for a long time.’
‘I work less often than I used to. I am looking for an opportunity to retire completely.’
‘This requires capital to accomplish. I might know of a possibility… Want to hear it?’
‘In the absence of other distractions.’ Bonhart shifted and swung his leg up on a chair, forcing Ciri to sit down.
‘Have you ever thought about leaving for the north? Up to Cintra, or on the North Case of the Yaruga? Did you know that anyone who drags themselves up there and settles in the conquered areas is guaranteed an allocation of four hides of land by the Empire? And ten years tax exemption?’
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 05] Page 15
