*
Hotspurn rode up onto the hillock, reined in and turned his horse around. He was prudent and cautious, and did not like taking risks, particularly when vigilance cost nothing. He didn’t hurry to ride down to the postal station by the small river. He preferred to have a good look first.
There were no horses or horse-drawn vehicles outside the station, only a single small wagon harnessed with a pair of mules. There was some writing on the tarpaulin which Hotspurn could not make out at a distance. But it did not look dangerous. Hotspurn was capable of sensing danger. He was a professional.
He rode down to the bank, which was covered in bushes and osiers, spurred his horse decisively into the river, crossed at a gallop among gouts of water, many splashing him above his saddle. Some ducks swimming by the bank flew away with a loud quacking.
Hotspurn urged his horse on and rode into the station courtyard through the open fence. Now he could read the writing on the tarpaulin, proclaiming ‘Master Almavera, Tattoo Artist’. Each word was painted in a different colour and began with an excessively large, decoratively illuminated letter. And on the wagon’s box, above the right front wheel, was a small split arrow rendered in purple paint.
‘Dismount!’ he heard behind him. ‘On the ground, and fast! Hands away from your hilt!’
They approached and surrounded him noiselessly: Asse from the right in a silver-studded black leather jacket, Falka from the left in a short, green suede jerkin and beret with feathers. Hotspurn removed his hood and pulled the scarf from his face.
‘Ha!’ Asse lowered his sword. ‘It’s you, Hotspurn. I would have recognised you, but for that black horse!’
‘What a gorgeous little mare,’ said Falka with delight, sliding her beret over one ear. ‘Black and gleaming like coal, not a light hair on her. And so well-shaped! Oh, she’s a beauty!’
‘Aye, came up for less than five-score florins,’ smiled Hotspurn. ‘Where’s Giselher? Inside?’
Asse nodded. Falka, looking at the mare as though bewitched, patted her on the neck.
‘When she ran through the water,’ said Falka, raising her huge green eyes up to Hotspurn, ‘she looked like a veritable kelpie! Had she emerged from the sea and not a river, I would have believed she was a real one.’
‘Have you seen a real kelpie, Miss Falka?’
‘Only in a painting.’ The girl suddenly grew serious. ‘But that would be a long story. Come inside. Giselher’s waiting.’
*
There was a table by the window, which let in a little light. Mistle was half-lying on the table, resting on her elbows, almost naked from the waist down with nothing on but a pair of black stockings. Between her shamelessly spread legs knelt a skinny, long-haired individual in a brownish-grey smock. It could not have been anyone but Master Almavera, tattoo artist, busy tattooing a colourful picture on Mistle’s thigh.
‘Come closer, Hotspurn,’ invited Giselher, drawing a stool away from the next table, where he was sitting with Iskra, Kayleigh and Reef. The latter two, like Asse, were also dressed in black calfskin covered in buckles, studs, chains and other elaborate silver accessories. Some craftsman must have made a fortune on them, thought Hotspurn. The Rats, when the whim to dress up seized them, would pay tailors, shoemakers and leatherworkers handsomely. Naturally, neither did they miss any opportunity to simply wrest any clothing or jewellery that took their fancy from anyone they assailed.
‘I see you found our message in the ruins of the old station?’ Giselher said, stretching. ‘Ha, what am I saying, you wouldn’t be here otherwise, would you? You rode here pretty quickly, I must say.’
‘Because the mare is gorgeous,’ Falka interjected. ‘I’ll bet she’s fleet too!’
‘I found your message.’ Hotspurn did not take his eye off Giselher. ‘What about mine? Did it reach you?’
‘It did . . .’ stammered the leader of the Rats. ‘But . . . Well, to put it briefly . . . There wasn’t time. And then we got drunk and were forced to rest a little. And later another path came up . . .’
Damned pups, thought Hotspurn.
‘To put it briefly, you didn’t do the job?’
‘Well, no. Forgive me, Hotspurn. Couldn’t be done . . . But next time, ho! Without fail!’
‘Without fail!’ repeated Kayleigh with emphasis, though no one had asked him to repeat it.
Damned, irresponsible pups. Got drunk. And then another path came up . . . To a tailor to get some fancy costumes, I’ll be bound.
‘Want a drink?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Fancy some of this?’ Giselher pointed at a small decorative lacquer casket among some demijohns and beakers. Now Hotspurn knew why a strange light was flashing in the Rats’ eyes, why their movements were so nervous and quick.
‘First-rate powder,’ Giselher assured him. ‘Won’t you take a pinch?’
‘No, thank you.’ Hotspurn glanced knowingly at a red stain and a dwindling bloody streak on the sawdust of the chamber, clearly indicating which way a body had been dragged. Giselher noticed the look.
‘One of the lackeys thought he’d play the hero,’ he snorted. ‘So Iskra had to scold him.’
Iskra laughed throatily. She clearly very aroused by the narcotic.
‘I scolded him so much he choked on his blood,’ she crowed. ‘And the others were cowed at once. That’s what you call terror!’
She was dripping in jewels as usual, and even had a diamond stud in her nose. She was not wearing leather, but a short cherry-red jacket with a fine brocade pattern. Her look was established enough to be all the rage among the gilded youth of Thurn. Like the silk scarf wrapped around Giselher’s head. Hotspurn had even heard of girls asking for ‘Mistle’ haircuts.
‘That’s what you call terror,’ he repeated pensively, still looking at the patch of blood on the floor. ‘What about the station keeper? His wife? And son?’
‘No, no,’ Giselher scowled. ‘Think we did for all of them? Not at all. We locked them in the pantry for a while. Now the station, as you see, is ours.’
Kayleigh swilled wine around his mouth, then spat it out on the floor. He took a small quantity of fisstech from the casket with a tiny spoon, meticulously sprinkled it on the spit-moistened tip of his index finger and rubbed the narcotic into his gums. He handed the casket to Falka, who repeated the ritual and passed the fisstech to Reef. The Nilfgaardian turned it down, busy looking at a catalogue of colourful tattoos, and handed the box to Iskra. The she-elf passed it to Giselher without taking any.
‘Terror!’ she growled, narrowing her flashing eyes and sniffing. ‘We have the station in the grip of terror! Emperor Emhyr holds the entire world this way, and we only this hovel. But the principle’s the same!’
‘Owww, dammit!’ yelled Mistle from the table. ‘Be careful what you prick! Do that one more time and I’ll prick you! Right through!’
The Rats – apart from Falka and Giselher – roared with laughter.
‘If you want to be beautiful you have to suffer!’ Iskra called.
‘Prick her, master, prick her,’ Kayleigh added. ‘She’s hardened between the legs!’
Falka swore copiously and threw a beaker at him. Kayleigh ducked and the Rats roared with laughter again.
‘So.’ Hotspurn decided to put an end to the gaiety. ‘You hold the station in the grip of terror. But what for? Other than the satisfaction you derive from terrorising station keepers’ families?’
‘We,’ Giselher answered, rubbing fisstech into his gums, ‘are lying in wait. Should someone stop to change horses or rest, they’ll be stripped clean. It’s more comfortable here than on a crossroads or in the thicket by the highway. But, as Iskra has just said, the principle’s the same.’
‘But today, since daybreak, only this one’s fallen into our grasp,’ Reef interjected, pointing at Master Almavera, his head almost hidden between Mistle’s parted thighs. ‘A pauper, like every artist. Had nothing to rob, so we’re robbing him of his art. Take a look at
how ingeniously he draws.’
He bared his forearm and displayed a bloody tattoo: a naked woman who wiggled her buttocks when he clenched his fist. Kayleigh also showed off. A green snake with an open maw and a scarlet, forked tongue writhed around his arm, above a spiked bracelet.
‘A tasteful piece,’ Hotspurn said indifferently. ‘And helpful when corpses are being identified. However, you failed with the robbery, my dear Rats. You’ll have to pay the artist for his skill. There was no time to warn you; for seven days, from the first of September, the sign has been a purple split arrow. He has one painted on his wagon.’
Reef swore under his breath and Kayleigh laughed. Giselher waved a hand indifferently.
‘Too bad. If needs must we’ll pay him for his needles and dye. A purple arrow, say you? We’ll remember. If someone rides up with the sign of the arrow between now and tomorrow, he won’t be harmed.’
‘You plan to stay here till tomorrow?’ Hotspurn said with slightly exaggerated astonishment. ‘That’s imprudent, Rats. It’s risky and dangerous!’
‘You what?’
‘Risky and dangerous!’
Giselher shrugged, Iskra snorted and cleared her nose onto the floor. Reef, Kayleigh and Falka looked at Hotspurn as though he’d just declared that the sun had fallen into the river and must be fished out before the crayfish pinched it. Hotspurn understood that he had merely appealed to the reckless pups’ good sense, of which they had little. That he had alerted these braggarts to risk and danger. Braggarts – all reckless bravado – for whom those concepts were utterly alien.
‘They’re coming for you, Rats.’
‘What of it?’
Hotspurn sighed.
Mistle – without having taken the trouble to dress – came over to them and interrupted the discussion. She placed a foot on the bench and – twisting her hips – demonstrated to all and sundry the work of Master Almavera: a crimson rose on a green stem with two leaves, on her inner thigh, right by her groin.
‘Well?’ she asked, hands on hips. Her bracelets, which almost reached her elbows, flashed brilliantly. ‘What do you say?’
‘Exquisite!’ Kayleigh snorted, brushing his hair aside. Hotspurn had noticed that the Rat had rings in his ears. There was no doubt that similar earrings – like studded leather or silk scarves – would soon be the latest thing among the gilded youth in Thurn and the whole of Geso.
‘Your turn, Falka,’ said Mistle. ‘What will you have?’
Falka touched her friend’s thigh, leaned over and examined the tattoo. From very close. Mistle ruffled Falka’s ashen-grey hair tenderly. Falka giggled and, without further ado, began to undress.
‘I want the same rose,’ she said. ‘In the same place as you, darling.’
*
‘How many mice you have here, Vysogota!’ Ciri said, breaking off her story and looking down at the floor, where a veritable mouse circus was taking place in the circle of light thrown by the oil lamp. One could only imagine what was happening in the gloom beyond the light.
‘A cat would come in useful. Or, better still, two.’
‘The rodents,’ the hermit coughed, ‘are coming inside because winter is drawing nigh. And I had a cat. But it wandered off somewhere, the good-for-nothing, and never came back.’
‘It was probably taken by a fox or marten.’
‘You never saw that cat, Ciri. If something took it, it would have had to be a dragon. Nothing smaller.’
‘Was he that ferocious? Oh, that’s a pity. He wouldn’t have let these mice scamper all over my bed. Pity.’
‘Yes, it is a pity. But I think he’ll return. Cats always do.’
‘I’ll build up the fire. It’s cold.’
‘It is. The nights are perishingly cold now . . . And it’s not even halfway through October yet . . . Go on, Ciri.’
For a while Ciri sat motionless, staring into the fireplace. The fire sprang to life with the new wood, crackled, roared, and threw golden light and flickering shadows onto the girl’s scarred face.
‘Go on.’
*
Master Almavera pricked, and Ciri felt the tears tingling in the corners of her eyes. Although she had prudently intoxicated herself before the operation with wine and white powder, the pain was almost unbearable. She clenched her teeth. She did not groan, naturally, but pretended not to pay attention to the needle and to scorn the pain. She tried blithely to take part in the conversation the Rats were having with Hotspurn, an individual who wished to be thought of as a merchant, but who – apart from the fact that he lived off merchants – had nothing in common with trade.
‘Dark clouds have gathered above your heads,’ Hotspurn said, his dark eyes sweeping over the Rats’ faces. ‘Isn’t it bad enough that the Prefect of Amarillo is hunting you, that the Varnhagens are pursuing you, that the Baron of Casadei—?’
‘Him?’ Giselher grimaced. ‘I can understand the prefect and the Varnhagens, but what has that Casadei got against us?’
‘The wolf is dressed in sheep’s clothing,’ Hotspurn said, smiling, ‘and pitifully bleats baa, baa, no one likes me, no one understands me. Wherever I appear they throw stones at me. They shout “Hallo”. Why, oh why? Why such unfairness and injustice? The daughter of the Baron of Casadei, my dear Rats, after her adventure by the River Wagtail, grows ever weaker and feverish . . .’
‘Aaah,’ Giselher recalled. ‘That carriage with those four spotted horses! That maiden?’
‘That one. Now, as I said, she ails, wakes up in the night screaming, recalling Mr Kayleigh . . . But especially Miss Falka. And the brooch, a keepsake of her departed mamma, which Miss Falka wrested from her dress. Various words are repeated all the while.’
‘It wasn’t like that at all!’ Ciri yelled from the table, able to react to the pain by shouting. ‘We showed the baron’s daughter contempt and disrespect by letting her get away with it! The wench should have been ravaged!’
‘Indeed.’ Ciri sensed Hotspurn’s gaze on her naked thighs. ‘Verily a great dishonour not to have ravaged her. No wonder then, that the offended Casadei has assembled an armed squad and offered a reward. He has sworn publicly that you will all hang head down from the corbels on the walls of his castle. He also swore that for the brooch wrenched from his daughter he will flay Miss Falka. Alive.’
Ciri swore, and the Rats roared in wild laughter. Iskra sneezed and covered herself in snot; the fisstech was irritating her mucous membranes.
‘We disdain our pursuers,’ she declared, wiping her nose, mouth, chin and the table. ‘The prefect, the baron, the Varnhagens! They can hunt us, but they won’t catch us! We are the Rats! We zigzagged back and forth on the far side of the Velda and now those dolts are at sixes and sevens, going the wrong way along a cold trail. They will have gone too far to turn around by the time they catch on.’
‘Let them turn around!’ Asse said heatedly. He had returned some time before from sentry duty. No one had replaced him and no one seemed about to. ‘We’ll slaughter them and that’s that!’
‘Exactly!’ Ciri screamed from the table, having already forgotten how they had fled from their pursuers through the villages beside the Velda and how terrified she had been.
‘Very well.’ Giselher slammed his open palm down on the table, abruptly putting an end to the noisy chatter. ‘Speak, Hotspurn. For I can see you wish to tell us something else, something of greater note than the prefect, the Varnhagens, the Baron of Casadei and his sensitive daughter.’
‘Bonhart is on your trail.’
A very long silence fell. Even Master Almavera stopped working for a moment.
‘Bonhart,’ Giselher repeated in a slow, drawling voice. ‘That grey-haired old blackguard? We must have really annoyed someone.’
‘Someone wealthy,’ Mistle added. ‘Not everyone can afford Bonhart.’
Ciri was about to ask who this Bonhart was, but Asse and Reef – speaking almost at once, in unison – were quicker.
‘He’s a bounty hunter,’ G
iselher explained grimly. ‘Years ago he took the king’s shilling, they say. Then he was a wandering merchant, and finally began killing people for the bounty. He’s a whoreson like no other.’
‘They say,’ Kayleigh said quite carelessly, ‘that if you wanted to bury everyone Bonhart has put to the sword in one graveyard, it would have to measure a good half-acre.’
Mistle poured a pinch of the white powder into the dimple between her thumb and forefinger, and sniffed it up vigorously.
‘Bonhart broke up Big Lothar’s gang,’ she said. ‘He carved up him and his brother, the one they called Muchomorek.’
‘Stabbed them in the back, they say,’ Kayleigh threw in.
‘He killed Valdez, too,’ Giselher added. ‘And when Valdez perished, his gang fell apart. One of the better ones. A solid, hard firm. Good scrappers. I thought about joining them at one time. Before we teamed up.’
‘It’s all true,’ Hotspurn said. ‘There’s never been a gang like Valdez’s and there never will be again. A merry air is sung about how they fought their way out of a trap at Sarda. Aye, bold they were, aye, daredevils they were! Few are their equal.’
The Rats suddenly fell silent and fixed their eyes on him, blazing and furious.
‘The six of us,’ Kayleigh drawled after a brief silence, ‘once broke through a troop of Nilfgaardian horse!’
‘We sprang Kayleigh from the Nissirs!’ Asse snapped.
‘Few are our equal!’ Reef hissed.
‘That is so, Hotspurn.’ Giselher threw out his chest. ‘The Rats are second to no other gang, not even Valdez’s mob. Daredevils, you say? Well I’ll tell you something about she-devils. Iskra, Mistle and Falka – the very three sitting here before you – rode in broad daylight down the high street in Druigh, and when they realised that the Varnhagens were in the tavern, they galloped right through it! Right through, I tell you! They rode in through the front and out into the courtyard. And the Varnhagens were left standing open-mouthed over broken beer mugs and spilled beer. Will you say that wasn’t dashing?’
The Saga of the Witcher Page 110
