‘“Take that impish cat—”’
‘I heard it the first time!’ the king yelled, but immediately restrained himself.
‘Forgive me, most beloved. The point is I don’t understand what cats have to do with . . .’
He fell silent. And pondered deeply.
*
After eighty-five years, when the situation had changed enough to allow talk about certain issues and persons, Guiscard Vermuellen, Duke of Creyden, grandson of Esterad Thyssen and son of his oldest daughter, Gaudemunda, spoke. Duke Guiscard was then a venerable old man, but he clearly remembered the events he had witnessed. It was Duke Guiscard who revealed where the million bizants came from, the million with which Redania equipped its cavalry for the war against Nilfgaard. That million didn’t come – as had been thought – from Kovir’s treasury, but from the hierarch of Novigrad. Esterad Thyssen, Guiscard disclosed, obtained the Novigradian money from his shares in the maritime trade companies being set up. The paradox was that those companies were set up with the active cooperation of Nilfgaardian merchants. Thus it appeared that Nilfgaard itself – to some degree – had financed the fielding of the Redanian army.
‘Grandpappa,’ Guiscard Vermuellen recalled, ‘said something about watermelons, smiling roguishly. He said somebody always wants to give to a pauper, even if out of calculation. He also said that since Nilfgaard itself was contributing to increasing the strength and military capabilities of the Redanian Army, they couldn’t blame others for doing the same.
‘Later though,’ the old man went on, ‘grandpappa summoned my father, who was at that time the chief of intelligence, and the minister of internal affairs. When they learned what orders they were to execute, they fell into a panic. They were concerned about releasing more than three thousand people from prisons, internment camps and exile. House arrest was to be withdrawn from more than a hundred.
‘No, it didn’t only apply to bandits, common criminals and hired mercenaries. The pardons were mostly for dissidents. Among the pardoned were henchmen of the deposed King Rhyd and people of the usurper Idi, their virulent partisans. And not only those who had supported in word: most were in prison for sabotage, assassination attempts and armed revolts. The minister of internal affairs was horrified and papa extremely worried.
‘While grandpappa,’ the duke went on, ‘was laughing as though it were a first-rate joke. And then he continued – I remember every word: “It’s a great pity, gentlemen, that you don’t read the Good Book before going to sleep. If you did, you would understand the ideas of your monarch. As it is, you’ll be carrying out orders without understanding them. But don’t worry, your monarch knows what he’s doing. Now go and release all my impish cats, those tiresome pests.”
‘That’s just what he said: impish cats, pests. And he meant – which no one then could have known – subsequent heroes, commanders covered in glory and fame. Those “cats” of grandpappa’s became the celebrated condottieri: Adam “Adieu” Pangratt, Lorenzo Molla, Juan “Frontino” Guttierez . . . And Julia Abatemarco, who became famous in Redania as “Pretty Kitty” . . . You, youngsters, won’t remember it, but when I was a boy, when we played at war, every lad wanted to be “Adieu” Pangratt, and every girl Julia “Pretty Kitty” . . . But to grandpappa they were mischievous cats.
‘Later though,’ mumbled Guiscard Vermuellen, ‘grandpappa took me by the hand and led me out onto the terrace, where grandmamma Zuleyka was feeding the seagulls. Grandpappa said to her . . . Said . . . ’
The old man slowly and with great effort tried to recall the words, which, eighty-five years ago, King Esterad Thyssen had said to his wife, Queen Zuleyka, on the terrace of Ensenada Palace, towering over the Great Canal.
‘Do you know, my most beloved wife, that I have spotted one more piece of wisdom among the words of the prophet Lebioda? One that shows me yet another benefit of giving Redania those mischievous cats? Cats, my Zuleyka, come home. Cats always come home. Well, and when my cats return, when they bring their pay, their spoils, their riches . . . I shall tax them!’
*
When King Esterad Thyssen spoke to Dijkstra for the last time, it was in private, without even Zuleyka. Admittedly, a more or less ten-year-old boy was playing on the floor of the gigantic chamber, but he didn’t count, and furthermore was so busy with his lead soldiers that he paid no attention to the two men talking.
‘That is Guiscard,’ Esterad explained, nodding towards the boy. ‘My grandson, the son of Gaudemunda and that ne’er-do-well, Prince Vermuellen. But that little boy is Kovir’s only hope, should Tankred Thyssen turn out to be . . . Should anything happen to Tankred . . . ’
Dijkstra was aware of Kovir’s problem. And Esterad’s personal problem. He knew that something had already happened to Tankred. The lad, if he had any makings of a king, would only be a bad one.
‘Your matter,’ Esterad said, ‘is already by and large sorted out. You may now start to ponder on the most effective way of using the million bizants which will soon end up in the Redanian coffers.’
He bent down and surreptitiously picked up one of Guiscard’s brightly painted lead soldiers, a cavalryman with a raised broadsword.
‘Take that and conceal it well. Whoever shows you another such identical soldier will be my emissary, even if he doesn’t look like it, even though you have no faith that he is my man or is aware of the issue of our million. Anyone else will be an agent provocateur.’
‘Redania,’ Dijkstra bowed, ‘will not forget this, Your Majesty. I, however, speaking for myself, would like to assure you of my personal gratitude.’
‘Do not do so. Give me that thousand with which you hoped to gain my minister’s favour. Why, isn’t the king’s favour deserving of a bribe?’
‘Your Royal Highness is stooping . . . ’
‘We are, we are. Hand over the money, Dijkstra. To have a thousand and not to have a thousand—’
‘. . . adds up to two thousand. I know.’
*
In a distant wing of Ensenada, in a chamber of much more modest size, the sorceress Sheala de Tancarville listened to the account of Queen Zuleyka with concentration and earnestness.
‘Excellent,’ she nodded. ‘Excellent, Your Royal Highness.’
‘I did everything as instructed, Lady Sheala.’
‘Thank you for doing so. And I assure you one more time; we were acting in a good cause. For the good of the country. And dynasty.’
Queen Zuleyka coughed softly and her voice changed a little.
‘And . . . And Tankred, Lady Sheala?
‘I gave my word,’ Sheala de Tancarville said coldly. ‘I gave my word that I would reciprocate for the help with help. Your Royal Highness may sleep serenely.’
‘I desire that greatly,’ Zuleyka sighed. ‘Greatly. While we’re on the subject of sleep . . . The king begins to suspect something. Those dreams are amazing him, and when something amazes him he grows suspicious.’
‘I shall, then, stop sending the king dreams for some time,’ the sorceress promised. ‘Returning, however, to Your Majesty’s dream, I repeat, he can be confident. Prince Tankred will bid farewell to that bad company. He will not linger at the Baron of Surcratasse’s castle. Nor at Lady de Lisemore’s residence. Nor at the Redanian ambassador’s wife’s.’
‘He will no longer visit those personages? Never?’
‘Those personages,’ Sheala de Tancarville’s dark eyes lit up with a strange glint, ‘will no longer dare to trifle with Prince Tankred, for they shall be made aware of the consequences. I vouch for what I say. I vouch for the fact that Prince Tankred will take up his studies again and be a diligent scholar, a serious and level-headed young man. He shall also stop chasing skirts. He shall lose his ardour . . . until the moment we introduce to him Cirilla, Princess of Cintra.’
‘Oh, if only I could believe that!’ Zuleyka wrung her hands and raised her eyes. ‘If only I could believe that!’
‘It is sometimes difficult,’ Sheala de Tancarville
smiled, unexpectedly even for herself, ‘to believe in the power of magic, Your Royal Highness. And actually, so should it be.’
*
Philippa Eilhart adjusted the gossamer-thin strap of her sheer nightdress and wiped the rest of the lipstick smudges from her cleavage. Such a smart woman, thought Sheala de Tancarville with slight distaste, and she can’t keep her hormones in check.
‘May we talk?’
Philippa surrounded herself with a sphere of discretion.
‘We can now.’
‘Everything has been sorted out in Kovir. Positively.’
‘Thank you. Has Dijkstra set sail?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Why does he delay?’
‘He conducts long conversations with Esterad Thyssen.’ Sheala de Tancarville grimaced. ‘They’ve taken an uncommon liking for each other, the king and the spy.’
*
‘Do you know the jokes about our weather, Dijkstra? That there are only two seasons in Kovir—’
‘Winter and August. I do.’
‘And do you know how to tell if summer has reached Kovir?’
‘No. How?’
‘The rain becomes a little warmer.’
‘Ha ha.’
‘Joking aside,’ Esterad Thyssen said gravely, ‘it worries me somewhat that the winters come earlier and earlier and last longer and longer. It was prophesied. You’ve read, I presume, Ithlinne’s prophecy? It’s said there that decades of unending winter will come. Some claim it’s some kind of allegory, but I’m a little afraid. In Kovir we once had four summers of cold, rainy weather and poor harvests. Were it not for the tremendous import of food from Nilfgaard, people would have begun to die of starvation in droves. Can you imagine?’
‘To be honest, I can’t.’
‘Well I can. The cooling climate may starve us all to death. Famine is a foe that is bloody hard to fight.’
The spy nodded, lost in thought.
‘Dijkstra?’
‘Your Majesty?’
‘Is there peace inside the country now?’
‘I wouldn’t say so. But I’m doing my best.’
‘I know, everyone’s talking about it. Of the traitors on Thanedd, only Vilgefortz remains alive.’
‘After the death of Yennefer, yes. Did you know, O king, that Yennefer met her death? She perished on the last day of August, in mysterious circumstances, over the infamous Sedna Trench, between the Isles of Skellige and Cape Peixe de Mar.’
‘Yennefer of Vengerberg,’ Esterad said slowly, ‘was not a traitor. She was not an accomplice of Vilgefortz. If you wish I shall supply proof.’
‘I do not,’ Dykstra responded after moment’s silence. ‘Or perhaps I will, but not right now. Now she’s more convenient to me as a traitor.’
‘I understand. Don’t trust sorceresses, Dijkstra. Philippa in particular.’
‘I’ve never trusted her. But we must co-operate. Without us Redania would plunge into chaos and perish.’
‘That is true. But if I may advise you, loosen your grip a little. You know of what I speak. Scaffolds and torture chambers throughout the land, atrocities perpetrated against elves . . . And that dreadful fort, Drakenborg. I know you do it out of patriotism. But you are building yourself an evil legend. In it you’re a werewolf, lapping up innocent blood.’
‘Someone has to do it.’
‘And someone has to bear the consequences. I know you endeavour to be just, but you can’t avoid mistakes, can you, for they can’t be avoided. Neither can you remain clean when you’re slopping around in blood. I know you’ve never harmed anybody for self-interest, but who will believe that? Who’ll want to believe that? The day that fate turns, they’ll attribute the murder of innocent people to you, and worse, claim you profited from it. And lying sticks to a fellow like tar.’
‘I know.’
‘They won’t give you a chance to defend yourself. People like you aren’t given chances. They’ll tar you . . . but later. After the fact. Beware, Dijkstra.’
‘I shall. They won’t get me.’
‘They got your king, Vizimir. With a dagger plunged up to the guard in his flank, I heard . . . ’
‘It’s easier to stab a king than a spy. They won’t get me. They’ll never get me.’
‘And they ought not to. Do you know why, Dijkstra? For there ought to be some sort of fucking justice in this world.’
The day was to come when they would recall that conversation. Both of them. The king and the spy. Dijkstra recalled Esterad’s words in Tretogor, as he listened closely to the steps of the assassins approaching from all directions, along all the corridors of the castle. Esterad recalled Dijkstra’s words on the splendid marble staircase leading from Ensenada to the Great Canal.
*
‘He could have fought back.’ The misty, unseeing eyes of Guiscard Vermuellen gazed into the abyss of his recollections. ‘There were only three assassins, and grandpappa was a powerful man. He could have fought, defended himself, until the guards arrived. He could have simply fled. But grandmama Zuleyka was there. Grandpappa shielded and protected Zuleyka. Only Zuleyka. He didn’t care about himself. When help finally arrived, Zuleyka wasn’t even grazed. Esterad had been stabbed more than twenty times. He died three hours later, without regaining consciousness.’
*
‘Have you ever read the Good Book, Dijkstra?’
‘No, Your Majesty. But I know what is written in it.’
‘I, can you believe it, opened it at random yesterday. And I came across this sentence: “On the way to eternity everyone will tread their own stairway, shouldering their own burden”. What do you think about that?’
‘Time I went, King Esterad. Time to shoulder my burden.’
‘Farewell, O Spy.’
‘Farewell, O King.’
We trekked perhaps four hundred furlongs southwards from the ancient and far-famed city of Assengard, to a land called Centloch. When one looks on that land from the hills, one sees numerous lakes arranged, artificially, in manifold dispositions. Our guide, the elf Avallac’h, ordered us to seek among those dispositions one calling to mind a cloverleaf. And, in truth, we espied one such. Moreover, it came out that there were not three but four lakes, for one, somewhat elongated, stretching from south to north, is, as it were, the stem of the leaf. That lake, known as Tarn Mira, is ringed by a black forest. Meanwhile, the mysterious Tower of the Swallow, in the elven tongue Tor Zireael, was said to rise up at its northern margin. At first, nonetheless, we saw nothing save fog. I was readying myself to ask the elf Avallac’h about the tower, when he gestured me to be silent and spoke these words: ‘Await and hope. Hope shall return with the light and a good omen. Gaze at the endless waters; there you shall discern the envoys of good tidings.’
Buyvid Backhuysen,
Peregrinations along Magic Trails and Places.
The book is humbug from beginning to end. The ruins by Tarn Mira Lake have been examined many and oft. They are not magical; contrary to the enunciations of B. Backhuysen they cannot thus be the remains of the legendary Tower of the Swallow.
Ars Magica, XIV edition
CHAPTER NINE
‘They’re coming! They’re coming!’
Yennefer held her wet, windswept hair in both hands and stopped by the railing of the steps, getting out of the way of the women running to the wharf. Pushed by a west wind, a breaker crashed against the shore and white plumes of foam kept gushing from clefts in the rocks.
‘They’re coming! They’re coming!’
Almost the entire archipelago could be seen from the upper terraces of Kaer Trolde citadel, Ard Skellig’s main stronghold. Directly ahead, beyond the strait, lay An Skellig, its southern part low and flat, its hidden northern side precipitous and scored by fjords. Far away to the left, tall, green, mountainous Spikeroog, its peaks shrouded in cloud, broke up the waves with the sharp fangs of its reefs. To the right Undvik island’s steep cliffs could be seen, teeming with gulls, petrels, cormorants a
nd gannets. From behind Undvik emerged the forested cone of Hindarsfjall, the archipelago’s smallest island. If, though, you were to climb to the very top of one of Kaer Trolde’s towers and look southwards, you would see the solitary island of Faroe far from the others, jutting from the water like the back of a huge fish washed up at low tide.
Yennefer went down to the lower terrace, stopping by a group of women whose pride and social status prevented them from rushing pell-mell to the quayside to jostle with the excited rabble. Down below, beneath them, lay the harbour town, black and shapeless like some great marine crustacean spat out by the waves.
Longship after longship sailed out of the strait between An Skellig and Spikeroog. Their sails blazed white and red in the sun and brass bosses shone on the shields suspended from their sides.
‘Ringhorn is coming first,’ said one of the women. ‘Followed by Fenris . . .’
‘Trigla,’ an excited speaker caught sight of another. ‘Drac follows . . . Havfrue’s behind them. . .’
‘Anghira . . . Tamara . . . Daria . . . No, it’s Scorpena . . . Daria’s not there. Daria’s not there . . .’
A young, heavily pregnant woman with a thick, fair plait, cradling her belly, groaned softly, paled and fainted, collapsing on the flags of the terrace like a curtain torn from its rings. Yennefer leaped forward at once, dropping to one knee, placed her fingers on the woman’s abdomen and shouted a spell to suppress the spasms and contractions, powerfully and securely binding the placenta – which was in danger of detaching – to the womb. Just to be certain, she cast another soothing and protective spell on the baby, whose kicks she could feel under her palm. She brought the woman around by slapping her face, in order not to waste magical energy.
‘Take her away. Carefully.’
‘Foolish girl . . .’ said one of the older women. ‘A close thing . . .’
‘Hysterical . . . Her Nils may still be alive, he may be on another longship . . .’
‘Thank you for your help, madam witch.’
‘Take her away,’ Yennefer repeated, getting to her feet. Then she stifled a curse on discovering her dress had burst at the seams when she’d knelt down.
The Saga of the Witcher Page 138
