Time of Contempt

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘I believe you. Because I don’t get it either. And I’d like very much to. Wouldn’t you? Oh, I beg your pardon. Because you’re sure to know it all too. From the reports of, oh, I don’t know, the enchanting Yennefer of Vengerberg. But just think, there were times when I would pick up scraps of information from the enchanting Yennefer too. Ah, where are the snows of yesteryear?’

  ‘I really don’t know what you mean, Dijkstra. Could you express your thoughts more lucidly? Do your best. On condition you’re not doing it out of professional considerations. Forgive me, but I have no intention of earning you an extra bonus.’

  ‘Think I’m trying to trick you dishonourably?’ scowled the spy. ‘To get information out of you using deceit? You’re being unfair, Geralt. It simply interests me whether you see the same patterns in this hall that are so obvious to me.’

  ‘So what’s so obvious to you?’

  ‘Doesn’t the total absence of crowned heads – which is blatantly apparent at this gathering – surprise you?’

  ‘It doesn’t surprise me in the least,’ said Geralt, finally managing to stab a marinated olive with a toothpick. ‘I’m sure kings prefer traditional banquets, seated at a table, which one can gracefully slide beneath in the early hours. And what’s more . . .’

  ‘What is more?’ asked Dijkstra, putting four olives – which he had unceremoniously extracted from the bowl with his fingers – into his mouth.

  ‘What is more,’ said the Witcher, looking at the small crowd passing through the hall, ‘the kings didn’t bother to make the effort. They sent an army of spies in their stead. Both members of the fraternity and not. Probably in order to find out what’s really in the air here.’

  Dijkstra spat the olive stones out onto the table, took a long fork from the silver tray and used it to rummage around in a deep, crystal bowl.

  ‘And Vilgefortz,’ he said, continuing to rummage, ‘made sure no spy was absent. He has all the royal spies in one pot. Why would Vilgefortz want all the royal spies in one pot, Witcher?’

  ‘I have no idea. And it interests me little. I told you I’m here as a private individual. I’m – how shall I put it? – outside the pot.’

  King Vizimir’s spy fished a small octopus out of the bowl and examined it in disgust.

  ‘People eat these?’ he said, shaking his head in fake sympathy, and then turning towards Geralt.

  ‘Listen to me carefully, Witcher,’ he said quietly. ‘Your convictions about privacy, your certainty that you don’t care about anything and that you couldn’t possibly care about anything . . . they perturb me and that inclines me to take a gamble. Do you like a flutter?’

  ‘Be precise, please.’

  ‘I suggest a wager,’ said Dijkstra, raising the fork with the octopus impaled on it. ‘I venture that in the course of the next hour, Vilgefortz will ask you to join him in a long conversation. I venture that during this conversation he will prove to you that you aren’t here as a private individual and you are in his pot. Should I be wrong, I’ll eat this shit in front of you, tentacles and all. Do you accept the wager?’

  ‘What will I have to eat, should I lose?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Dijkstra and quickly looked around. ‘But should you lose, you’ll report the entire content of your conversation with Vilgefortz to me.’

  The Witcher was silent for a while, and looked calmly at the spy.

  ‘Farewell, Your Excellency,’ he said at last. ‘Thank you for the chat. It was educational.’

  Dijkstra was somewhat annoyed.

  ‘Would you say so—?’

  ‘Yes, I would,’ interrupted Geralt. ‘Farewell.’

  The spy shrugged his shoulders, threw the octopus and fork into the bowl, turned on his heel and walked away. Geralt didn’t watch him go. He slowly moved to the next table, led by the desire to get his hands on some of the huge pink and white prawns piled up on a silver platter among lettuce leaves and quarters of lime. He had an appetite for them but, still feeling curious eyes on him, wanted to consume the crustaceans in a dignified manner, without losing face. He approached extravagantly slowly, picking at delicacies from the other dishes cautiously and with dignity.

  Sabrina Glevissig stood at the next table, deep in conversation with a flame-haired enchantress he didn’t know. The redhead wore a white skirt and a blouse of white georgette. The blouse, like that of Sabrina’s, was totally transparent, but had several strategically placed appliqués and embroideries. The appliqués – noticed Geralt – had an interesting quality: they became opaque and then transparent by turns.

  The enchantresses were talking, sustaining themselves with slices of langouste. They were conversing quietly in the Elder Speech. And although they weren’t looking at him, they were clearly talking about him. He discreetly focused his sensitive witcher hearing, pretending to be utterly absorbed by the prawns.

  ‘. . . with Yennefer?’ enquired the redhead, playing with a pearl necklace, coiled around her neck like a dog’s collar. ‘Are you serious, Sabrina?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ answered Sabrina Glevissig. ‘You won’t believe it, but it’s been going on for several years. And I’m surprised indeed he can stand that vile toad.’

  ‘Why be surprised? She’s put a spell on him. She has him under a charm. Think I’ve never done that?’

  ‘But he’s a witcher! They can’t be bewitched. Not for so long, at any rate.’

  ‘It must be love then,’ sighed the redhead. ‘And love is blind.’

  ‘He’s blind, more like,’ said Sabrina, grimacing. ‘Would you believe, Marti, that she dared to introduce me to him as an old school friend? Bloody hell, she’s older than me by . . . Oh, never mind. I tell you, she’s hellishly jealous about that Witcher. Little Merigold only smiled at him and that hag bawled her out and sent her packing in no uncertain terms. And right now . . . Take a look. She’s standing there, talking to Francesca, without ever taking her eyes off her Witcher.’

  ‘She’s afraid,’ giggled the redhead, ‘that we’ll have our way with him, even if only for tonight. Are you up for it, Sabrina? Shall we try? He’s a fit lad, not like those conceited weaklings of ours with all their complexes and pretensions . . .’

  ‘Don’t talk so loud, Marti,’ hissed Sabrina. ‘Don’t look at him and don’t grin. Yennefer’s watching us too. And stay classy. Do you really want to seduce him? That would be in bad taste.’

  ‘Hmm, you’re right,’ agreed Marti after a moment’s thought. ‘But what if he suddenly came over and suggested it himself?’

  ‘In that case,’ said Sabrina Glevissig, glancing at the Witcher with a predatory, coal-black eye. ‘I’d give it to him without a second thought, even lying on a rock.’

  ‘I’d even do it lying on a hedgehog,’ sniggered Marti.

  The Witcher, staring at the tablecloth, hid his foolish expression behind a prawn and a lettuce leaf, extremely pleased to have the mutation of his blood vessels which prevented him from blushing.

  ‘Witcher Geralt?’

  He swallowed the prawn and turned around. A sorcerer who looked familiar smiled faintly, touching the embroidered facings of his purple doublet.

  ‘Dorregaray of Vole. But we are acquainted. We met . . .’

  ‘I remember. Excuse me; I didn’t recognise you right away. Glad to . . .’

  The sorcerer smiled a little more broadly, taking two goblets from a tray being carried by a pageboy.

  ‘I’ve been watching you for some time,’ he said, handing one of the glasses to Geralt. ‘You’ve told everyone Yennefer has introduced you to that you’re enjoying yourself. Is that duplicity or a lack of criticism?’

  ‘Courtesy.’

  ‘Towards them?’ said Dorregaray, indicating the banqueters with a sweeping gesture. ‘Believe me, it’s not worth the effort. They’re a vain, envious and mendacious bunch; they don’t appreciate your courtesy. Why, they treat it as sarcasm. With them, Witcher, you have to use their own methods. Be
obsessive, arrogant and rude, and then at least you’ll impress them. Will you drink a glass of wine with me?’

  ‘The gnat’s piss they serve here?’ smiled Geralt pleasantly. ‘With the greatest revulsion. Well, but if you like it . . . then I’ll force myself.’

  Sabrina and Marti, listening intently from their table, snorted noisily. Dorregaray sized them both up with a contemptuous glance, turned, clinked his goblet against the Witcher’s and smiled, this time genuinely.

  ‘A point to you,’ he admitted freely. ‘You learn quickly. Where the hell did you acquire that wit, Witcher? On the road you insist on roaming around, hunting endangered species? Your good health. You may laugh, but you’re one of the few people in this hall I feel like proposing such a toast to.’

  ‘Indeed?’ said Geralt, delicately slurping the wine and savouring the taste. ‘In spite of the fact I make my living slaughtering endangered species?’

  ‘Don’t try to trip me up,’ said the sorcerer, slapping him on the back. ‘The banquet has only just begun. A few more people are sure to accost you, so ration out your scathing ripostes more sparingly. But as far as your profession is concerned . . . You, Geralt, at least have enough dignity not to deck yourself out with trophies. But take a good look around. Go on, forget convention for a moment; they like people to stare at them.’

  The Witcher obediently fixed his gaze on Sabrina Glevissig’s breasts.

  ‘Look,’ said Dorregaray, seizing him by the sleeve and pointing at a sorceress walking past, tulle fluttering. ‘Slippers made from the skin of the horned agama. Had you noticed?’

  He nodded, ingenuously, since he’d only noticed what her transparent tulle blouse wasn’t covering.

  ‘Oh, if you please, rock cobra,’ said the sorcerer, unerringly spotting another pair of slippers being paraded around the hall. The fashion, which had shortened hemlines to a span above the ankle, made his task easier. ‘And over there . . . White iguana. Salamander. Wyvern. Spectacled caiman. Basilisk . . . Every one of those reptiles is an endangered species. Can’t people bloody wear shoes of calfskin or pigskin?’

  ‘Going on about leather, as usual, Dorregaray?’ asked Philippa Eilhart, stopping beside them. ‘And tanning and shoemaking? What vulgar, tasteless subjects.’

  ‘People find a variety of things tasteless,’ said the sorcerer grimacing contemptuously. ‘Your dress has a beautiful trim, Philippa. Diamond ermine, if I’m not mistaken? Very tasteful. I’m sure you’re aware this species was exterminated twenty years ago owing to its beautiful pelt?’

  ‘Thirty,’ corrected Philippa, stuffing the last of the prawns – which Geralt hadn’t been quick enough to eat – into her mouth one after the other. ‘I know, I know, the species would surely have come back to life, had I instructed my dressmaker to trim my dress with bunches of raw flax. I considered it. But the colours wouldn’t have matched.’

  ‘Let’s go to that table over there,’ suggested the Witcher easily. ‘I saw a large bowl of black caviar there. And, since the shovelnose sturgeon has almost totally died out, we ought to hurry.’

  ‘Eating caviar in your company? I’ve dreamed about that,’ said Philippa, fluttering her eyelashes and smelling enticingly of cinnamon and muskroot as she slipped her arm into his. ‘Let’s not hang around. Will you join us, Dorregaray? You won’t? Well, see you later and enjoy yourself.’

  The sorcerer snapped his fingers and turned away. Sabrina Glevissig and her redheaded friend watched them walk away with looks more venomous than the endangered rock cobra’s.

  ‘Dorregaray,’ murmured Philippa, unashamedly snuggling up to Geralt, ‘spies for King Ethain of Cidaris. Be on your guard. That reptiles and skin talk of his is the prelude to being interrogated. And Sabrina Glevissig was listening closely –’

  ‘– because she spies for Henselt of Kaedwen,’ he finished. ‘I know; you mentioned it. And that redhead, her friend—’

  ‘She’s no redhead – it’s dyed. Haven’t you got eyes? That’s Marti Södergren.’

  ‘Who does she spy for?’

  ‘Marti?’ Philippa laughed, her teeth flashing behind her vividly painted lips. ‘Not for anyone. Marti isn’t interested in politics.’

  ‘Outrageous! I thought everyone here was a spy.’

  ‘Many of them are,’ said the enchantress, narrowing her eyes. ‘But not everyone. Not Marti Södergren. Marti is a healer. And a nymphomaniac. Oh, damn, look! They’ve scoffed all the caviar! Down to the last egg; they’ve licked the plate clean! What are we going to do now?’

  ‘Now,’ smiled Geralt innocently, ‘you’ll announce that some thing’s in the air. You’ll say I have to reject neutrality and make a choice. You’ll suggest a wager. I daren’t even imagine what the prize might be. But I know I’ll have to do something for you should I lose.’

  Philippa Eilhart was quiet for a long time, her eyes fixed on his.

  ‘I should have guessed,’ she said quietly. ‘Dijkstra couldn’t restrain himself, could he? He made you an offer. And I warned him you detest spies.’

  ‘I don’t detest spies. I detest spying. And I detest contempt. Don’t propose any wagers to me, Philippa. Of course I can sense something in the air. And it can hang there, for all I care. It doesn’t affect or interest me.’

  ‘You already told me that. In Oxenfurt.’

  ‘I’m glad you haven’t forgotten. You also recall the circumstances, I trust?’

  ‘Very clearly. Back then I didn’t reveal to you who Rience – or whatever his name is – was working for. I let him get away. Oh, you were so angry with me . . .’

  ‘To put it mildly.’

  ‘Then the time has come for me to be exonerated. I’ll give you Rience tomorrow. Don’t interrupt and don’t make faces. This isn’t a wager à la Dijkstra. It’s a promise, and I keep my promises. No, no questions, please. Wait until tomorrow. Now let’s concentrate on caviar and trivial gossip.’

  ‘There’s no caviar.’

  ‘One moment.’

  She looked around quickly, waved a hand and mumbled a spell. The silver dish in the shape of a leaping fish immediately filled with the roe of the endangered shovelnose sturgeon. The Witcher smiled.

  ‘Can one eat one’s fill of an illusion?’

  ‘No. But snobbish tastes can be pleasantly titillated by it. Have a try.’

  ‘Hmm . . . Indeed . . . I’d say it’s tastier than the real thing . . .’

  ‘And it’s not at all fattening,’ said the enchantress proudly, squeezing lemon juice over a heaped teaspoon of caviar. ‘May I have another goblet of white wine?’

  ‘At your service. Philippa?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m told etiquette precludes the use of spells here. Wouldn’t it be safer, then, to conjure up the illusion of the taste of caviar alone, without the caviar? Just the sensation? You’d surely be able to . . .’

  ‘Of course I would,’ said Philippa Eilhart, looking at him through her crystal goblet. ‘The construction of such a spell is easy as pie. But were you only to have the sensation of taste, you’d lose the pleasure the activity offers. The process, the accompanying ritual movements, the gestures, the conversation and eye contact which accompanies the process . . . I’ll entertain you with a witty comparison. Would you like that?’

  ‘Please do. I’m looking forward to it.’

  ‘I’d also be capable of conjuring the sensation of an orgasm.’

  Before the Witcher had regained the power of speech, a short, slim sorceress with long, straight, straw-coloured hair came over to him. He recognised her at once – she was the one in the horned agama skin slippers and the green tulle top, which didn’t even cover a minor detail like the small mole above her left breast.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I have to interrupt your little flirting session, Philippa. Radcliffe and Detmold would like to talk to you for a moment. It’s urgent.’

  ‘Well, if it’s like that, I’m coming. Bye, Geralt. We’ll continue our flirting later!’
<
br />   ‘Ah,’ said the blonde, sizing him up. ‘Geralt. The Witcher, the man Yennefer lost her head over? I’ve been watching you and wondering who you might be. It was tormenting me terribly.’

  ‘I know that kind of torment,’ he replied, smiling politely. ‘I’m experiencing it right now.’

  ‘Do excuse the gaffe. I’m Keira Metz. Oh, caviar!’

  ‘Be careful. It’s an illusion.’

  ‘Bloody hell, you’re right!’ said the sorceress, dropping the spoon as though it was the tail of a black scorpion. ‘Who was so barefaced . . . You? Can you create fourth-level illusions?’

  ‘I,’ he lied, continuing to smile, ‘am a master of magic. I’m pretending to be a witcher to remain incognito. Do you think Yennefer would bother with an ordinary witcher?’

  Keira Metz looked him straight in the eyes and scowled. She was wearing a medallion in the form of an ankh cross; silver and set with zircon.

  ‘A drop of wine?’ he suggested, trying to break the awkward silence. He was afraid his joke hadn’t been well received.

  ‘No thank you . . . O fellow master,’ said Keira icily. ‘I don’t drink. I can’t. I plan to get pregnant tonight.’

  ‘By whom?’ asked the fake-redheaded friend of Sabrina Glevissig, who was dressed in a transparent, white, georgette blouse, decorated with cleverly positioned details, walking over to them. ‘By whom?’ she repeated, innocently fluttering her long eyelashes.

  Keira turned and gave her an up-and-down glare, from her white iguana slippers to her pearl-encrusted tiara.

  ‘What business is it of yours?’

  ‘It isn’t. Professional curiosity. Won’t you introduce me to your companion, the famous Geralt of Rivia?’

  ‘With great reluctance. But I know I won’t be able to fob you off. Geralt, this is Marti Södergren, seductress. Her speciality is aphrodisiacs.’

  ‘Must we talk shop? Oh, have you left me a little caviar? How kind of you.’

  ‘Careful,’ chorused Keira and the Witcher. ‘It’s an illusion.’

  ‘So it is!’ said Marti Södergren, leaning over and wrinkling her nose, after which she picked up a goblet and looked at the traces of crimson lipstick on it. ‘Ah, Philippa Eilhart. I should have known. Who else would have dared to do something so brazen? That revolting snake. Did you know she spies for Vizimir of Redania?’