‘And I shall keep my promise. If what you have testified proves to be the truth.’
Angoulême jerked on the chair, pointing at Geralt with a movement seemingly of her whole, slim body.
‘And that?’ she yelled. ‘What’s that? Isn’t that the truth? Let him deny he’s a witcher and he’s Geralt! Let him say I’m not credible! Let him ride to Belhaven, and you’ll have better proof that I’m not lying! You’ll find his corpse in some gutter in the morning. But then you’ll say I didn’t prevent a crime, so the clemency’ll still come to nothing! That right? You’re fucking swindlers! Nothing but swindlers!’
‘Don’t hit her,’ said Geralt. ‘Please.’
There was something in his voice that checked the raised hands of the prefect and the guard. Angoulême sniffed, looking at him piercingly.
‘Thanks, nuncle,’ she said. ‘But beating’s nothing much. If they want, let ’em carry on. I’ve been beaten since a child, I’m used to it. If you want to be kind, confirm I’m telling the truth. Let them keep their word. Let them sodding hang me.’
‘Take her away,’ Fulko ordered, quietening Geralt, who was about to protest, with a gesture.
‘She is of no use to us,’ he explained, once they were alone. ‘I know everything and you shall have your explanations. And then I shall ask for reciprocity.’
‘First of all,’ the Witcher’s voice was cold, ‘explain what that noisy exit was all about. Ending with that curious request to be hanged. If she’s turned imperial evidence the girl’s done her work, hasn’t she?’
‘Not yet.’
‘How is that?’
‘Homer Straggen, nicknamed Nightingale, is an exceptionally dangerous scoundrel. Cruel and brazen, cunning and clever, and a lucky rogue. His impunity emboldens others. I must put an end to it. Which is why I made a deal with Angoulême. I promised her that if, as a result of her testimony, Nightingale is captured and his gang broken up, she will hang.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ The Witcher’s astonishment was genuine. ‘Is that what you call turning imperial evidence here? The noose in exchange for collaboration with the authorities? And what for refusing to collaborate?’
‘Impalement. Preceded by gouging out the eyes and tearing the bosom with red-hot pincers.’
The Witcher didn’t say a word.
‘It is called exemplary terror,’ Fulko Artevelde continued. ‘Absolutely imperative in the fight against crime. Why do you clench your fists, so hard I can almost hear your knuckles grinding? Perhaps you favour humane killing? You can afford that luxury. You mainly fight creatures, which, however ridiculous it sounds, also kill humanely. I cannot afford it. I’ve seen merchants’ convoys and homes pillaged by Nightingale and his like. I’ve seen what’s done to people to make them reveal hiding places or magical passwords to jewel cases and strong boxes. I’ve seen the women Nightingale has taken a knife to just to check they weren’t concealing valuables. I’ve seen worse things done to people simply for the sake of wanton amusement. Angoulême, whose fate moves you so, took part in such merriment – that is certain. She was in the gang long enough. And were it not for sheer accident and the fact she fled the gang no one would have found out about the ambush in Belhaven, and you would have learned of it some other way. Perhaps she’d have shot you in the back with a crossbow.’
‘I don’t like speculation. Do you know why she fled the gang?’
‘Her evidence in that regard was vague, and she didn’t want to divulge it to my men. But it’s no secret that Nightingale is one of those men who restrict women to a, let us say, primitively natural role. If he can’t do it any other way, he forces that role on women. Certainly generational conflicts contributed to it. Nightingale is a mature man, while Angoulême’s last gang were urchins like her. But those are speculations; in actual fact, it interests me not. And why, may I ask, do you care? Why has Angoulême evoked such interest from the moment you saw her?’
‘Strange question. The girl informs me about an attempt on my life being planned by her former comrades on the orders of some half-elf. A sensational matter in itself, since I have no long-standing feuds with any half-elves. The girl knows only too well what company I ride with. Including such details as the troubadour being called Dandelion, and that the woman has cut off her plait. That plait, particularly, makes me suspect lies or a trap in this. It wouldn’t have been hard to seize and question one of the forest beekeepers I’ve been journeying with for the last week. And swiftly stage a—’
‘That will do!’ Artevelde slammed his fist on the table. ‘You race too far ahead, sir. You’re accusing me of engineering something here? To what end? To deceive or ensnare you? And who are you that you so fear provocation and ensnarement? Only the thief fears the truth, m’lord witcher. Only the thief!’
‘Give me another explanation.’
‘No, you give me one, sir!’
‘Regrettably, I have none.’
‘I might say something,’ the prefect smiled maliciously. ‘But for what? Let’s be clear. I’m not interested in who wants to see you dead or why. I don’t care where that person came by such interesting information about you, including your comrade’s hair colour and length. I shall go further: I might have not informed you at all about the plot on your life, witcher. I could simply have treated your company as utterly ignorant bait for Nightingale. Lurked, waited until the Nightingale swallowed the hook, line and sinker. And then seized him as my own. For it’s him I’m interested in, him I want. And if you met your maker? Ha, a necessary evil, incidental!’
He fell silent. Geralt made no comment.
‘Know you, master witcher,’ the prefect continued after a pause, ‘that I swore to myself that the law would rule on my turf. At any cost, and using any methods, per fas et nefas. For the law is not jurisprudence, not a weighty tome full of articles, not philosophical treatises, not peevish nonsense about justice, not hackneyed platitudes about morality and ethics. The law means safe paths and highways. It means backstreets one can walk along even after sundown. It means inns and taverns one can leave to visit the privy, leaving one’s purse on the table and one’s wife beside it. The law is the sleep of people certain they’ll be woken by the crowing of the rooster and not the crashing of burning roof timbers! And for those who break the law; the noose, the axe, the stake and the red-hot iron! Punishments which deter others. Those that break the law should be caught and punished. Using all available means and methods . . . Eh, witcher? Is the disapproval written on your countenance a reaction to the intention or the methods? The methods, I think! For it’s easy to criticise methods, but we would all prefer to live in a safe world, wouldn’t we? Go on, answer!’
‘There’s nothing to say.’
‘Oh, I believe there is.’
‘Mr Fulko,’ Geralt said calmly, ‘the world you envision quite pleases me.’
‘Indeed? Your expression suggests otherwise.’
‘The world you envision is made for a witcher. A witcher would never be short of work in it. Instead of codes, articles and peevish platitudes about justice, your idea creates lawlessness, anarchy, the licence and self-serving of princelings and mandarins, the officiousness of careerists wanting to endear themselves to their superiors, the blind vindictiveness of fanatics, the cruelty of assassins, retribution and sadistic vengeance. Your vision is a world where people are afraid to venture out after dark; not for fear of cut-throats, but of the guardians of public order. For, after all, the result of all great crackdowns on miscreants is always that the miscreants enter the ranks of the guardians of public order en masse. Your vision is a world of bribery, blackmail and entrapment, a world of turning imperial evidence and false witnesses. A world of snoopers and coerced confessions. Informing and the fear of being informed upon. And inevitably the day will come in your world when the flesh of the wrong person will be torn with pincers, when an innocent person is hanged or impaled. And then it will be a world of crime.
‘In short,’ he finished, ‘a
world where a witcher would be in his element.’
‘Well, well,’ Fulko Artevelde said after moment’s silence, rubbing his eye socket through the leather patch. ‘An idealist! A witcher. A professional. A hired killer. But an idealist, nonetheless. And a moralist. That’s dangerous in your profession, witcher. A sign you begin to outgrow your profession. One day you’ll hesitate to despatch a striga. For what if it’s innocent? What if it’s blind vengeance and blind fanaticism? I don’t wish it on you. But what if, one day . . . I don’t wish this on you either, though it is possible . . . what if someone close to you is harmed in a cruel and sadistic way? Then I’d willingly return to this conversation, to the issue of the punishment fitting the crime. Who knows if we would then differ so greatly in our views? But today – here, now – that is not the subject of our consideration or discussion. Today we shall talk about hard facts. And you’re a hard fact.’
Geralt raised an eyebrow slightly.
‘Though you were scornful about my methods and my vision of a world of law, you shall aid me, my dear witcher, in the fulfilling of that vision. I repeat: I swore to myself that those who break the law will get their just desserts. All of them. From the minor felon who cheats with dishonest scales at the market, to he who swipes a cargo of bows and arrows meant for the army on the highway. Highwaymen, cutpurses, thieves, robbers. Terrorists from the Free Slopes organisation, who grandly call themselves “freedom fighters”. And Nightingale. Above all Nightingale. A fitting punishment must befall Nightingale; the method is inconsequential. As long as it’s quick. Before an amnesty is declared and he weasels out . . . Witcher, I’ve been waiting months for something that’ll let me get one step ahead of him. That’ll let me nudge him, make him trip up and make the decisive error which will be his undoing. Shall I continue, or do you follow?’
‘I do, but go on.’
‘The mysterious half-elf, seemingly the initiator and instigator of the attempt, warned Nightingale about a witcher, advocated caution, advised against a cavalier attitude or swaggering arrogance and bravado. I know he had his reasons. The warning will come to nothing, though. Nightingale will make a mistake. He will attack a witcher who’s been forewarned and is prepared to defend himself. A witcher who’s waiting to be attacked. And it’ll be the end of the robber Nightingale. I wish to strike a bargain with you, Geralt. You shall be my informer. Don’t interrupt; it’s a simple agreement. Each side will meet their obligations. You put paid to Nightingale. While in exchange, I . . . ’
He was silent for a while, smiling slyly.
‘I shan’t ask you who you are, where you’re from, or where and why you journey. I shan’t ask why one of you speaks with a barely detectable Nilfgaardian accent, and why sometimes dogs and horses bristle at your party’s approach. I shan’t order the roll of papers to be taken from the troubadour Dandelion, nor shall I check what they say. And I shall only inform imperial counter-intelligence about you when Nightingale is dead or in my dungeon. Or even later. Why hurry? I’ll give you time. And a chance.’
‘A chance to do what?’
‘To reach Toussaint. That ridiculous fairy-tale duchy, whose borders even the Nilfgaardian counter-intelligence don’t dare violate. And then much may change. There’ll be an amnesty. There may be a truce on the far side of the Yaruga. Maybe even lasting peace.’
The Witcher was silent for a long time. The prefect’s disfigured face was unmoving. His eye shone.
‘Agreed,’ Geralt finally said.
‘Without haggling? Without conditions?’
‘I have two.’
‘How could it be otherwise? Go on.’
‘I must first ride west for a few days. To Loch Monduirn. To the druids, since—’
‘Are you making an ass of me?’ Fulko Artevelde interrupted abruptly. ‘Do you mean to gull me? West? Everyone knows where your route takes you! Including Nightingale, who is right now laying an ambush on your road. To the south, in Belhaven, at a spot where the Nevi valley cuts the Sansretour valley leading to Toussaint.’
‘Does that mean . . . ’
‘. . . that the druids aren’t by Loch Monduirn? No, nor have they been for almost a month. They headed down the Sansretour valley to Toussaint, under the protective wings of Duchess Anarietta of Beauclair, who has a weakness for freaks, loonies and oddballs. Who gladly gives asylum to such in her little fairy-tale land. You know that as well as I do, witcher. Don’t try to dupe me!’
‘I won’t try,’ Geralt said slowly. ‘I give you my word that I won’t. I set out for Belhaven tomorrow.’
‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’
‘No, I haven’t forgotten. My second condition: I want Angoulême. You’ll rush through her amnesty and release her from the dungeon. This witcher informer needs your informer. Quickly. Do you agree or not?’
‘I do,’ Fulko Artevelde replied almost at once. ‘I have no choice. Angoulême is yours. For I know you’re only cooperating for her sake.’
*
The vampire, riding at Geralt’s side, listened attentively and didn’t interrupt. The Witcher wasn’t disappointed by his perspicacity.
‘There are five or us, not four,’ he concluded as soon as Geralt had finished his account. ‘We’ve been travelling in a group of five since the end of August; the five of us crossed the Yaruga. And Milva only cut off her plait in Riverdell, about a week ago. Your fair-haired protégée knows about Milva’s plait. But said four not five. Bizarre.’
‘Is that the strangest part of this bizarre story?’
‘Far from it. The strangest thing is Belhaven. The town where the ambush has reputedly been laid for us. A town set deep in the mountains, on the path through the Nevi valley and the Theodula pass—’
‘—and we never planned to go there,’ the Witcher finished, spurring on Roach, who was beginning to fall behind. ‘Three weeks ago, when that highwayman Nightingale took the job to kill me from some half-elf, we were in Angren, heading to Caed Dhu, fearful of the Ysgith bogs. We didn’t even know we’d have to cross the Yaruga. Dammit, we didn’t know that this morning—’
‘We did,’ the vampire interrupted. ‘We knew we were looking for the druids. We knew that just as clearly this morning as three weeks ago. That mysterious half-elf is preparing an ambush on the road leading to the druids, certain we’ll take that road. He simply—’
‘Has a better idea than us which way that road leads,’ it was the Witcher’s turn to interrupt. ‘How does he?’
‘We shall have to ask. Which is precisely why you took the prefect’s offer, isn’t it?’
‘Naturally. I’m counting on being able to have a chat with Mr Half-Elf.’ Geralt smiled hideously. ‘Before that happens, doesn’t any explanation suggest itself to you? Or simply come to mind?’
The vampire observed him in silence for some time.
‘I don’t like what you’re saying, Geralt,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t like what you’re thinking. I consider it an inopportune thought. Taken hurriedly, without reflection. Resulting from prejudice and resentment.’
‘How else can one explain—’
‘Any way,’ Regis interrupted him with a tone Geralt had never heard from him. ‘Any way but like that. Don’t you think, for example, there’s a possibility your fair-haired protégée is lying?’
‘Hey, there, nuncle!’ called Angoulême, riding behind them on the mule called Draakul. ‘Don’t accuse me of lying if you can’t prove it!’
‘I’m not your uncle, dear child.’
‘And I’m not your dear child, nuncle!’
‘Angoulême,’ Witcher turned around in the saddle. ‘Be quiet.’
‘If you say so.’ Angoulême calmed down immediately. ‘You’re allowed to give me orders. You got me out of that hole, wrested me from Mr Fulko’s talons. I obey you, you’re now the leader, the head of the hanza . . . ’
‘Be quiet please.’
Angoulême muttered under her breath, stopped urging Draakul on and remained at the rea
r, particularly since Regis and Geralt had put on speed to catch up with Dandelion, Cahir and Milva, who were riding in the vanguard. They were heading towards the mountains, along the bank of the River Nevi, whose waters, turbid and yellowish-brown following the last rains, rolled swiftly over rocks and shelves. They weren’t alone. They frequently passed or overtook troops of Nilfgaardian cavalry, lone horsemen, settlers’ wagons or merchants’ caravans.
The Amell Mountains rose up to the south, closer and closer and more and more menacing. And the pointed needle of Gorgon, Devil Mountain, was enveloped in the clouds which quickly covered the whole sky.
‘When are you going to tell them?’ the vampire asked, indicating with a glance the threesome riding ahead of them.
‘When we make camp.’
*
Dandelion was the first to speak when Geralt had finished his account.
‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ he said. ‘But that girl, Angoulême, whom you have so cheerfully and carelessly added to our company, is a criminal. To save her from her well-deserved penalty you’ve agreed to collaborate with the Nilfgaardians. You’ve hired yourself out. Why, not just yourself – you’ve hired us all out. We are all to assist the Nilfgaardians capture or kill somebody. Some local brigand. In short: you, Geralt, have become a Nilfgaardian mercenary, a bounty hunter, a hired assassin. And we’ve been promoted to the rank of your acolytes . . . Or perhaps your fam—’
‘You have an incredible talent for over simplification, Dandelion,’ Cahir muttered. ‘Have you really not understood what this is about? Or are you just talking for talking’s sake?’
‘Silence, Nilfgaardian. Geralt?’
‘Let me begin by saying,’ the Witcher threw a stick he’d been playing with for some time onto the fire, ‘that no one’s forced to help me with my plans. I can handle it by myself. Without acolytes or famuli.’
‘You’re audacious, nuncle,’ Angoulême began. ‘But Nightingale’s hanza numbers twenty-four stout blades. They won’t take fright at a witcher, and where it concerns swordsmanship, even if it were true what they say about witchers, no witcher could deal with two dozen by himself. You saved my life, so I’ll repay you likewise. With a warning. And with help.’
The Saga of the Witcher Page 125
