‘Bonhart,’ Esterhazy said hoarsely, opening his mouth more often than would be expected from the syllabic articulation, ‘was here four days ago, on the twelfth of September. He had a wench with him he called Falka. I was expecting his visit, for two days earlier a letter from him had been delivered…’
A trickle of blood seeped from his left nostril.
Speak, Kenna ordered. Speak. Tell us everything. You can see what a relief it will be.
The swordsmith Esterhazy scrutinised Ciri with curiosity, without getting up from the oaken table.
‘It’s for her,’ he guessed, tapping a pen holder against the paperweight depicting the weird group. ‘The sword you requested in the letter. Right, Bonhart? Well, let’s examine it then… Let’s see if it agrees with what you wrote. Five feet, nine inches in height… And such she is. One hundred and twelve pounds in weight… Well, we’d have given her less than a hundred and twelve, but that’s a minor detail. A hand, you wrote, which a number five glove would fit… Show me your hand, honourable maiden. Well, and that agrees, too.’
‘With me everything always agrees,’ Bonhart said dryly. ‘Do you have any decent iron for her?’
‘In my firm,’ Esterhazy answered proudly, ‘no other iron than decent is manufactured or offered. I understood it was to be a sword for combat, not for gala decoration. Ah, yes, you wrote that. Naturally, a weapon will be found for this maid without any difficulty. Swords of thirty-eight inches suit such a height and weight, standard manufacture. With that light build and small hand, she needs a mini-bastard with a hilt lengthened to nine inches, and a pommel. We could also suggest an elven taldaga or Zerrikanian sabre, or alternatively a light Viroledanian—’
‘Show me the wares, Esterhazy.’
‘Hot-tempered, are we, eh? Well, come this way. Come this way… Hey, Bonhart? What the Devil is this? Why are you pulling her on a leash?’
‘Keep your snotty nose out of this, Esterhazy. Don’t stick it where it doesn’t belong, for you’re liable to get it caught somewhere!’
Esterhazy, toying with the whistle hanging around his neck, looked at the hunter without fear or respect, though he had to crane his neck a good deal. Bonhart twisted his moustache and cleared his throat.
‘I,’ he said, a little more quietly, though still malevolently, ‘don’t meddle in your business or affairs. Does it surprise you that I demand reciprocity?’
‘Bonhart.’ The swordsmith did not even flicker an eyelid. ‘When you leave my home and courtyard, when you close my gate behind you, then shall I respect your privacy, the secrecy of your affairs, the specifics of your profession. And I shall not meddle in them, be certain. But in my home I shall not allow you to abuse human dignity. Do you understand me? Outside my gate you may drag the wench behind a horse, if you wish. In my home you will remove that collar. Forthwith.’
Bonhart reached for the collar and unfastened it, unable to resist a tug which almost brought Ciri to her knees. Esterhazy, pretending he hadn’t seen it, let the whistle slip from his fingers.
‘That’s better,’ he said dryly. ‘Let’s go.’
They crossed a small passage into another, slightly smaller, courtyard adjoining the rear of the smithy, with one side opening out onto an orchard. There was a long table there, beneath a canopy resting on carved posts, where servants were just finishing laying out some swords. Esterhazy gestured for Bonhart and Ciri to walk up to the array.
‘This is what I offer.’
They approached.
‘Here,’ Esterhazy pointed to a long row of swords on the table, ‘we have my wares. All the blades were forged here. You can see the horseshoe, my punch-mark. Prices fall in the range of five to nine florins, since they’re standard. These, though, lying here, are only assembled and finished by us. The blades are generally imported. Their origin can be told from the punches. The ones from Mahakam have crossed hammers stamped on them, those from Poviss a crown or a horse’s head, and those from Viroleda a sun and the famous workshop’s inscription. Prices start at ten florins.’
‘And where do they end?’
‘That varies. Oh, this one, for example, is an exquisite Viroledanian.’ Esterhazy took up a sword from the table, gave a salute with it, and then moved to a fencing position, dextrously twisting his hand and forearm in a complicated sequence called an ‘Angelica’. ‘This one is fifteen. Antique workmanship, a collector’s blade. Clearly made to order. The motif chiselled on the ricasso shows the weapon was intended for a woman.’
He turned the sword over, hand held in tierce, pointing the blade flat at them.
‘As on all Viroleda blades, the traditional inscription: “Draw me not without reason; sheath me not without honour”. Ha! They still chisel such inscriptions in Viroleda. Throughout the wide world, these blades have been drawn by blackguards and oafs. Throughout the wide world, honour has gone way down in price, for it’s an unprofitable commodity—’
‘Don’t talk so much, Esterhazy. Give her that sword, let her try it for size. Take the blade, girl.’
Ciri grasped the sword lightly, feeling the lizard-skin hilt cling firmly to her palm, and the weight of the blade urging her arm to wield and thrust.
‘It’s a mini-bastard,’ Esterhazy reminded her. Needlessly. She knew how to use the long hilt, with three fingers on the pommel.
Bonhart took two steps backward, into the courtyard. He drew his sword from the scabbard and whirled it around until it hissed.
‘Have at me!’ he said to Ciri. ‘Kill me. You have a sword and you have the opportunity. You have the chance. Make use of it. For I shan’t soon give you a second.’
‘Have you lost your mind?’
‘Quiet, Esterhazy.’
She beguiled him with a glance to one side and a deceptive twitch of her shoulder, and struck like lightning, with a flat sinistre. The blade clanged so powerfully against the parry that Ciri staggered and had to leap to one side, banging her hip against the table with the swords. She involuntarily loosened her grip on the weapon, trying to regain her balance–knowing that at that moment he could have killed her without the slightest difficulty, had he so wished.
‘You have lost your minds!’ Esterhazy said, his voice raised. The whistle was in his hand again. The servants and craftsmen looked on in stupefaction.
‘Put the iron aside.’ Bonhart did not take his eyes off Ciri, utterly ignoring the swordsmith. ‘Aside, I said. Or I’ll hack off your hand!’
She obeyed after a moment’s hesitation. Bonhart smiled ghoulishly.
‘I know who you are, you viper. But I’ll make you reveal it yourself. By word or deed! I’ll make you reveal who you are. And then I’ll kill you.’
Esterhazy hissed as though wounded.
‘That sword–’ Bonhart didn’t even glance at him ‘–was too hefty for you. And because of it you were too slow. You were as slow as a pregnant snail. Esterhazy! What you gave her was too heavy by at least four ounces.’
The swordsmith was pale. His eyes ran from her to him, from him to her, and his face was strangely altered. At last he beckoned a servant and issued an order in hushed tones.
‘I’ve something,’ he said slowly, ‘which ought to satisfy you, Bonhart.’
‘Why, then, didn’t you show it to me at once?’ snarled the hunter. ‘I wrote that I wanted something extraordinary. Perhaps you thought I can’t afford a better sword?’
‘I know what you can afford,’ Esterhazy said with emphasis. ‘I’ve known that for no little time. But why didn’t I show you this one right away? I had no way of knowing who you would bring here… on a leash, with a collar around her neck. I couldn’t guess who the sword was meant for and what it was to serve. Now I do.’
The servant had returned, bearing an oblong box.
‘Come closer, girl,’ Esterhazy said softly. ‘Look.’
Ciri approached. And looked. And sighed audibly.
She unsheathed the sword with a deft movement. The fire from the hearth flared blindingly o
n the blade’s wavily outlined edge, glowed red in the openwork of the ricasso.
‘This is it,’ said Ciri. ‘As you’ve probably guessed. Hold it, if you wish. But beware, it’s sharper than a razor. You feel how the hilt sticks to your hand? It’s made from the skin of a flatfish which has a venomous spine on its tail.’
‘A ray.’
‘I guess. That fish has tiny teeth in its skin, so the hilt doesn’t slide in the hand, even when it sweats. Look what’s etched on the blade.’
Vysogota leaned over and examined it, squinting.
‘An elven mandala,’ he said soon after, raising his head. ‘The so-called blathan caerme, or garland of destiny: stylised oak blossom, bridewort and broom flowers. A tower being struck by lightning–a symbol of chaos and destruction, for the Old Races… And above the tower–’
‘A swallow,’ Ciri completed. ‘Zireael. My name.’
‘Indeed, a fine thing,’ said Bonhart finally. ‘Gnomish handiwork, that’s clear at once. Only the gnomes forged such dark iron. Only the gnomes used undulating blades and only they open-worked their blades to reduce the weight… Come clean, Esterhazy. Is it a replica?’
‘No,’ the swordsmith snapped. ‘It’s original. A genuine gnomish gwyhyr. The blade is more than two hundred years old. The finishing, naturally, is much more recent, but I wouldn’t call it a replica. The gnomes of Tir Tochair made it to my order. Following ancient techniques, methods and patterns.’
‘Dammit. It may be too dear for me after all. How much do you wish for this blade?’
Esterhazy was silent for some time. His face was inscrutable.
‘I shall give it to her for nothing, Bonhart,’ he finally said in hushed voice. ‘As a gift. So that what is to come about, will come about.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bonhart, visibly astonished. ‘Thank you, Esterhazy. A kingly gift, kingly indeed… I accept, I accept. I am indebted to you…’
‘You are not. The sword is for her, not for you. Come here, girl with a collar on her neck. Examine the marks etched into the blade. You don’t understand them, naturally. But I shall explain them to you. Look. The line delineated by destiny is winding, but leads to this tower. Towards annihilation, towards the destruction of established values, of the established order. But there, above the tower, do you see? A swallow. The symbol of hope. Take this sword. And may what is to come about, come about.’
Ciri cautiously extended a hand, and gently stroked the dark blade, its edge gleaming like a mirror.
‘Take it,’ Esterhazy said slowly, looking at Ciri with eyes wide open. ‘Take it. Hold it, girl. Take it…’
‘No!’ Bonhart suddenly barked, leaping up, seizing Ciri by the arm and shoving her suddenly and forcefully. ‘Away!’
Ciri fell onto her knees, the gravel of the courtyard painfully pricking her hands, which she had to spread to keep her balance.
Bonhart slammed the box shut.
‘Not yet!’ he snarled. ‘Not today! The time is not yet come!’
‘Most evidently,’ Esterhazy nodded calmly, looking him in the eyes. ‘Aye, it most evidently hasn’t come yet. Pity.’
‘It was of little avail, Illustrious Tribunal, reading that swordsmith’s thoughts. We were there on the sixteenth of September, three days before the full moon. And while we were returning from Fano to Rocayne, a patrol caught us up. Ola Harsheim and seven horse. Mr Harsheim ordered us to race as fast as we could to reach the rest of the unit. For the day before–the fifteenth of September–there had been a massacre in Claremont… I suppose I don’t need to tell you; the illustrious tribunal doubtlessly knows about the massacre in Claremont…’
‘Please testify, without worrying what the tribunal knows.’
‘Bonhart was a day ahead of us. He brought Falka to Claremont on the fifteenth of September…’
‘Claremont,’ Vysogota nodded. ‘I know that town. Where did he take you?’
‘To a large house in the town square. With arcades and columns at the entrance. It was obvious at once that a wealthy man lived there…’
The chambers’ walls were draped with sumptuous tapestries and splendid wall hangings depicting religious and hunting scenes, and idylls featuring disrobed women. The furniture gleamed with inlays and brass fittings, and one sunk ankle-deep into the carpets. Ciri had no time to note the details, though, for Bonhart walked swiftly, dragging her by the chain.
‘Greetings, Houvenaghel!’
Lit by the spectrum of colours cast by a stained-glass window, his back to a hunting tapestry, stood a man of impressive corpulence, attired in a kaftan dripping with gold and a fur-lined coat trimmed with karakul pelts. Although in the prime of his manhood, he had a bald pate and pendulous jowls like those of a great bulldog.
‘Greetings, Leo,’ he said. ‘And you, lady—’
‘That’s no lady.’ Bonhart showed him the chain and collar. ‘No need to welcome her.’
‘Politeness costs nothing.’
‘Nothing but time.’ Bonhart tugged the chain, walked up and unceremoniously patted the fat man’s belly.
‘You’ve put on a good deal,’ he remarked. ‘By my troth, Houvenaghel, were you to stand in the way it would be easier to jump over you than walk around.’
‘Prosperity,’ Houvenaghel explained jovially, shaking his cheeks. ‘Greetings to you, greetings, Leo. ‘Tis wonderful to host you, for I am most inordinate joyful today. My business affairs are going so admirably well that I feel like touching wood. The till’s a-ringing! Only today, may this serve as an example, a captain in the Nilfgaardian reserve horse, the quartermaster responsible for supplying gear to the front, flogged me six thousand military bows, which I shall retail with a ten-fold profit to hunters, poachers, brigands, elves and diverse other freedom fighters. I also bought a castle from a local marquess…’
‘Why the hell do you need a castle?’
‘I must live regally. Getting back to my business affairs: one deal is quite simply thanks to you, Leo. A seemingly hopeless debtor paid me back. Quite literally a moment ago. His hands were shaking as he paid me. The fellow saw you and thought—’
‘I know what he thought. Did you receive my letter?’
‘I did.’ Houvenaghel flopped down heavily, knocking the table with his belly and making the carafes and goblets on it ring. ‘And I’ve prepared everything. Haven’t you seen the handbills? The rabble must have torn them down… Folk are already heading for the theatre. The till’s a-ringing… Sit you down, Leo. There’s time. Let’s talk, enjoy some wine…’
‘I don’t want your wine. It’s army issue, no doubt, stolen from Nilfgaardian transports.’
‘You must be jesting. It’s Est Est from Toussaint, the grapes picked when our gracious emperor, Emhyr, was a mere nipper, shitting in his cradle. It was a good year. For wine. Cheers, Leo.’
Bonhart silently raised a toasting goblet. Houvenaghel smacked his lips, examining Ciri extremely critically.
‘So this is the doe-eyed nymph,’ he said at last, ‘who is to guarantee the sport promised in your epistle? I know that Windsor Imbra is already nearing the town. And has with him several decent cut-throats. And a few local swordsmen have seen the bills…’
‘Have you ever been disappointed by my wares, Houvenaghel?’
‘Never, ‘tis true. But neither have I had anything from you for a good while.’
‘I work more seldom than in the past. I’m thinking about retiring entirely.’
‘Capital is needed for that, from which to support oneself. I might have a way… Will you listen?’
‘Only for want of other amusement.’ Bonhart pulled a chair closer with his foot and made Ciri sit down.
‘Have you ever thought of heading north? To Cintra, to the Slopes or across the Yaruga? Do you know that anyone who moves there and chooses to settle on captured territory is guaranteed a plot of eight oxgangs by the empire? And freedom from tax for a decade?’
‘I,’ replied the hunter calmly, ‘am not cut out to be a far
mer. I couldn’t till the soil or breed cattle. I’m too sensitive. The sight of dung or worms makes me want to puke.’
‘Me too.’ Houvenaghel shook his jowls. ‘The only thing I can tolerate in the whole of agriculture is distilling spirits. The rest is repugnant. They say agriculture is the basis of economics and guarantees prosperity. I consider it, however, contemptible and humiliating that something stinking of manure should determine my prosperity. I’ve taken some steps in that regard. One need not till the soil, Bonhart, one need not raise cattle on it. It’s sufficient to own it. If one has enough of it one can extract decent profits from it. One can, believe me, live a life of ease. Yes, I’ve taken certain steps in that regard, hence, indeed, my question about a trip northwards. For you see, Bonhart, I would have work for you there. Permanent, well-paid, undemanding. And just right for a sensitive fellow like you: no dung, no worms.’
‘I’m prepared to listen. Without committing to anything, naturally.’
‘From the plots which the emperor guarantees the settlers, one can, with a bit of enterprise and a little seed capital, put together quite a decent latifundium.’
‘I understand.’ The hunter chewed his moustache. ‘I understand what you’re getting at. I already see what steps you’re taking regarding your own prosperity. Do you see no difficulties?’
‘Oh, I do. Of two kinds. Firstly, one has to find hired hands, who, pretending to be settlers, will travel north to receive the land from the distributing officers and take over the plots. Formally for themselves, but in practice for me. But I shall set about finding them. The second of the difficulties concerns you.’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘Some of the hired hands will take over the land and then be disinclined to give it up. They will forget about the agreement and the money they have taken. You wouldn’t believe, Bonhart, how deeply fraud, wickedness and low motives are ingrained in human nature.’
The Tower of Swallows Page 15
