The Saga of the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  He broke off and looked at Ciri.

  ‘I sincerely hope you aren’t mistaken with regard to this person. That she will furnish us with wholesome amusement . . . And be willing to cooperate for the sake of our joint profit.’

  ‘There won’t be any profit for her–’ Bonhart eyed up Ciri indifferently, ‘–she knows that.’

  Houvenaghel grimaced and snorted.

  ‘It’s no good, no bloody good that she knows! She ought not to know! What’s the matter with you, Leo? And if she’s not willing to be sporting, if she turns out to be spitefully uncompliant? What then?’

  The expression on Bonhart’s face didn’t change.

  ‘Then,’ he said, ‘we’ll unleash your mastiffs into the arena. They’ve always been compliant where sport’s concerned, as I recall.’

  *

  Ciri was silent for a long time, rubbing her disfigured cheek.

  ‘I was beginning to understand,’ she finally said. ‘I was beginning to realise what they wanted to do with me. I gathered myself, I was determined to escape at the first opportunity . . . I was prepared for any risk. But they didn’t give me the chance. They were guarding me too well.’

  Vysogota said nothing.

  ‘They dragged me downstairs. The guests of that fat Houvenaghel were waiting there. More eccentrics! Where do all these grotesque odd fish come from, Vysogota?’

  ‘They breed. Natural selection.’

  *

  The first of the men was short and chubby, more resembling a halfling than a human, and was even dressed like a halfling – modestly, pleasantly, neatly and in pastel colours. The second man – though no longer young – had the outfit and bearing of a soldier and a sword at his side. Silver embroidery depicting a dragon with batlike wings sparkled on the shoulder of his black jerkin. The woman was fair-haired and skinny, with a slightly hooked nose and thin lips. Her pistachio-coloured gown had a plunging neckline. Which wasn’t very well advised. There wasn’t much cleavage to show, apart from wrinkled and parchment-dry skin covered in a thick layer of rouge and white lead powder.

  ‘Her Noble Ladyship the Marchioness de Nementh-Uyvar,’ Houvenaghel said. ‘Lord Declan Ros aep Maelchlad, captain in the Nilfgaardian reserve horse of His Mighty Emperorship of Nilfgaard. Lord Pennycuick, Mayor of Claremont. And this is Mr Leo Bonhart, my relative and former comrade.’

  Bonhart bowed stiffly.

  ‘So this is the little brigand who is to amuse us today,’ said the skinny marchioness, staring intently at Ciri with her pale blue eyes. Years of drinking could be heard in her husky, seductive voice.

  ‘Not too bad, I’d say. But nicely built . . . Quite a pleasant little bodikin.’

  Ciri jerked, pushing off an obtrusive hand, paled with fury and hissed like a serpent.

  ‘Please don’t touch,’ Bonhart said coldly. ‘Don’t feed it. Don’t tease it. I take no responsibility.’

  ‘A little bodikin–’ the marchioness licked her lips, paying no attention to him ‘–can always be tied to a bed, to make it more amenable. Perhaps you’d sell her to me, Mr Bonhart, sir? My marquess and I like little bodikins like that, and Mr Houvenaghel is so reproachful when we seize local goose girls and peasant children. In any case, the marquess can’t hunt children any longer. He can’t run, because of those chancres and warts which have opened up in his crotch—’

  ‘Enough, enough, Matilda,’ Houvenaghel said softly but quickly, seeing the expression of growing disgust on Bonhart’s face. ‘We must leave for the theatre. Mr Mayor has just been informed that Windsor Imbra has reached the town with a squad of the Baron of Casadei’s infantry. Which means it’s time.’

  Bonhart removed a flacon from a belt pouch, wiped the onyx table top with his sleeve and tipped out a small mound of white powder. He pulled on the chain, drawing Ciri closer.

  ‘Do you know how to use it?’

  Ciri clenched her teeth.

  ‘Sniff it up. Or lick a finger and rub it into your gums.’

  ‘No!’

  Bonhart didn’t even turn his head.

  ‘You’ll do it yourself,’ he said softly, ‘or I’ll do it, only in a way that will supply everybody here with a bit of entertainment. You don’t just have mucous membranes in your mouth and nose, little Rat, but in a few other amusing places. I’ll call for servants, have you stripped naked and restrained, and I’ll take advantage of those amusing places.’

  The Marchioness de Nementh-Uyvar laughed gutturally, watching Ciri reaching for the narcotic with a trembling hand.

  ‘Amusing places,’ she repeated and licked her lips. ‘What a fascinating idea. Worth trying one day! Hey, hey, girl, have a care, don’t waste good fisstech! Leave some for me!’

  *

  The narcotic was much more powerful than the one she’d tried with the Rats. A little while after taking it, Ciri was overcome by a dazzling euphoria; contours were sharpened, light and colours pricked her eyes, smells irritated her nose, sounds became unbearably loud, and everything around her became unreal, as ephemeral as a dream. There were the steps, there were the tapestries stinking of thick dust, there was the husky laughter of the Marchioness de Nementh-Uyvar. There was the courtyard, rain drops falling quickly on her face, and the jerking of the collar she still had around her neck. There was an immense building with a wooden tower and a large, repulsively tawdry painting on the frontage. The painting depicted dogs baiting a monster – neither a dragon, a gryphon, nor a wyvern. There were people outside the entrance to the building. One was shouting and gesticulating.

  ‘It’s revolting! Revolting and sinful, Mr Houvenaghel, to be utilising a building which was once a place of worship for such an immoral, inhuman and disgusting practice! Animals also feel, Mr Houvenaghel! They also have their dignity! It’s a crime to set animal against animal for the amusement of the common folk in the name of profit!’

  ‘Calm yourself, you pious fellow! And don’t meddle in my private enterprise! In any case, no animal shall be baited today. Not a single one! Exclusively people!’

  ‘Oh. Then I do beg your pardon.’

  Inside, the building was full of people sitting on rows of benches forming an amphitheatre. A pit had been dug in the centre, a circular depression measuring about ten yards across, shored up by hefty posts and topped with a balustrade. The stench and uproar were overwhelming. Again, Ciri felt a tug on the collar, somebody seized her under the arms, somebody shoved her. She suddenly found herself at the bottom of the pit, on firmly packed down sand.

  In the arena.

  The first rush had subsided, and now the narcotic was just stimulating her, sharpening her senses. Ciri pressed her hands over her ears – the crowd occupying the amphitheatre’s benches roared, booed and whistled; the noise was unbearable. She noticed that her right wrist and forearm were tightly bound by a leather bracer. She couldn’t recall it being fastened to her.

  She heard the familiar hoarse voice, saw the skinny, pistachio-coloured marchioness, the Nilfgaardian cavalry captain, the pastel-toned mayor, Houvenaghel and Bonhart occupying a box perched above the arena. Her hands went to her ears again, as someone suddenly struck a copper gong.

  ‘Look, good people! In the pit today there’s no wolf, no goblin, no endrega! In the arena today is the murderous Falka from the Rats’ gang! The ticket desk by the entrance is taking bets! Don’t stint a penny, good people! You can’t eat this amusement, you can’t drink it, but if you skimp on it you’ll not profit, you’ll lose out!’

  The crowd roared and applauded. The narcotic was working. Ciri trembled with euphoria. Her vision and hearing were registering everything, every detail. She could hear Houvenaghel’s cackle, the marchioness’ husky laugh, the mayor’s grave voice, Bonhart’s cold bass, the yelling of the animal-loving priest, the squealing of women and the crying of a child. She could see dark patches of blood on the posts encircling the arena and a stinking grill-covered hole gaping in it. And brutishly contorted faces, glistening with sweat, above the balustrade.

/>   A sudden commotion, raised voices, curses. Armed men jostled the crowd, but ground to a halt, stopped by a wall of guards clutching partisans. She’d seen one of the men before – she remembered the swarthy face and the black moustache like a line drawn in charcoal on his upper lip, which quivered in a tic.

  ‘Mr Windsor Imbra?’ It was Houvenaghel’s voice. ‘Of Geso? Seneschal of His Noble Lordship, the Baron of Casadei? Greetings, greetings to our foreign guests. Take your places, the spectacle is about to begin. But don’t forget, please, to pay at the entrance!’

  ‘I’m not here for the sport, Mr Houvenaghel! I’m here on matters of service! Bonhart knows of what I speak!’

  ‘Indeed? Leo? Do you know of what the seneschal speaks?’

  ‘Do not jest! There are fifteen of us here! We’ve come for Falka! Hand her over, or things will turn ill!’

  ‘I don’t understand your excitation, Imbra.’ Houvenaghel frowned. ‘But I observe that this is not Geso, nor is it within the lands of that mandarin, your baron. Should you make a fuss and incommode us I shall have you driven away with knouts!’

  ‘I wish to cause no offence, Mr Houvenaghel,’ Windsor Imbra appealed. ‘But the law is on our side! Bonhart, here present, promised Falka to His Grace, Baron of Casadei. He gave his bond. And now he must keep it!’

  ‘Leo?’ Houvenaghel said, jowls shaking. ‘Do you know what he’s talking about?’

  ‘I do and I admit he’s right.’ Bonhart stood up, carelessly waving a hand. ‘I shan’t protest or cause any difficulties. The girl is here, as everybody sees. Whoever wishes to may take her.’

  Windsor Imbra was dumbfounded. His lip trembled intensely.

  ‘How is that?’

  ‘The girl,’ Bonhart repeated, winking at Houvenaghel, ‘belongs to the man who wishes to take her from the arena. Alive or dead, as your taste dictates.’

  ‘How is that?’

  ‘Dammit, I’m gradually losing my patience!’ Bonhart skilfully feigned anger. ‘Nothing but “how is that”! Bloody parrot! How? However you wish! It’s up to you; poison some meat and throw it to her as you would a she-wolf. But I can’t guarantee she will devour it. She doesn’t look stupid, does she? No, Imbra. Whoever wants her must take the trouble of going down to her. Down there, into the pit. You want Falka? Then claim her!’

  ‘You wave Falka under my nose like a frog on a rod before a catfish,’ Windsor Imbra growled. ‘I don’t trust you, Bonhart. I can smell the iron hook hidden in that bait!’

  ‘I congratulate you on your sensitive nose.’ Bonhart stood up, took the sword acquired in Fano from under the bench, drew it from the scabbard and threw it into the arena, so dexterously that the blade stuck vertically in the sand, two paces in front of Ciri. ‘There’s your iron. Out in the open, not concealed at all. I don’t care for the wench, and whomsoever wants to may take her. If they’re able.’

  The Marchioness de Nementh-Uyvar laughed nervously.

  ‘If they’re able!’ she repeated in her husky contralto. ‘For now the bodikin has a sword. Bravo, Mr Bonhart. It seemed despicable to leave the bodikin defenceless and at the mercy of these good-for-nothings.’

  ‘Mr Houvenaghel,’ Windsor Imbra said with arms akimbo, not gracing the skinny aristocrat with even a glance. ‘This spectacle is being held under your patronage, for it’s your theatre, after all. Just tell me one thing. By whose rules and principles are we to play – yours or Bonhart’s?’

  ‘By theatrical ones,’ Houvenaghel cackled, shaking his belly and bulldog-like jowls. ‘For though it’s true that it’s my theatre, the customer is always right, as he who pays the piper calls the tune! The customer sets the rules. While we merchants must act according to those rules: whatever the customer demands, we must give him.’

  ‘Customer? You mean these folk?’ Windsor Imbra gestured sweepingly across the packed auditorium. ‘All these folk who have paid to marvel at these marvels?’

  ‘Business is business,’ Houvenaghel replied. ‘If there a demand for something, why not sell it? Do folk pay for a wolf fight? For endrega and aardvark fights? For baiting a badger in a barrel, or a wyvern? Why are you so astonished, Imbra? Folk need circuses and spectacles as they do bread, why, more than bread. Many of those here had it taken from their mouths. Now look at them, how their eyes shine. They can’t wait for the games to begin.’

  ‘But at games,’ Bonhart added, smiling spitefully, ‘the appearances of sport must at least be observed. The brock, before the curs drag him from the barrel, may nip with its teeth; that’s only sporting. And the girl has a blade. Let it also be sporting here. Well, good people? Am I right?’

  The good people confirmed in an incoherent – though thunderous and joyful – chorus that Bonhart was absolutely right.

  ‘The Baron of Casadei,’ Windsor Imbra said slowly, ‘will not be pleased, Mr Houvenaghel. I tell you he’ll not be pleased. I don’t know if it’s worth your while picking a fight with him.’

  ‘Business is business,’ Houvenaghel repeated and jiggled his cheeks. ‘The Baron of Casadei knows that very well. He has borrowed a deal of money from me at low interest, and when the time comes to borrow more, then we shall somehow smooth over our squabbles. But some foreign lord isn’t going to interfere in my private enterprise. Wagers have been laid, people have paid to enter. Blood must soak into that sand, in that arena.’

  ‘Must?’ Windsor Imbra yelled. ‘Bollocks! I’m itching to show you that it doesn’t need to at all! For I shall leave here and ride away, without looking back. Then you can spill your own blood! The very thought of supplying this rabble with amusement sickens me!’

  ‘Let him go.’ A character with a very low hairline in a horsehide jerkin emerged from the crowd. ‘If it sickens him, let him go. It doesn’t sicken me. They said whoever does for the she-rat takes the reward. I volunteer to enter the arena.’

  ‘Not likely!’ one of Imbra’s soldiers, a short but wiry and well-built man, suddenly yelled. He had thick, unkempt and matted hair. ‘We was first! Wasn’t we, boys?’

  ‘Yeah!’ chimed in a second, a scrawny one with a pointed beard. ‘We have priority! And don’t let your sense of honour get the better of you, Windsor! What of it if the rabble is watching? Falka’s in the pit, suffice to hold out a hand and take her. And let the peasantry goggle, we don’t give a damn!’

  ‘And we’re ready to get something out of it too!’ snickered a third, dressed in a doublet of vivid amaranth. ‘Let’s make sport of it, am I right, Mr Houvenaghel? Let’s make a contest of it! As long as a reward’s on offer!’

  Houvenaghel grinned and nodded, proudly and majestically jiggling his pendulous cheeks.

  ‘Well then,’ asked the one with the goatee curiously, ‘are there any wagers?’

  ‘As of now,’ the merchant laughed, ‘no one has wagered on the result! As of now it’s three to one, since none of you dares enter the enclosure.’

  ‘Huuuh!’ Horsehide yelled. ‘I dare! I’m minded!’

  ‘Out of the way, I said!’ Matted Hair roared back. ‘We was first and we have first crack. Come on, what are we waiting for?’

  ‘How many can go in at one time?’ Amaranth tightened his belt. ‘Or is only one at a time allowed?’

  ‘You whoresons!’ Quite unexpectedly, the pastel mayor suddenly roared in a powerful voice utterly incongruent with his build. ‘Perhaps ten of you want to take on the one of her? On horseback, perhaps? Riding chariots, perhaps? Perhaps you want to borrow a catapult from the armoury in order to hurl boulders at the wench from afar? Eh?’

  ‘Very well, very well,’ Bonhart interrupted, after swiftly consulting with Houvenaghel. ‘Let it be sport, but let there be entertainment too. We’ll say two at a time. You may enter in pairs.’

  ‘But the reward,’ Houvenaghel warned, ‘will not be doubled! If it’s two, you’ll have to share.’

  ‘In pairs? Two at a time?’ Matted Hair flung his cape from his shoulders. ‘Are you ashamed, boys? She’s just a wench!’ He spat on the g
round. ‘Stand back. I’ll go myself and take her down. Big deal!’

  ‘I want Falka alive!’ protested Windsor Imbra. ‘A pox on your fights and duels! I won’t go along with Bonhart’s circus, I want the wench! Alive! You two go in, you and Stavro. And haul her out of there.’

  ‘As for me,’ Stavro, the one with the goatee, said, ‘it’s an insult for two of us to take on that scrawny thing.’

  ‘The baron’s florins will make that insult more palatable. But only if she’s alive!’

  ‘The baron’s a miser,’ Houvenaghel cackled, wobbling his belly and bulldog’s jowls. ‘He doesn’t have an ounce of sporting spirit in him. Nor the desire to reward that spirit in others! I, though, champion sport. And hereby increase the reward. Whomsoever enters the arena alone and leaves it on his own two feet, will be paid, by this very hand, from this very coffer, not twenty but thirty florins!’

  ‘So what are we waiting for?’ yelled Stavro. ‘I’m going first!’

  ‘Not so fast!’ the short mayor roared once again. ‘The wench has but thin linen on her back! So cast off that brigandine, soldier. This is sport!’

  ‘A pox on you!’ Stavro stripped off the studded kaftan, then pulled his shirt off over his head, revealing a scrawny chest and arms as hairy as a baboon. ‘A pox on you, m’lords, and your sodding sport! I’ll go in the buff! Shall I take off me britches too?’

  ‘And your braies!’ the Marchioness de Nementh-Uyvar croaked seductively. ‘Then we’ll see if you’re only manly in word!’

  Rewarded by thunderous applause and naked to the waist, Stavro drew his weapon and threw one leg over the barrier, watching Ciri intently. Ciri folded her arms over her chest. She didn’t even take a step towards the sword plunged into the sand. Stavro hesitated.

  ‘Don’t do it,’ said Ciri, very softly. ‘Don’t make me . . . I won’t let you touch me.’