Naturally enough, the pines didn’t comment or interrupt her monologue.
‘I don’t think,’ Milva said, using her knife to scrape the blood out from beneath her fingernails, ‘you have the slightest chance of getting your young girl back. You won’t make it to the Yaruga, never mind Nilfgaard. I don’t think you’ll even make it to Sodden. I think you’re fated to die. It’s written on your fierce face, it’s staring through your hideous eyes. Death will catch up with you, O mad Witcher, it’ll catch up with you soon. But thanks to this little buck at least it won’t be death by starvation. It may not be much, but it’s something. That’s what I think.’
Dijkstra sighed to himself at the sight of the Nilfgaardian ambassador entering the audience chamber. Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen, Imperator Emhyr var Emreis’s envoy, was accustomed to conducting conversations in diplomatic language, and adored larding his sentences with pompous linguistic oddities, comprehensible only to diplomats and scholars. Dijkstra had studied at the Academy of Oxenfurt, and although he had not been awarded the title of Master of Letters, he knew the basics of bombastic scholarly jargon. However, he was reluctant to use it, since he hated with a vengeance pomposity and all forms of pretentious ceremony.
‘Greetings, Your Excellency.’
‘Your Lordship,’ Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen said, bowing ceremoniously. ‘Ah, please forgive me. Perhaps I ought to say: Your Grace the Duke? Your Highness the Regent? Secretary of State? ’Pon my word, offices are falling on you like hailstones, such that I really don’t know how to address you so as not to breach protocol.’
‘“Your Majesty” would be best,’ Dijkstra replied modestly. ‘You are aware after all, Your Excellency, that the king is judged by his court. And you are probably aware that when I shout: “Jump!” the court in Tretogor asks: “How high?”’
The ambassador knew that Dijkstra was exaggerating, but not inordinately. Prince Radovid was still a minor, Queen Hedwig distraught by her husband’s tragic death, and the aristocracy intimidated, stupefied, at variance and divided into factions. Dijkstra was the de facto governor of Redania and could have taken any rank he pleased with no difficulty. But Dijkstra had no desire to do so.
‘Your Lordship deigned to summon me,’ the ambassador said a moment later. ‘Passing over the Foreign Minister. To what do I owe this honour?’
‘The minister,’ Dijkstra said, looking up at the ceiling, ‘resigned from the post owing to his poor state of health.’
The ambassador nodded gravely. He knew perfectly well that the Foreign Minister was languishing in a dungeon and, being a coward and a fool, had doubtless told Dijkstra everything about his collusion with the Nilfgaardian secret service during the demonstration of torture instruments preceding his interrogation. He knew that the network established by Vattier de Rideaux, head of the imperial secret service, had been crushed, and all its threads were in Dijkstra’s hands. He also knew that those threads led directly to his person. But his person was protected by immunity and protocol forced them to play this game to the bitter end. Particularly following the curious, encoded instructions recently sent to the embassy by Vattier and Coroner Stephan Skellen, the imperial agent for special affairs.
‘Since his successor has not yet been named,’ Dijkstra continued, ‘it is my unpleasant duty to inform you that Your Excellency is now deemed persona non grata in the Kingdom of Redania.’
The ambassador bowed.
‘I regret,’ he said, ‘that the distrust that resulted in the mutual recall of ambassadors are the consequence of matters which, after all, directly concern neither the Kingdom of Redania nor the Nilfgaardian Empire. The Empire has not undertaken any hostile measures against Redania.’
‘Apart from a blockade against our ships and goods at the mouth of the Yaruga and the Skellige Islands. And apart from arming and supporting gangs of Scoia’tael.’
‘Those are insinuations.’
‘And the concentration of imperial forces in Verden and Cintra? The raids on Sodden and Brugge by armed gangs? Sodden and Brugge are under Temerian protection; we in turn are in alliance with Temeria, Your Excellency, which makes an attack on Temeria an attack on us. In addition, there are matters which directly concern Redania: the rebellion on the Isle of Thanedd and the criminal assassination of King Vizimir. And the question of the role the Empire played in those incidents.’
‘Quod attinet the incident on Thanedd,’ the ambassador said, spreading his arms, ‘I have not been empowered to express an opinion. His Imperial Highness Emhyr var Emreis is unaware of the substance of the private feuds of your mages. I regret the fact that our protests are achieving minimal success in the face of the propaganda which seeks to suggest something else. Propaganda disseminated, I dare say, not without the support of the highest authorities of the Kingdom of Redania.’
‘Your protests greatly astonish and surprise me,’ Dijkstra said, smiling faintly. ‘Since the Imperator in no way conceals the presence of the Cintran princess at his court, after she was abducted from the very same Thanedd.’
‘Cirilla, Queen of Cintra,’ Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen corrected him with emphasis, ‘was not abducted, but sought asylum in the Empire. That has nothing to do with the incident on Thanedd.’
‘Indeed?’
‘The incident on Thanedd,’ the ambassador continued, his countenance stony, ‘aroused the Imperator’s horror. And the murderous attack on the life of King Vizimir, carried out by a madman, evoked his sincere and intense abomination. However, the vile rumour being disseminated among the common people is an even greater abomination, which dares to search for the instigators of these crimes in the Empire.’
‘The capture of the actual instigators,’ Dijkstra said slowly, ‘will put an end to the rumours, one would hope. And their capture and the meting out of justice to them is purely a matter of time.’
‘Justitia fundamentum regnorum,’ admitted Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen gravely. ‘And crimen horribilis non potest non esse punibile. I affirm that His Imperial Majesty also wishes this to happen.’
‘The Imperator has it in his power to fulfil that wish,’ Dijkstra threw in casually, folding his arms. ‘One of the leaders of the conspiracy, Enid an Gleanna, until recently the sorceress Francesca Findabair, is playing at being queen of the elven puppet state in Dol Blathanna, by the imperial grace.’
‘His Imperial Majesty,’ said the ambassador, bowing stiffly, ‘cannot interfere in the doings of Dol Blathanna, recognised by all its neighbouring powers as an independent kingdom.’
‘But not by Redania. For Redania, Dol Blathanna remains part of the Kingdom of Aedirn. Although together with the elves and Kaedwen you have dismantled Aedirn – although not a stone remains of Lyria – you are striking those kingdoms too swiftly from the map of the world. It’s too soon, Your Excellency. However, this is neither the time nor the place to discuss it. Let Francesca Findabair play at reigning for now; she’ll get her comeuppance. And what of the other rebels and King Vizimir’s assassins? What about Vilgefortz of Roggeveen, what about Yennefer of Vengerberg? There are grounds to believe they both fled to Nilfgaard following the collapse of the rebellion.’
‘I assure you that is not so,’ said the ambassador, raising his head. ‘But were it true, they would not escape punishment.’
‘They did not wrong you, thus their punishment does not rest with you. Imperator Emhyr would prove his sincere desire for justice, which after all is fundamentum regnorum, by handing the criminals over to us.’
‘One may not deny the validity of your request,’ admitted Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen, feigning an embarrassed smile. ‘However, primo, those individuals are not in the Empire. And secundo, had they even reached it, there exists an impediment. Extradition is carried out on the basis of a judgment of the law, each case decided upon by the Imperial Council. Bear in mind, Your Lordship, that the breaking of diplomatic ties by Redania is a hostile act; it would be difficult to expect the Council to vote in favour of the extradition of persons seeking asylu
m, were a hostile country to demand that extradition. It would be an unprecedented matter . . . Unless . . .’
‘Unless what?’
‘A precedent were established.’
‘I do not understand.’
‘Were the Kingdom of Redania prepared to hand one of his subjects to the Imperator, a common criminal who had been captured here, the Imperator and his Council would have grounds to reciprocate this gesture of good will.’
Dijkstra said nothing for a long time, giving the impression he was either dozing or thinking.
‘Whom do you have in mind?’
‘The name of the criminal . . .’ said the ambassador, pretending to recall it. He finally searched for a document in his saffian portfolio. ‘Forgive me, memoria fragilis est. Here it is. A certain Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach. Serious gravamina weigh on him. He is being sought for murder, desertion, raptus puellae, rape, theft and forging documents. Fleeing from the Imperator’s wrath, he escaped abroad.’
‘To Redania? He chose a long route.’
‘Your Lordship,’ said Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen, smiling faintly, ‘does not limit his interests only to Redania, after all. There is not a shadow of doubt in my mind that were the criminal to be seized in any of the allied kingdoms, Your Lordship would hear of it from the reports of numerous . . . friends.’
‘What did you say the name of the felon was?’
‘Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach.’
Dijkstra fell silent again, pretending to be searching in his memory.
‘No,’ he said finally. ‘No one of that name has been apprehended.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Regrettably, my memoria is not fragilis in such cases, Your Excellency.’
‘I regret it too,’ Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen responded icily. ‘Particularly since the mutual extradition of criminals seems to be impossible to carry out in such circumstances. I shall not weary Your Lordship any longer. I wish you good health and good fortune.’
‘Likewise. Farewell, Your Excellency.’
The ambassador left, after several elaborate, ceremonial bows.
‘You can kiss sempiternum meam, you sly old devil,’ Dijkstra muttered, folding his arms. ‘Ori!’
His secretary, red in the face from suppressing his cough, emerged from behind a curtain.
‘Is Philippa still in Montecalvo?’
‘Yes, hem, hem. Mistresses Laux-Antille, Merigold and Metz are with her.’
‘War may break out in a day or two, the border on the Yaruga will soon go up in flames, and they’ve hidden themselves in some godforsaken castle! Take a quill and write. Darling Phil . . . Oh, bugger!’
‘I’ve written: “Dear Philippa”.’
‘Good. Continue. It may interest you that the freak in the plumed helmet, who disappeared from Thanedd as mysteriously as he appeared, is called Cahir Mawr Dyffryn and is the son of Seneschal Ceallach. This strange individual is being sought not only by us, but also, it would appear, by the secret service of Vattier de Rideaux and the men of that son-of-a-bitch . . .’
‘Mistress Philippa, hem, hem, does not like expressions of that kind. I have written: “that scoundrel”.’
‘Let it be: that scoundrel Stephan Skellen. You know as well as I do, dear Phil, that the imperial secret service is urgently hunting only those agents and emissaries who got under Emhyr’s skin. Those who, instead of carrying out their orders or dying, betrayed him and their orders alike. The case thus appears quite curious, since we were certain that this Cahir’s orders concerned the capture of Princess Cirilla and her delivery to Nilfgaard.
‘New paragraph: I would like to discuss in person the strange, but well-founded suspicions this matter has evoked in me, and the somewhat astonishing, but reasonable theories I have arrived at. With my deepest respect et cetera, et cetera.’
Milva rode south, as the crow flies, first along the banks of the Ribbon, through Burn Stump, and then, having crossed the river, through marshy gorges covered in a soft, bright green carpet of hair-cap moss. She guessed that the Witcher, not knowing the terrain as well as she did, would not risk crossing onto the human-controlled bank. Taking a short cut across a huge bend in the river, which curved towards Brokilon, there was a chance she might catch up with him in the region of the Ceann Treise Falls. Were she to ride hard and not take a break, she even stood a chance of overtaking him.
The chirruping chaffinches hadn’t been mistaken. The sky had clouded over considerably to the south. The air had become dense and heavy, and the mosquitoes and horseflies extremely annoying.
When she rode into the wetlands, thick with hazel hung with still-green nuts and leafless, blackish buckthorn, she felt a presence. She didn’t hear it. She felt it. And so she knew it must be elves.
She reined in her horse, so the bowmen concealed in the undergrowth could have a good look at her. She also held her breath. In the hope that she hadn’t happened upon quick-tempered ones.
A fly buzzed over the buck, which was slung over the horse’s rump.
A rustling. A soft whistling. She whistled back. The Scoia’tael emerged from the brush soundlessly and only then did Milva breathe freely again. She knew them. They belonged to Coinneach Dá Reo’s commando.
‘Hael,’ she said, dismounting. ‘Que’ss va?’
‘Ne’ss,’ an elf whose name she couldn’t recall replied coldly. ‘Caemm.’
Other elves were encamped in the nearby clearing. There were at least thirty of them, more than there should be in Coinneach’s commando. This surprised Milva; in recent times, Squirrel units were more likely to shrink than grow in size. In recent times, commandos had become groups of bloodied, nervy ragamuffins who could barely stand or stay upright in the saddle. This commando was different.
‘Cead, Coinneach,’ she greeted the approaching commander.
‘Ceadmil, sor’ca.’
Sor’ca. Little sister. It’s how she was addressed by those she was friendly with, when they wanted to express their respect and affection. And that they were indeed many, many more winters older than she. At first, she had only been Dh’oine – human – to the elves. Later, when she had begun helping them regularly, they called her Aen Woedbeanna, ‘woman of the forest’. Still later, when they knew her better, they called her – following the dryads’ example – Milva, or Red Kite. Her real name, which she only revealed to those she was closest to, responding to similar gestures received from them, didn’t suit the elves – they pronounced it Mear’ya, with a hint of a grimace, as though in their speech it carried negative connotations. Then they would immediately switch to ‘sor’ca’.
‘Where are you headed?’ asked Milva, looking around more intently, but still not seeing any wounded or ill elves. ‘To Eight-Mile? To Brokilon?’
‘No.’
She refrained from further questions; she knew them too well. It was enough to glance several times at their motionless, hardened faces, at the exaggerated, pointed calm with which they were preparing their tackle and weapons. One close look into their deep, fathomless eyes was enough. She knew they were going into battle.
To the south the sky was darkening, becoming overcast.
‘And where are you headed, sor’ca?’ asked Coinneach, then quickly glanced at the buck slung over her horse and smiled faintly.
‘South,’ she said coldly, putting him right. ‘Towards Drieschot.’
The elf stopped smiling.
‘Along the human bank?’
‘At least as far as Ceann Treise,’ she said, shrugging. ‘When I reach the falls I’ll definitely go back over to the Brokilon side, because . . .’
She turned around, hearing the snorting of horses. Fresh Scoia’tael were joining the already unusually large commando. Milva knew these new ones even better.
‘Ciaran!’ she shouted softly, without attempting to hide her astonishment. ‘Toruviel! What are you doing here? I’ve only just led you to Brokilon, and you’re already—’
‘Ess’creasa, sor’ca,’ Ciaran aep
Dearbh said gravely. The bandage swathed around his head was stained with oozing blood.
‘We have no choice,’ Toruviel repeated. She dismounted cautiously using one arm, in order to protect the other one, which was still bent in a sling. ‘News has come. We may not remain in Brokilon, when every bow counts.’
‘If I had known,’ Milva said, pouting, ‘I wouldn’t have bothered. I wouldn’t have risked my neck at the ford.’
‘News came last night,’ explained Toruviel quietly. ‘We could not . . . We cannot leave our comrades in arms at a time like this. We cannot. Understand that, sor’ca.’
The sky had darkened even more. This time Milva clearly heard thunder in the distance.
‘Don’t ride south, sor’ca,’ Coinneach Dá Reo pleaded. ‘There’s a storm coming.’
‘What can a storm do to. . . ?’ She broke off and looked at him intently. ‘Ah! So that kind of tidings have reached you, have they? It’s Nilfgaard, is it? They are crossing the Yaruga in Sodden? They are striking Brugge? And that’s why you’re marching?’
He did not answer.
‘Yes, just like it was in Dol Angra,’ she said, looking into his dark eyes. ‘Once again the Nilfgaardian Imperator has you sowing mayhem with fire and sword on the humans’ rear lines. And then he will make peace with the kings and they will slaughter you all. You will burn in the very fire you are starting.’
‘Fire purges. And hardens. It must be passed through. Aenyell’hael, ell’ea, sor’ca? In your tongue: a baptism of fire.’
‘I prefer another kind of fire,’ Milva said, untying the buck and throwing it down onto the ground at the feet of the elves. ‘The kind that crackles under the spit. Have it, so you won’t fall from hunger on the march. It’s of no use to me now.’
‘Aren’t you riding south?’
‘I am.’
I’m going south, she thought, and quickly. I have to warn that fool of a witcher, I have to warn him about what kind of a turmoil he’s getting himself into. I have to make him turn back.
‘Don’t go, sor’ca.’
The Saga of the Witcher Page 72
