Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 05]

by The Tower of the Swallow (fan translation) (epub)

  ‘I,’ the bounty hunter replied calmly, ‘do not want to own a farm. I could not dig in the earth or breed cattle. I'm too sensitive. At the sight of an earthworm or shit, I throw up.’

  ‘Just like me.’ Houvenaghel wobbled his jaw. ‘On the whole, I still only tolerate illicit agriculture. The rest is repulsive. They say agriculture is the backbone of the economy and guarantees prosperity. I consider it to be unworthy and degrading to imply that my wealth is reliant on something that smells like dung. I have taken efforts in this respect. There is no obligation to till the land or keep cattle. It's enough to have it. If you develop it accordingly, you can collect a decent lease. You can believe me, it really is enough to live off. Yes, I have taken some efforts in this respect, so my question regarding a trip to the north still stands. Because you see, Bonhart, I have a job for you there. A permanent, well-paying job, which will be easy for you. And it is right up your alley: no shit, no worms.’

  ‘I'm willing to listen. Without obligations, of course.’

  ‘With a bit of entrepreneurial spirit and a low initial capital investment, one can put together some pretty decent large-scale plantations from the land-lots the Emperor gives to the settlers.’

  ‘I understand.’ The bounty hunter bit his moustache. ‘I understand where you're going. I know what efforts you undertake in respect to your prosperity. You reckon there will be no difficulties?’

  ‘Yes, but with two exceptions. First, we need to find people to hire to masquerade as settlers in the north and receive the land-lots. Pro forma for themselves, de facto, for me. But, since I am dealing with that, only the other difficulty concerns you.’

  ‘I'm all ears.’

  ‘Some of the settlers will take the land-lots and have no desire to part with them. They will forget about the contract they have with me and the money that they have received from me. You would not believe how deeply dishonesty, heartlessness, and rotten behaviour are anchored in human nature.’

  ‘I believe it.’

  ‘They must be convinced that dishonesty is not worthwhile. That they will be punished. That is where you come in.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘It is what it sounds like. I've already made a practice rotation. After the formal inclusion of Ebbing into the Empire, the land-lots were distributed. And later, when the law on collection in the city came into force. Such is Claremont, this pretty little town, on my land, so it belongs to me. This whole area belongs to me. Up there with blue-gray haze shrouded the horizon. That's all mine. Whole hundred and fifty hides. Imperial hides, no farm-allotments. That's nearly ten thousand yoke. Or eighteen thousand nine hundred general units.’

  ‘Oh lawless realm, the near demise,’ recited Bonhart ironically. ‘Fall the Empire must, steal it all. In self-interest and selfishness is its weakness.’

  ‘Therein lies its power and strength.’ Houvenaghel wobbled. ‘You, Bonhart, confuse theft with individual entrepreneurial spirit.’

  ‘All too often,’ the bounty hunter admitted calmly.

  ‘So what of our partnership?’

  ‘Aren’t we dividing up the land in the north a bit too early? Shouldn’t we play it safe and wait until Nilfgaard has won this war?’

  ‘Play it safe? Do not make jokes. The outcome of the war is predetermined. Wars are won with money. The Empire has what the North does not.’

  ‘Since we're talking about money…’

  ‘It's done.’ Houvenaghel rummaged in the documents on the table. ‘Here is a bank bill for one hundred florens. Here, the contract for the transfer of receivables from the Varnhagens of Geso to myself, based on the reward for the heads of the bandits. Please sign here. Thank you. A percentage of the revenues of the idea are for you, but invoices have not been completed, the cash register is still ringing. There is great interest in her, Leo. Very great. The people in my town suffer horribly from boredom and gloom.’ He paused and glanced at Ciri. ‘I sincerely hope that you are not mistaken in regards to this person. That she provides decent entertainment… That she cooperates in the common interest of the profits…’

  ‘For her’ – Bonhart looked at Ciri indifferently -’there is no profit here. You know that.’

  Houvenaghel frowned and looked indignant. ‘It is bad, hell, for her to know that! You should not have told her! What's wrong with you, Leo? And if she does not want to be entertaining, if she proves to be unreliable and malicious? What then?’

  Bonhart did not change his facial expression. ‘Then,’ he said, ‘we leave her in the arena and let your bulldogs at her. They were, as I recall, always reliable and entertaining.’

  * * *

  Ciri was silent for a long time, rubbing her disfigured cheek.

  ‘I began to understand,’ she said finally. ‘I began to be understood what they wanted to do with me. I tensed myself, determined to flee at the first opportunity… regardless of the risk. But they gave me no chance. They guarded me well.’ Vysogota remained silent.

  ‘They dragged me downstairs. Guests of this thick Houvenaghel were waiting there. Again nothing but eccentrics! Where in the world do so many strange oddities come from, Vysogota?’

  ‘You multiply. Natural selection.’

  * * *

  The first of the men was so short and stocky. He looked more like a halfling than a human being, and he was even dressed like a halfling – humble, nice, neat and in pastel shades. The other man, though elderly, had the clothing and stature of a soldier. He wore a sword, and on the shoulders of his black jacket flashed a silver brooch, depicting a dragon with bat wings. The woman was light-haired and thin, had a slightly hooked nose and thin lips. Her pistachio-coloured dress had a very low neckline. This was not a particularly good idea. There was not much cleavage to show, aside from wrinkled and dried skin, like parchment, which was covered with a thick layer of rouge and Blanche.

  ‘The highborn Marquise de-Nementh Uyvar’, presented Houvenaghel. ‘Mr. Declan aep Maelchlad Ros, Captain of the Reserve of his Imperial Majesty, the Emperor of Nilfgaard. Mr. Pennycuick, Mayor of Claremont. And this is Mr. Leo Bonhart, my cousin and longtime comrade-in-arms.’

  Bonhart bowed stiffly.

  ‘So this is the little bandit who should entertain us today,’ said the Marquise with her thin and pale blue eyes fixed on Ciri. Her voice sounded hoarse, horribly hung-over, and appalling. It vibrated lasciviously. ‘Not very nice, I'd say. But not badly built… I assume it's a very nice… body.’

  Ciri jerked around and pushed away the Marquise's outstretched hand, full of rage and hissing like a snake.

  ‘Please do not touch,’ Bonhart said coldly. ‘Do not feed. Do not irritate. I assume no responsibility if you do not obey my warnings.’

  ‘The body’ – the Marquise licked her lips, ignoring him -’can always be tied to the bed, then it is more accessible. Would you drain me of my fun, Mr. Bonhart? My Marquis and I love these kinds of bodies, but the Lord Houvenaghel reproaches us if we take the local shepherdesses and peasant children. The Marquis has no way to hunt for little children any more. He cannot run fast, because of the chancres and condylomata that flare up in him when he runs…’

  ‘Enough, enough, Mathilda,’ Houvenaghel said gently, but quickly, when he saw the disgusted expression on Bonhart’s face. ‘We must go to the arena. The Lord Mayor has just been reported that Windsor Imbra has arrived in the city with a detachment of servants of the Baron Casadei. So it's time for us to go.’

  Bonhart pulled a small bottle from his pocket, wiped his sleeve across the onyx plate of a little table, and poured a tiny mound of white powder on it. He pulled the chain attached to Ciri's collar.

  ‘You know how to use it?’

  Ciri clenched her teeth.

  ‘Take it through your nose. Or spit and wet your finger then rub it into your gums.’

  ‘No!’

  Bonhart did not even turn his head. ‘Either you will do it,’ he said softly, ‘or I will do it, but in a way that all attendees have their fu
n. You do not only have mucous membranes in the mouth and nose, little rat. Also a few other weird places. I’ll call servants, have them hold you, and make use of the weird places.’

  The Marquise de-Nementh Uyvar gave throaty laugh and looked on as Ciri reached for the narcotic with trembling hands.

  ‘Weird places,’ she said, licking her lips. ‘An interesting idea. I’ll have to try that sometime! H-hey, girl, be careful, do not spill good Fisstech! Leave me a little bit!’

  * * *

  The narcotic was much stronger than the one she had tried with the Rats. A few moments after taking it Ciri was hit by a blinding euphoria, figures were given sharper contours, light and colours stabbed her eyes, smells tempted her nose, noises were unbearably loud, and everything was surreal, fleeting as if figments of a dream. There were the stairs, there were smelly, dusty tapestries and wall hangings, there was the raucous laughter of the Marquise de-Nementh Uyvar. There was the courtyard, there were the fast rain drops on her face, the jerking on the collar, which she still wore. A huge building with a wooden tower and a large, repulsive, garish painting on the front. The painting depicted a dog that was biting a monster – a dragon, a griffin, or perhaps a wyvern. Many people waited outside the entrance to the building. One of them shouted and gesticulated.

  ‘This is disgusting! Disgusting and sinful, Mr. Houvenaghel! A former temple used for such godless, inhumane and abhorrent proceedings! Animals also feel Mr. Houvenaghel! They also have their dignity! It is a crime to pit them against one another for profit and the delight of the mob!’

  ‘Calm yourself, saintly man! And do not interfere with a private enterprise! And anyway, there will be no animals set on each other today. Not a single animal! Only human beings!’

  ‘Well then, accept my apologies.’

  The interior of the building was full of people sitting on benches, which formed an amphitheatre. In the centre there was a pit dug in the ground, a circular depression about thirty feet in diameter, supported by rough beams and walls surrounded by a balustrade. The stench and the noise were overwhelming. Ciri again felt a tug on the collar, then someone grabbed her under the armpits, and then someone gave her a shove. Suddenly she found herself at the bottom of the pit, falling down on sand.

  In the arena.

  The abrupt initial reaction was over, now the narcotic only lifted her mood and sharpened her senses. Ciri held her ears – on the benches of the amphitheatre the clamouring, teeming crowd went wild and whistled. The noise was unbearable. She noticed strong leather armour stretched around her right wrist and forearm, offering some protection. She could not recall when that had been put on her.

  She heard the familiar hung-over voice, saw the thin pistachio green Marquise, the Nilfgaard Captain, the pastel-hued mayor, Houvenaghel, and Bonhart taking a towering box above the arena. She uncovered her ears just as someone suddenly struck a metal gong.

  ‘Look, people! Today, in the arena, we have no wolf, no goblin, no endrega! Today, in the arena, we have the murderess Falka from gang of Rats! Taking bets at the box office near the entrance! Be generous with the pennies, folks!’

  ‘It's the best diversion you cannot eat or drink – whoever saves money here does nothing but lose out!’

  The crowd roared and clapped. The narcotic worked. Ciri trembled with euphoria and her senses registered everything, every detail. She heard the roaring laughter of Houvenaghel, the hung-over giggling of the Marquise, Bonhart's cold bass voice, the cry of the priest who had defended the animals, the shrieking of women, and the crying of children. She saw the dark blood stains on the beams that surrounded the arena, and the gaping, barred, stinking hole outside of it. She saw the sweat-shiny, brutally distorted visages over the balustrade.

  Sudden movement, raised voices, curses. Weapons hailed and pushed through the crowd, but stopped as they met with a wall of partisan armed guards. She had seen one of these people before, she remembered the tanned face and the line of a black moustache that looked like it had been applied with charcoal on a nervous twitching upper lip.

  ‘Mr. Windsor Imbra?’ said the voice of Houvenaghel. ‘From Geso? The Seneschal of the high-born Baron Casadei? Welcome, welcome our foreign guests. Take your seats at once, the spectacle will begin soon. But please do not forget to pay at the door!’

  ‘I'm not here for pleasure, Mr. Houvenaghel! I'm here on official business! Bonhart knows of what I speak!’

  ‘Really? Leo? Do you know what the Lord Seneschal is talking about?’

  ‘No jokes! I have fifteen men with me! We want Falka! Give her to us, otherwise there'll be trouble!’

  ‘I do not understand why you are so upset Imbra.’ Houvenaghel frowned. ‘But I would like to point out to you that this is not Geso and not the country of your Lord Baron. If you cry or make trouble, then I'll have you chased off with bull whips.’

  ‘No offense, Mr. Houvenaghel!’ Windsor Imbra relented. ‘But the law is on our side! Bonhart has promised Falka to the Baron Casadei. He has given his word. Let him see what comes of commitment and obligation!’

  ‘Leo?’ Houvenaghel wobbled his cheeks. ‘Do you know what he's talking about?’

  ‘I know and agree with him.’ Bonhart stood up and waved his hand dismissively. ‘I'm not going to oppose or raise objections. The girl is there, where you can all see her. Whoever wants her can take her.’

  Windsor Imbra looked stunned. His lips twitched violently. ‘How?’

  ‘The girl,’ repeated Bonhart and winked at Houvenaghel, ‘is there for anyone who wants to take her out of the arena. Dead or alive, at your leisure.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Damn, I gradually lose my patience!’ Bonhart yelled in fake anger. ‘How, like, nothing like! You damned organ grinder! How? However you want! If it fits you, then throw her out poisoned meat as you would a wolf. But I do not know if she will eat it. She does not look stupid, right? No, Imbra. Whoever wants to get her must take the trouble themselves. There, in the arena. You want Falka? Take her!’

  ‘You think to dangle this Falka under my nose like a frog on a hook with a catfish,’ growled Imbra Windsor. ‘I do not trust you, Bonhart. I smell it. There is in an iron hook in the bait!’

  ‘You can congratulate the good weather for the iron hook.’ Bonhart said, as he stood and pulled the sword from Fano from under his bench. He drew it from its scabbard and threw it into the arena, so cleverly that the blade drilled vertically into the sand, two steps away from Ciri. ‘Because without it the iron hook wouldn't be here. Clearly visible, not hidden. For I put no value on this woman, whoever wants to take her can take her. If he can.’

  The Marquise de-Nementh Uyvar laughed nervously. ‘If he can,’ she repeated with her contralto hung-over voice. ‘Because now, that pretty little body has a sword. Bravo, Mr. Bonhart. I disliked the idea of these hoodlums accosting and devouring her defenceless body.’

  ‘Mr. Houvenaghel.’ Imbra Windsor stood with his hands on his hips, without even appreciating the thin aristocrat admiring him. ‘This show takes place under your auspices, for the arena belongs to you. Tell me what rules should we play by here, your own or those of Bonhart?’

  ‘The rules of the arena's laughter and cheers,’ Houvenaghel replied as his stomach and bulldog jaw waggled. ‘For while it is true that the arena belongs to me, our king is the customer who pays, who provides the financial support! The customer makes the rules. And we, the merchants have to abide by these rules: What the customer wants, he must get.’

  ‘The customer? That is, these people?’ Windsor Imbra pointed with a sweeping gesture to the full bench seats. ‘All these people have come and have paid to see a spectacle?’

  ‘Business is business,’ said Houvenaghel. ‘If there is demand for something, why not sell it? People pay for a wolf fight? And for fighting between an endrega and an aardvark? For dogs hunting rabbits in a field? Why are you surprised Imbra? The people want games and spectacles as much as their daily bread – from what I can tell, perhaps eve
n more. Many of those who have come here today have saved some from their mouths. But look how their eyes shine. They can't wait to see how the show starts.’

  ‘But for all of that,’ added Bonhart with venomous smile, ‘at least a semblance of sportiness must be maintained. And now the girl has a blade. What do you think, good people? Am I right?’

  The good people confirmed confusedly, but just as loudly and joyously as Bonhart had anticipated.

  ‘The Baron Casadei,’ said Windsor Imbra slowly, ‘will not like this Mr. Houvenaghel. I tell you, it will not please him. I do not know if it's worthwhile for us to start with her armed.’

  ‘Business is business,’ repeated Houvenaghel and waggled his jaws. ‘Baron Casadei knows this well – he has borrowed a lot of money from me at low interest rates, and when he comes to borrow more, then we will settle our dispute somehow. But no foreign Baron will interfere in my private and individual corporate activities. Bets have already been placed and people have already paid admission. Blood must seep into this sand, here in the arena.’

  ‘Must?’ roared Windsor Imbra. ‘Like shit it must! I'd very much like to show you that nothing must seep in your arena! I could just turn around and ride away, not even looking back at you. Then you can seep your own blood here! The thought that I would be working for the amusement of this rabble sickens me!’

  ‘Let him go.’ someone suddenly said from the crowd, an overgrown guy in a leather jacket made of horse hides. ‘Let him go if he is sick. I will not mind. Because it was said that whoever gets the Rat, gets the reward. I will go into the arena.’

  ‘No! Out of the question,’ cried one of Imbra's people, a not particularly large, but sinewy and powerfully built man. His hair was thick, tangled and matted into dreadlocks. ‘We were here first! Isn't that right, boys?’

  ‘We sure were!’ agreed a second of Imbra's men, who was thin and wore a goatee. ‘We have the first turn! And you should not be so sensitive about your reputation, Windsor! The rabble looks on, so what? Falka is in the arena and we need only to reach out and take her. So what if the mob makes goggle eyes, we do not care!’