‘Aha,’ said Yennefer, biting her lip. ‘And why are some people in such a rush to lend a hand? Jaruga is in the south.’
‘There’s some understandable anxiety,’ muttered the dwarf, glancing over at Ciri, ‘that Emperor Emhyr var Emreis will not be overjoyed when he hears that the aforementioned boats have been launched. Some people think it is sure to infuriate him, and then it’ll be better to be as far as possible from the Nilfgaardian border . . . Hell, at least until the harvest. Once the harvest’s in I’ll sigh with relief. If something’s going to happen, it’ll happen before the harvest.’
‘Before the crops are in the granaries,’ said Yennefer slowly.
‘That’s right. It’s hard to graze horses on stubble, and strongholds with full granaries can endure long sieges. The weather is favourable for farmers and the harvest looks promising . . . yes, the weather is exceptionally beautiful. The sun’s hot, so cats and dogs alike are hoping it’ll soon rain cats and dogs . . . And the Jaruga in Dol Angra is very shallow. It’s easy to ford it. In both directions.’
‘Why Dol Angra?’
‘I hope,’ said the banker, stroking his beard and fixing the sorceress with a penetrating glance, ‘I can trust you.’
‘You’ve always been able to, Giancardi. Nothing has changed.’
‘Dol Angra,’ said the dwarf slowly, ‘means Lyria and Aedirn, who have a military alliance with Temeria. You surely don’t think that Foltest, who’s buying the boats, intends to use them for his own ends, do you?’
‘No,’ said the enchantress slowly. ‘I don’t. Thank you for the information, Molnar. Who knows, perhaps you’re right. Perhaps at the conclave we’ll somehow manage to influence the fate of the world and the people living in it.’
‘Don’t forget about the dwarves,’ snorted Giancardi. ‘Or their banks.’
‘We’ll try not to. Since we’re on the subject . . .’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘I have some expenses, Molnar. And should I take something from my account at the Vivaldi Bank, someone is bound to drown again, so . . .’
‘Yennefer,’ interrupted the dwarf. ‘You have unlimited credit with me. The pogrom in Vengerberg took place long ago. Perhaps you have forgotten, but I never will. None of the Giancardi family will forget. How much do you need?’
‘One thousand five hundred Temerian orens, transferred to the branch of the Cianfanelli Bank in Ellander, in favour of the Temple of Melitele.’
‘Consider it done. A nice transfer; donations to temples aren’t taxed. What else?’
‘What are the annual fees for the school at Aretuza?’
Ciri listened carefully.
‘One thousand two hundred Novigrad crowns,’ said Giancardi. ‘And then you have to add the matriculation fee; around two hundred for a new novice.’
‘It’s bloody gone up.’
‘Everything has. They don’t skimp on novices though; they live like queens at Aretuza. And half the city lives off them: tailors, shoemakers, confectioners, suppliers—’
‘I know. Pay two thousand into the school’s account. Anonymously. With a note that it’s the registration fee and payment of the annual fees for one novice.’
The dwarf put down his quill, looked at Ciri and smiled in understanding. Ciri, pretending to leaf through the book, listened intently.
‘Will that be all, Yennefer?’
‘And three hundred Novigrad crowns for me, in cash. I’ll need at least three dresses for the conclave on Thanedd.’
‘Why cash? I’ll give you a banker’s draft for five hundred. The prices of imported fabric have risen damnably, and you don’t dress in wool or linen, after all. And should you need anything – for yourself or for the future pupil at Aretuza – my shops and storehouses are at your disposal.’
‘Thank you. What interest rate shall we say?’
‘Interest?’ said the dwarf, looking up. ‘You paid the Giancardi family in advance, Yennefer. In Vengerberg. Let’s talk no more about it.’
‘I don’t like debts of this kind, Molnar.’
‘Neither do I. But I’m a merchant, a business-dwarf. I know what an obligation is. I know its value. So I repeat, let’s speak no more about it. You may consider the favours you’ve asked of me sorted. And the favour you didn’t ask about, too.’
Yennefer raised an eyebrow.
‘A certain witcher I consider family,’ chuckled Giancardi, ‘visited the city of Dorian recently. I was informed he ran up a debt of a hundred crowns with a moneylender there. The said moneylender works for me. I’ll cancel the debt, Yennefer.’
The enchantress glanced at Ciri and made a sour grimace.
‘Molnar,’ she said coldly, ‘don’t stick your fingers in a door with broken hinges. I doubt he still holds me dear, and if he learns about any debts being cancelled he’ll hate my guts. You know him, don’t you? Honour is an obsession with him. Was he in Dorian a long time ago?’
‘Some ten days ago. Then he was seen in Little Marsh. I’m informed he went from there to Hirundum, since he had a commission from the farmers there. Some kind of monster to kill, as usual . . .’
‘And, as usual, they’ll be paying him peanuts for killing it.’ Yennefer’s voice changed a little. ‘Which, as usual, will barely cover the cost of medical treatment should he be mauled by the monster. Business as usual. If you really want to do something for me, Molnar, get involved. Contact the farmers from Hirundum and raise the bounty. Give him enough to live on.’
‘Business as usual,’ snorted Giancardi. ‘And if he eventually finds out about it?’
Yennefer fixed her eyes on Ciri, who was watching and listening now, not even attempting to feign interest in Physiologus.
‘And from whom,’ she muttered, ‘might he find out?’
Ciri lowered her gaze. The dwarf smiled meaningfully and stroked his beard.
‘Will you be heading towards Hirundum before setting off for Thanedd? Just by chance, of course?’
‘No,’ said the enchantress, turning away. ‘I won’t. Change the subject, Molnar.’
Giancardi stroked his beard again and looked at Ciri. She lowered her head, cleared her throat and fidgeted in her chair.
‘Quite,’ he said. ‘Time to change the subject. But your charge is clearly bored by that book, and by our conversation. And my next topic will bore her even more, I suspect; the fate of the world; the fate of the dwarves of this world; the fate of their banks. What a boring subject for girls, for future graduates of Aretuza . . . Let her spread her wings a little, Yennefer. Let her take a walk around the city—’
‘Oh, yes!’ cried Ciri.
The enchantress looked annoyed and was opening her mouth to protest, but suddenly changed tack. Ciri wasn’t certain, but she suspected the faint wink that accompanied the banker’s suggestion influenced her decision.
‘Let the girl have a look at the wonders of the ancient city of Gors Velen,’ added Giancardi, smiling broadly. ‘She deserves a little freedom before Aretuza. And we’ll chat about certain issues of a . . . hmm . . . personal nature. No, I’m not suggesting the girl goes alone, even though it’s a safe city. I’ll assign her a companion and guardian. One of my younger clerks . . .’
‘Forgive me, Molnar,’ said Yennefer, ignoring the smile, ‘but I’m not convinced that, in the present times and even in a safe city, the presence of a dwarf . . .’
‘It didn’t even occur to me,’ said Giancardi indignantly, ‘to send her with a dwarf. The clerk I have in mind is the son of a respected merchant, every inch a human, if you’ll excuse the expression. Did you think I only employ dwarves? Hey, Wifli! Summon Fabio, and look lively!’
‘Ciri.’ The enchantress walked over to her, bending forward slightly. ‘Make sure there’s no funny business, nothing I’ll have to be ashamed of. And keep schtum, got it? Promise me you’ll watch your words and deeds. Don’t just nod. Promises are made aloud.’
‘I promise, Yennefer.’
‘And glance at the sun from time to time. You�
��re to be back at noon. Punctually. And should . . . no, I don’t imagine anyone will recognise you. But should you notice someone observing you too intently . . .’
The enchantress put her hand in her pocket and pulled out a small piece of chrysoprase marked with runes, ground and polished into the shape of an hourglass.
‘Put that in your pouch and don’t lose it. In case of emergencies . . . do you recall the spell? Just use it discreetly; activation emits a powerful echo, and the amulet transmits waves when it’s in use. Should there be someone nearby who’s sensitive to magic, you’ll reveal yourself to them rather than remain hidden. Ah, and take this . . . should you wish to buy something.’
‘Thank you, madam.’ Ciri put the amulet and coins into her pouch and looked with interest at the boy who had rushed into the office. He was freckled, and his wavy, chestnut hair fell onto the high collar of his grey clerk’s uniform.
‘Fabio Sachs,’ said Giancardi by way of introduction. The boy bowed courteously.
‘Fabio, this is Madam Yennefer, our honoured guest and respected client. And this young lady, her ward, wishes to visit our city. You shall be accompanying her and acting as her guide and guardian.’
The boy bowed once more, this time towards Ciri.
‘Ciri,’ said Yennefer coldly. ‘Please stand up.’
She stood up, slightly taken aback, for she knew the custom well enough to know it wasn’t expected of her. And she understood at once what Yennefer had seen. The clerk might look the same age as Ciri, but he was a head shorter.
‘Molnar,’ said the enchantress. ‘Who is taking care of whom? Couldn’t you assign someone of slightly more substantial dimensions to this task?’
The boy blushed and looked at his superior questioningly. Giancardi nodded his head in assent. The clerk bowed a third time.
‘Your Highness,’ he began, fluently and confidently. ‘I may not be tall, but you can rely on me. I know the city, the suburbs and the surroundings very well. I shall look after this young lady to the best of my ability. And if I, Fabio Sachs the Younger, son of Fabio Sachs, do something to the best of my ability, then . . . many an older boy would not better it.’
Yennefer looked at him for a while and then turned towards the banker.
‘Congratulations, Molnar,’ she said. ‘You know how to choose your staff. You will have cause to be grateful to your young clerk in the future. It’s true: the purest gold rings truest when you strike it. Ciri, I entrust you into the care of Fabio, son of Fabio, in absolute confidence, since he is a serious, trustworthy man.’
The boy blushed to the roots of his chestnut hair. Ciri felt herself blushing, too.
‘Fabio,’ said the dwarf, opening a small chest and rummaging around in its clinking contents, ‘here’s half a noble and three – two – five-groat pieces, in the event the young lady requests anything. Should she not, you shall return it. Very well, you may go.’
‘By noon, Ciri,’ reminded Yennefer. ‘And not a moment later.’
‘I remember, I remember.’
‘My name is Fabio,’ said the boy, as soon as they’d run down the stairs and out into the busy street. ‘And you’re Ciri, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘What would you like to see in Gors Velen, Ciri? The main street? Goldsmiths’ alley? The seaport? Or maybe the market square and the market?’
‘Everything.’
‘Hmm . . .’ mused the boy seriously. ‘We’ve only got till noon . . . It would be best to go to the market square. It’s market day today; you can see heaps of amazing things! But first we’ll go up onto the wall, where there’s a view of the entire bay and the famous Isle of Thanedd. How does that sound?’
‘Let’s go.’
Carts rumbled past, horses and oxen plodded, coopers rolled barrels along the noisy street, and everyone was in a hurry. Ciri was a little bewildered by the bustle and commotion; she clumsily stepped off the wooden footpath and ended up ankle-deep in mud and muck. Fabio tried to take her arm, but she pulled away.
‘I don’t need any help to walk!’
‘Hmm . . . of course not. Let’s go then. We’re in the main street here. It’s called Kardo Street and connects the two gates: the main gate and the sea gate. You get to the town hall that way. Do you see the tower with the gold weathervane? That’s the town hall. And there, where that colourful sign’s hanging, that’s a tavern called The Unlaced Corset. But we won’t, ah . . . won’t be going there. We’re going over there. We’ll take a short cut through the fish market in Winding Street.’
They turned into a narrow street and came out into a small square squeezed between some buildings. It was full of stalls, barrels and vats, all strongly smelling of fish. The market was full of bustle and noise, with the stallholders and customers alike trying to outshout the seagulls circling above. There were cats sitting at the foot of the wall, pretending that the fish didn’t interest them in the least.
‘Your mistress,’ said Fabio suddenly, weaving his way between the stalls, ‘is very strict.’
‘I know.’
‘She isn’t a close relative, is she? It’s obvious right away.’
‘Is it? How can you tell?’
‘She’s very beautiful,’ said Fabio, with the cruel, casual frankness of a young person. Ciri turned away abruptly. But before she could treat Fabio to a stinging comment about his freckles or his height, the boy was pulling her between handcarts, barrels and stalls, explaining all the time that the bastion towering above the square was called the Thief’s Bastion, that the stones used for its construction came from the seabed and that the trees growing at its foot were called plantains.
‘You’re very quiet, Ciri,’ he suddenly said.
‘Me?’ Ciri pretended to be astonished. ‘Not at all! I’m just listening carefully to what you’re saying. It’s all really interesting, you know? And I just wanted to ask you . . .’
‘Fire away.’
‘Is it far to . . . to the city of Aretuza?’
‘It isn’t far at all. Aretuza isn’t even a city. We’ll go up on the wall and I’ll show you. Look, the steps are over there.’
The wall was high and the steps steep. Fabio was sweating and panting, and no small wonder, because he never stopped talking while they climbed. Ciri learned that the wall surrounding the city of Gors Velen was a recent construction, much more recent than the city itself, which had been built long before by the elves. She also found out it was thirty-five feet high and that it was a so-called case-mate wall, made of hewn stones and unfired brick, because that type of construction was the most resistant to blows from battering rams.
At the top they were greeted and fanned by a fresh sea wind. Ciri breathed it in joyfully after the heavy, stagnant stuffiness of the city. She rested her elbows on the top of the wall, looking down over the harbour dotted with colourful sails.
‘What’s that, Fabio? That mountain?’
‘That’s the Isle of Thanedd.’
The island seemed very close, and it didn’t resemble an island. It looked like the base of a gigantic stone column stuck into the seabed, a huge ziggurat encircled by a spirally twisting road and zigzagging steps and terraces. The terraces were green with groves and gardens, and protruding from the greenery – which clung to the rocks like swallows’ nests – rose soaring white towers and the ornate domes of groups of buildings framed by cloisters. The buildings gave no clue at all that they had been constructed from stone. They seemed to have been carved directly from the mountain’s rocky slopes.
‘All of this was built by elves,’ explained Fabio. ‘It’s said they did it with the help of magic. However, for as long as anyone can remember, Thanedd has belonged to sorcerers. Near the summit, where you can see those gleaming domes, is Garstang Palace. The great Conclave of Mages will begin there in a few days. And there, look, on the very top. That solitary tower with battlements is Tor Lara, the Tower of Gulls . . .’
‘Can you get there overland? I can see it’s very close.�
��
‘Yes, you can. There’s a bridge connecting the bay to the island. We can’t see it because the trees are in the way. Do you see those red roofs at the foot of the mountain? That’s Loxia Palace. The bridge ends there. You have to pass through Loxia to reach the road to the upper terraces . . .’
‘And those lovely cloisters and little bridges? And those gardens? How do they stay on the rock without falling off . . . ? What is that palace?’
‘That’s Aretuza, the place you were asking about. The famous school for young enchantresses is there.’
‘Oh,’ said Ciri, moistening her lips, ‘it’s there . . . Fabio?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you ever see the young enchantresses who attend the school? The school at Aretuza?’
The boy looked at her, clearly astonished.
‘No, never! No one sees them! They aren’t allowed to leave the island or visit the city. And no one has access to the school. Even the burgrave and the bailiff can only travel as far as Loxia if they have business for the enchantresses. It’s on the lowest level.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ Ciri nodded, staring at Aretuza’s shimmering roofs. ‘It’s not a school. It’s a prison. On an island, on a rock, above a cliff. Quite simply: a prison.’
‘I suppose it is,’ admitted Fabio after a moment’s thought. ‘It’s pretty difficult to get out of there . . . But no, it’s not like being in prison. The novices are girls, after all. They need protecting—’
‘From what?’
‘Er . . .’ the boy stammered. ‘I mean, you know what . . .’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Oh . . . I think . . . Look, Ciri, no one locks them up in the school by force. They must want to be there . . .’
‘Of course,’ smiled Ciri mischievously. ‘If they want to, they can stay in that prison. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t allow themselves to be locked up there. There’s nothing to it. You’d just have to choose the right moment to make a break for it. But you’d have to do it before you end up there, because once you went in it would be too late . . .’
‘What? Run away? Where would they run to—?’
‘They,’ she interrupted, ‘probably wouldn’t have anywhere to go, the poor things. Fabio? Where’s that town . . . Hirundum?’
The Saga of the Witcher Page 40
