‘You are mounted and armed,’ he grunted. ‘Valorous and bold, anyone can see it. Wouldn’t be no fear travelling with the likes of you . . . And it’d be commodious for you . . . We know every path, every track, every copse and holt . . . And we can feed you . . .’
‘And the druids,’ Cahir said coldly, ‘have left Caed Dhu. And headed for the Slopes. Where you want to go. What a remarkable coincidence.’
Geralt walked slowly over to the forest beekeeper and grabbed him by the front of his coat. But a moment later thought better of it, released him and smoothed down his garments. He said nothing. And asked nothing. But in any case the beekeeper hurried to explain.
‘I spoke the truth! I swear! May the earth swallow me up if I lie! The Mistletoers have gone from Caed Dhu! They ain’t there!’
‘And they’re in the Slopes, are they?’ Geralt growled. ‘Where you are headed, you and this rabble of yours? And you want to travel with an armed escort? Speak, fellow. But take heed, the earth is indeed liable to cleave open!’
The beekeeper lowered his eyes and looked down apprehensively at the ground beneath his feet. Geralt kept meaningfully silent. Milva, finally understanding what it was all about, cursed foully. Cahir snorted contemptuously.
‘Well?’ the Witcher urged. ‘Where were the druids making for?’
‘Who knows, m’lord?’ the beekeeper finally mumbled. ‘But they may be in the Slopes . . . Just as well as they might be anywhere else. There’s a plenitude of mighty oak groves in the Slopes, and druids are fond of oaks . . .’
Aside from headman Cronin, both hamadryads – mother and daughter – were now standing behind the beekeeper. It’s fortunate the daughter takes after her mother and not her father, the Witcher thought, for the beekeeper suits his wife as well as a wild boar suits a mare. He noticed that several more women were standing behind the hamadryads. They were much less comely, but were looking at him just as pleadingly.
He glanced at Regis, not knowing whether to laugh or curse. The vampire shrugged.
‘Let me start by saying,’ he said, ‘that the forest beekeeper is right, Geralt. It is quite probable that the druids have gone to the Slopes. It is perfectly fitting terrain for them.’
‘Is that probability–’ the Witcher’s gaze was very, very cold, ‘–sufficiently great, in your view, to prompt us to abruptly change our course and head off blindly with these folk here?’
Regis shrugged again.
‘What difference does it make? Think it over. The druids are not in Caed Dhu, so we ought to eliminate that direction of travel. Neither can a return to the Yaruga, I venture, be an option. And so all remaining directions are equally good.’
‘Really?’ The temperature of the Witcher’s voice now equalled his gaze. ‘And which of those that remain, in your view, would be most advisable? The one with the forest beekeepers? Or a quite different one? Will you – in your infinite wisdom – undertake to stipulate that?’
The vampire turned slowly towards the forest beekeeper, the forest beekeeper headman, the hamadryads and the other women.
‘What is it,’ he asked gravely, ‘you fear so much, good folk, that you seek an escort? What arouses this fear in you? Speak plainly.’
‘Oh, m’lord,’ Jan Cronin whined, and the most genuine horror appeared in his eyes. ‘I’m glad you asked . . . Our way goes through the Dank Wilderness! And it’s ghastly there, m’lord! There are, m’lord, brukolaks, vampyrodes, endryags, gryphoons and all kind of monstrosities! Why, barely two Sundays since, a leshy snatched my son-in-law, he only managed a rasp and that was him, dead. Do you not wonder that we’re afeared to go that way with our women and bairns? Eh?’
The vampire glanced at the Witcher and his face was very grave.
‘My boundless wisdom,’ he said, ‘suggests I stipulate that the most advisable direction is whichever is most advisable for the Witcher.’
*
We set off northwards, towards the Slopes, a land lying at the foot of the Amell Mountains. We set off in a great procession which contained everything: young women, forest beekeepers, fur trappers, women, children, young women, domestic livestock, household paraphernalia, and young women. And a hell of a lot of honey. Everything was sticky from the honey, even the girls.
The train moved at walking and wagon speed, but the pace of the march did not falter, for we did not stray, but marched with ease – the beekeepers knew the tracks, paths and causeways between the lakes. But that knowledge came in useful, oh, how it did, for it began to drizzle and suddenly the whole of bloody Riverdell was plunged into a fog as thick as cream. Without the beekeepers we would surely have lost our way or sunk somewhere in the mire. Neither did we have to waste time or energy organising and preparing vittles – we were fed thrice a day, amply, if simply. And were permitted to laze around for some time after each repast.
In short, it was wonderful. Even the Witcher, that old sourpuss and bore, began to smile and enjoy life more, for he reckoned we were covering fifteen miles a day, which we had never once managed since leaving Brokilon. The Witcher had no work, for though the Dank Wilderness was so dank it would have been difficult to imagine anything danker, we did not encounter any monsters. Sure, at night spectres howled a little, forest weepers moaned and will o’ the wisps capered on the bogs. But nothing remarkable.
It was a tiny bit worrying, in truth, that once again we were travelling in quite an accidentally chosen direction and once again without a precisely defined destination. But, as the vampire Regis articulated, it is better to go forward without an aim than loiter without an aim, and with surety much better than to retreat without an aim.
*
‘Dandelion! Strap that tube of yours on securely! It would be a shame for half a century of poetry to break free and get lost in the ferns.’
‘No fear! I shan’t lose it, be certain of it. Nor let anyone take it from me! Anyone wanting this tube will have to wrest it from my cooling corpse. Might one know, Geralt, what provokes your peals of laughter? Let me hazard a guess . . . Congenital imbecility?’
*
It so happened that a team of archaeologists from the University of Castell Graupian, conducting excavations in Beauclair, dug through a layer of charcoal – indicating a great fire – to an even older layer, estimated to date from the 13th century. In that layer, a cavern formed by the remains of walls and sealed by clay and lime was excavated, and in it – to the great excitement of the scholars – were two perfectly preserved human skeletons: those of a woman and a man. Beside the skeletons – apart from weapons and countless small artefacts – was a tube made of hardened leather and measuring two and a half feet long. A coat of arms with faded colours depicting lions and lozenges was embossed on the leather. Professor Schliemann, a distinguished specialist in the sigillography of the Dark Ages, who was leading the team, identified the coat of arms as the emblem of Rivia, an ancient kingdom of unconfirmed location. The archaeologists’ excitement reached its peak, since manuscripts were kept in similar tubes in the Dark Ages, when the container’s weight permitted the supposition that there was plenty of paper or parchment preserved inside. The tube’s excellent condition offered hope that the documents would be legible and throw light on the shadowy past. The centuries were about to speak! It was an exceptional surprise, a victory of science which could not be squandered. Linguists and scholars of extinct languages were prudently summoned from Castell Graupian, along with specialists capable of opening the tube without the risk of even the slightest damage to the valuable contents.
Meanwhile, rumours of ‘treasure’ had spread through Professor Schliemann’s team. It so happens that those words reached the ears of three characters, known as Zdyb, Billy Goat and Kamil Ronstetter, who’d been hired to dig out the clay. Convinced that the tube was literally stuffed full of gold and valuables, the three aforementioned diggers, under cover of darkness, swiped the priceless artefact and fled with it to the forest. Once there, they lit a small fire and sat down around it.<
br />
‘What you waitin’ for?’ Billy Goat said to Zdyb. ‘Open up that pipe!’
‘Won’t give,’ Zdyb complained to Billy Goat. ‘It’s tight as a whoreson!’
‘Stamp on the sodding bitch!’ Kamil Ronstetter advised.
The hasp of the priceless find gave way under Zdyb’s heel and the contents fell out onto the ground.
‘Bugger the sodding bitch!’ Billy Goat yelled in astonishment. ‘What is it?’
The question was foolish, for at first sight it could be seen they were sheets of paper. For which reason Zdyb, rather than answer, took one of the sheets and brought it up to his nose. He examined the curious-looking signs for a long while.
‘It’s writing,’ he finally stated authoritatively. ‘They’re letters!’
‘Letters?’ Kamil Ronstetter roared, paling in horror. ‘Written letters? What a bitch!’
‘Writing, meaning spells!’ Billy Goat jabbered, his teeth chattering in terror. ‘Letters, meaning witchery! Don’t touch it, son-of-a-sodding-bitch! You might catch something from it!’
Zdyb didn’t need telling twice, throwing the page onto the fire and nervously wiping his trembling hands on his britches. Kamil Ronstetter kicked the rest of the papers into the campfire – after all, children might chance upon that foul stuff. Then the three hurried away from that dangerous place. The priceless writing from the Dark Ages burned with a tall, bright flame. For a few short moments the centuries spoke with the soft whisper of paper blackening in the fire. And then the flame went out and darkness covered the earth.
Houvenaghel, Dominik Bombastus, b. 1239, became rich in Ebbing conducting trade on a great scale and settled in Nilfgaard; respected by previous emperors, he was appointed burgrave and director of mines in Venendal by Emperor Jan Calveit, and as reward for services rendered was given the office of mayor of Neveugen. A faithful imperial advisor, H. had the emperor’s favour and also participated in many public affairs. d. 1301. While still in Ebbing, H. was engaged in numerous charitable works, supported the needy and impoverished, and founded orphanages, hospitals and nurseries, putting up plentiful sums for them. A great enthusiast of the fine arts and sport, he founded a comedic theatre and stadium in the capital, both of which bore his name. He was regarded as a model of probity, honesty and mercantile decency.
Effenberg and Talbot,
Encyclopaedia Maxima Mundi, Volume VII
CHAPTER FOUR
‘Witness’s surname and given name?’
‘Selborne, Kenna. Beg pardon, I meant Joanna.’
‘Profession?’
‘Provider of diverse services.’
‘Is the witness jesting? May the witness be reminded that she stands before the imperial tribunal in a trial of high treason! The lives of many people depend on the witness’s testimony, since the penalty for treason is death! May the witness be reminded that she stands before the tribunal by no means as a free agent, but having been brought from a place of isolation in the citadel, and whether the witness returns there or is discharged depends inter alia on her testimony. The tribunal has taken the liberty of this lengthy lecture in order to show the witness how highly improper buffoonery and facetiae are in this chamber! They are not merely unpalatable, but also threaten very grave consequences. The witness has a half-minute to ponder this matter after which the tribunal shall pose the question once again.’
‘Very well, Illustrious Judge.’
‘Address us as “Your Honour”. Witness’s profession?’
‘I’m a psionic, Your Honour. But mainly in the service of the imperial intelligence, I mean . . .’
‘Please keep your answers brief and to the point. Should the court be desirous of further explanations we shall ask for them. The court is aware of the collaboration between the witness and the empire’s secret service. For the record, what is the meaning of the term “psionic”, which the witness used when giving her profession?’
‘I’ve got pure aitch-es-pee, which means first category psi, without the gift of pee-kay. To be precise: I can hear other people’s thoughts and speak remotely with a sorcerer, elf or other psionic. And I can give orders using thought. I mean: make someone do what I want them to. I can also do pre-cog, but only when I’m under.’
‘Please enter in the proceedings that the witness, Joanna Selborne, is a psionic, with the gift of hypersensory perception. She is a telepath and tele-empath, able to carry out precognition under hypnosis, but without the ability of psychokinesis. The witness is admonished that the use of magic and extrasensory powers in this chamber is strictly prohibited. We shall continue the hearing. When, where and in what circumstances did the witness encounter the matter of the person passing herself off as Cirilla, Princess of Cintra?’
‘I only found out about some Cirilla or other when I was in the clink . . . I mean in a place of isolation, Illustrious Tribunal. While being investigated. I was made aware it was the same person as had been called Falka or the Cintran in my hearing. And the circumstances were such that I must state the order of events. For clarity, I mean. It was like this: I was accosted in a tavern in Etolia by Dacre Silifant, him, who’s sitting over there . . . ‘
‘Make note that the witness, Joanna Selborne, has indicated the accused Silifant without being prompted. Please continue.’
‘Dacre, Illustrious Tribunal, recruited a hanza . . . I mean, an armed troop. Valiant to a man, and woman . . . Dufficey Kriel, Neratin Ceka, Chloe Stitz, Andres Vierny, Til Echrade . . . They’re all dead, Your Honour . . . And of the ones what survived, most of them are sitting here, under guard . . .’
‘Please state precisely when the meeting of the witness and the accused, Silifant, took place.’
‘It was last year, in the month of August, somewhere near the end, I don’t recall exactly. Well not in September, in any case, for that September, ha, is well embedded in my memory! Dacre, who’d learned about me from somewhere, said the hanza needed a psionic, one that wasn’t afraid of magic, because we’d be dealing with sorcerers. The work, he said, was for the emperor and the empire, well-paid, furthermore, and the hanza would be commanded by none other than Tawny Owl himself.’
‘When they say Tawny Owl, does the witness have in mind Stefan Skellen, the imperial coroner?’
‘Yes, I do, indeed I do.’
‘Please enter that in the proceedings. When and where did the witness encounter Coroner Skellen?’
‘It was in September, on the fourteenth, in Fort Rocayne. Rocayne, Illustrious Tribunal, is a border watchtower, which guards the trade route from Maecht to Ebbing, Geso and Metinna. Our hanza – numbering some fifteen horse – was brought there by Dacre Silifant. So, taken together, there were twenty-two of us, as the others were already standing by in Rocayne, under the command of Ola Harsheim and Bert Brigden.’
*
The wooden floor boomed beneath heavy boots, spurs jingled and metal buckles clinked.
‘Greetings, Sir Stefan!’
Tawny Owl not only did not stand up, he didn’t even take his feet from the table. He just waved a hand in a very lordly gesture.
‘At last,’ he said curtly. ‘You’ve kept me waiting a long time, Silifant.’
‘A long time?’ Dacre Silifant laughed. ‘That’s rich, Sir Stefan! You gave me, four Sundays to gather and bring here a good dozen of the best blades the empire and its dominions have produced. A year would be too little for the assembling of such a hanza! But I tossed it off in twenty-two days. That deserves praise, eh?’
‘Let’s refrain from praise,’ Skellen said coolly, ‘until I’ve seen this hanza of yours.’
‘Why not now? Here are my – and now your, Sir Stefan – lieutenants: Neratin Ceka and Dufficey Kriel.’
‘Hail, hail.’ Tawny Owl finally decided to stand up, and his adjutants also rose. ‘Let me introduce you, gentlemen . . . Bert Brigden, Ola Harsheim . . .’
‘We know each other well.’ Dacre Silifant grasped Ola Harsheim’s right hand firmly. ‘We put down the rebellio
n in Nazair under old Braibant. That was comical, eh, Ola? Eh, comical! The horses were hock-deep in blood! And Mr Brigden, if I’m not mistaken, from Gemmera? From the Pacifiers? Ah, there’ll be comrades in the squad! I’ve got a few Pacifiers there.’
‘I’m getting impatient to see them,’ Tawny Owl interjected. ‘May we go?’
‘A moment,’ Dacre said. ‘Neratin, go and array the company, so they’ll look their best before the honourable coroner.’
‘Is it a he or she, that Neratin Ceka?’ Tawny Owl squinted, watching the officer leave. ‘A woman or a man?’
‘Mr Skellen.’ Dacre Silifant cleared his throat, but when he spoke his voice was steady and his eyes cold. ‘I do not know exactly. He would appear to be a man, but I’m not certain. As to what kind of officer Neratin Ceka is, I’m certain. What you have deigned to ask me about would be significant were I to ask him – or her – for his – or her – hand. But that I do not intend. Neither do you, I expect.’
‘You’re right,’ Skellen conceded after a moment’s thought. ‘So there’s nothing to say. Let’s go and scrutinise your gang, Silifant.’
Neratin Ceka, the individual of uncertain gender, had not wasted time. When Skellen and the officers went out into the fort’s courtyard, the squad was standing in tidy array, aligned so that not a horse’s muzzle extended further than a span. Tawny Owl gave a slight cough, content. A decent band, he thought. Ah well, were it not for official policy . . . Oh, to assemble a hanza like that and head for the marches, to plunder, rape, murder and burn . . . A man would feel young again . . . Pshaw, if it weren’t for politics!
‘Well, Sir Stefan?’ Dacre Silifant asked, flushing with barely concealed excitement. ‘How do you find them, these splendid sparrowhawks of mine?’
Tawny Owl’s eyes travelled from face to face, from figure to figure. He knew some of them personally, for better or worse. Others, whose acquaintance he was now making, he had heard of. By reputation.
Til Echrade, a fair-haired elf, a scout of the Gemmerian Pacifiers. Rispat La Pointe, a sergeant from the same unit. Next, a Gemmerian: Cyprian Fripp the younger. Skellen had been present at the execution of Fripp the older. Both brothers had been famous for their sadistic proclivities.
The Saga of the Witcher Page 118
