‘Her official title is: “The Honourable”,’ the chamberlain informed him gravely. ‘But addressing her as “Ma’am” is permissible. She is kin to the duchess and is called Fringilla Vigo. In accordance with Her Grace’s will, you are to serve her, Madam Fringilla, in the Vat.’
‘And what does this service consist of?’
‘Nothing difficult. I shall explain soon. As you see, we’ve used mechanical presses for years, but nonetheless tradition . . .’
*
The courtyard resounded with a hubbub and frenetic squealing of pipes, the wild music of recorders and the demented jingling of tambourines. Tumblers and buffoons dressed in garlands cavorted and somersaulted around a vat placed on a platform. The courtyard and cloisters were full of people – knights, ladies, courtiers and richly attired burghers.
Chamberlain Sebastian Le Goff raised up a staff twisted around with green vines, and struck it three times against the podium.
‘Hear ye, hear ye!’ he cried. ‘Noble ladies, lords and knights!’
‘Yea, yea!’ replied the crowd.
‘Yea, yea! Welcome to our ancient custom! May the grape prosper! Yea, yea! May it mellow in the sun!’
‘Yea, yea! May it mellow!’
‘Yea, yea! May the trod grape ferment! May it gather strength and taste in the barrel! May it flow tastily to goblets and thence to heads, to the glory of majesty, comely ladies, noble knights and vinedressers!’
‘Yea, yea! May it ferment!’
‘Let the Beauties step forward!’
Two women – Duchess Anna Henrietta and her black-haired companion – emerged from damask tents on opposite sides of the courtyard. They were both wrapped tightly in scarlet capes.
‘Yea, yea!’ the chamberlain struck his cane on the ground. ‘Let the Youths step forward!’
The “Youths” had been instructed and knew what to do. Dandelion approached the duchess, and Geralt, the black-haired woman. Who, he now knew, was called the Honourable Fringilla Vigo.
The two women cast off their capes as one, and the crowd greeted them with thunderous applause. Geralt swallowed.
The women were wearing tiny, white, gossamer-thin blouses with shoulder straps, revealing their midriffs. And clinging frilly knickers. And nothing else. Not even jewellery.
They were also barefoot.
Geralt picked Fringilla up and she quite eagerly put an arm around his neck. She smelled faintly of ambergris and roses. And femininity. She was warm and her warmth penetrated him like an arrowhead. She was soft and her softness scalded and nettled his fingers.
They carried them to the vat – Geralt, Fringilla, and Dandelion, the Duchess – and helped them alight on the grapes, which burst and spurted forth juice. The crowd roared.
‘Yea, yea!’
The duchess and Fringilla placed their hands on each other’s shoulders, and by supporting one another more easily kept their balance on the grapes into which they had sunk up to their knees. The must squirted and sprayed around. The women, turning, trod the grapes, giggling like schoolgirls. Fringilla winked at the Witcher, quite against protocol.
‘Yea, yea!’ shouted the crowd. ‘Yea, yea! May it ferment!’
The crushed grapes splashed juice, the cloudy must bubbled and foamed copiously around the treaders’ knees.
The chamberlain struck his cane against the planks of the platform. Geralt and Dandelion moved closer, helping the women out of the vat. Geralt saw Anarietta pinch Dandelion’s ear as he carried her, and her eyes shone dangerously. It seemed to him that Fringilla’s lips brushed his cheek, but he couldn’t be certain whether intentionally or not. The smell of the must was heady and intoxicating.
He stood Fringilla on the podium and wrapped her in the scarlet cape. Fringilla squeezed his hand quickly and powerfully.
‘These ancient traditions,’ she whispered, ‘can be arousing, can’t they?’
‘They can.’
‘Thank you, Witcher.’
‘The pleasure’s all mine.’
‘Not all yours. I assure you, not all yours.’
*
‘Pour the wine, Reynart.’
More Yuletide prophecies were being carried out at the next table. A strip of apple peel cut into a long spiral was thrown down and the initial letter of one’s future partner’s name was divined from the shape it arranged itself into. Each time, the peel formed itself into a letter ‘S’. In spite of that there was no end to the mirth.
The knight poured.
‘It turned out that Milva was well,’ said the Witcher pensively, ‘although she still had a bandage around her ribs. She remained in her chamber, though, and refused to leave, not wanting at any cost to put on the dress she’d been presented with. It looked as though there would be a protocolary scandal, but the omniscient Regis pacified the situation. After quoting a good dozen precedents he made the chamberlain bring a male outfit to the archer. Angoulême, for a change, joyfully discarded her trousers, riding boots and footwraps, and soap, a dress and a comb turned her into quite a pretty lass. All of us, let’s face it, were cheered up by the bathhouse and the clean clothes. Even me. We set off for the audience in a very decent mood—’
‘Stop for a moment,’ Reynart gestured with his head. ‘Business is heading towards us. Ho, ho, and not one, but two vineyards! Malatesta, our customer, is bringing a comrade . . . and a rival. Wonders will never cease!’
‘Who’s the other one?’
‘Pomerol vineyard. We’re drinking their wine, Côte-de-Blessure, right now.’
Malatesta, the steward of the Vermentino vineyard, had noticed them, waved, and approached, leading his companion, an individual with a black moustache and a bushy, black beard, who resembled a brigand more than an official.
‘Gentlemen,’ Malatesta introduced the bearded man, ‘Mr Alcides Fierabras, steward of Pomerol vineyard.’
‘Sit you down.’
‘We’re here for but a moment. To talk to Master Witcher regarding a beast in our cellars. I conclude from seeing your good selves here that the monster is killed?’
‘Dead.’
‘The agreed sum,’ Malatesta assured them, ‘will be transferred to your account at the Cianfanellis’ bank tomorrow at the latest. Oh, thanking you, Master Witcher. Thanks a hundredfold. Such a gorgeous cellar, vaulted, north-pointing, not too dry, not too damp, just what’s needed for wine, and owing to that vile brute it couldn’t be used. You saw yourselves, we needs must brick up all that part of the cellar, but the beast managed to find a way through . . . Where it came from is anyone’s guess . . . Probably from hell itself . . .’
He spat on the floor.
‘Caves hollowed out in volcanic tuff always abound in monsters,’ instructed Reynart de Bois-Fresnes wisely. He had been accompanying the Witcher for over a month, and being a good listener, had managed to learn a great deal. ‘It goes without saying. Where there’s tuff, there’s sure to be a monster.’
‘Very well, perhaps it was Tuff.’ Malatesta glared at him. ‘Whoever that Tuff happens to be. But folk are saying it’s because our cellars are connected to deep caverns that are said to lead to the very centre of the earth. There are many similar dungeons and caves like that around here . . .’
‘Like under our cellars, to give the first example that springs to mind,’ said the black-bearded Pomerol vineyard. ‘Those dungeons go on for miles, but no one knows to where. The men who wanted to unravel the matter didn’t return. And a dreadful monster was also seen there. They say. I’d therefore like to suggest—’
‘I can guess what you want to propose,’ said the Witcher, dryly, ‘and I consent to the proposition. I will explore your cellars. We shall set the fee depending on what I find there.’
‘You won’t do badly,’ the bearded man assured him. ‘Hem, hem . . . One more thing . . .’
‘Pray speak . . .’
‘That succubus that haunts men at night and torments them . . . Which Her Enlightened Ladyship the Duchess has ordered ki
lled . . . I believe there’s no need. For the ghoul doesn’t bother anyone, in truth . . . Yes, it occasionally haunts . . . Bedevils a little—’
‘But nobbut adults,’ Malatesta quickly interrupted.
‘You took the words out of my mouth, friend. All in all, the succubus doesn’t harm anyone. And recently there’s been no word about it at all. Doubtless, it would be scared of you, Master Witcher. What, then, is the point of tormenting it? Why, you aren’t lacking ready cash, sire. And were you to be short . . .’
‘Something could be transferred to my account at Cianfanellis’ bank,’ Geralt said with stony countenance. ‘To the witcher’s pension fund.’
‘So be it.’
‘Then not a single blond hair on the succubus’ head will be harmed.’
‘Farewell, then.’ The two vineyards stood up. ‘Feast in peace, we shan’t disturb. It’s a holiday today. A tradition. Here, in Toussaint, tradition—’
‘Is sacred,’ said Geralt. ‘I know.’
*
The party at the next table were making another noisy Yuletide prophecy, carried out with the help of balls fashioned from the soft inside of cakes and bones left over from a carp. The wine was flowing as they did so. The innkeeper and his serving girls were rushed off their feet, hurrying to and fro with jugs.
‘The famous succubus,’ remarked Reynart, serving himself more cabbage, ‘began the memorable series of witcher contracts that you took on in Toussaint. Then things speeded up and you couldn’t keep the customers away. Funny, I don’t remember which vineyard gave you the first contract . . .’
‘You weren’t present. It happened the day after the audience with the duchess. Which you didn’t attend either, as a matter of fact.’
‘No wonder. It was a private audience.’
‘Private, huh,’ snorted Geralt. ‘It was attended by some twenty people, not counting the motionless lackeys, youthful pages and a bored jester. Among that number was Le Goff, the chamberlain with the appearance and smell of a confectioner, and several magnates bowing under the weight of their golden chains. There were several coves in black: councillors, or perhaps judges. There was the baron with the Bull’s Head coat of arms I met in Caed Myrkvid. There was, naturally, Fringilla Vigo, a person evidently close to the duchess.
‘And there were we, our entire gang, including Milva in male costume. Ha, I was wrong to speak of the entire company. Dandelion was not with us. Dandelion, or rather Viscount What’s-His-Name, sat sprawled in a curule seat on Her Pointy-Nosed Highness Anarietta’s right hand and postured like a peacock. Like a real pet.
‘Anarietta, Fringilla and Dandelion were the only people seated. No one else was permitted to sit down. And anyway I was glad they didn’t make me kneel.
‘The duchess listened to my tale, seldom interrupting, fortunately. When, however, I briefly related the results of the conversations with the druidesses, she wrung her hands, in a gesture suggesting worry as sincere as it was exaggerated. I know that sounds like some sort of bloody oxymoron, but believe me, Reynart, in her case that’s how it was.’
*
‘Oh, oh,’ said Duchess Anna Henrietta, wringing her hands. ‘You have sorely worried us, Master Geralt. Truly do we tell you that sorrow fills our heart.’
She sniffed through her pointed nose, held out her hand, and Dandelion at once pressed a monogrammed cambric handkerchief into it. The duchess brushed both her cheeks with the handkerchief so as not to wipe the powder off.
‘Oh, oh,’ she repeated. ‘So the druidesses knew nothing about Ciri? They were unable to help you? Was all your effort then wasted and your journey in vain?’
‘Certainly not in vain,’ Geralt answered with conviction. ‘I confess I’d counted on obtaining some concrete information or hints from the druids that would at least explain in the most general way why Ciri is the object of such a relentless pursuit. The druids, though, couldn’t or didn’t want to help me, and in this respect I indeed gained nothing. But . . .’
He paused for a moment. Not for dramatic effect. He was wondering how frank he could be in front of the entire auditorium.
‘I know that Ciri’s alive,’ he finally said dryly. ‘She was probably wounded. She’s still in danger. But she’s alive.’
Anna Henrietta gasped, applied the handkerchief again and squeezed Dandelion’s arm.
‘We pledge you our help and support,’ she said. ‘Stay in Toussaint as long as you wish. You ought to know that we have resided in Cintra, and we knew and were fond of Pavetta, we knew and liked little Ciri. We are with you with all our heart, Master Geralt. If needs be you shall have the assistance of our scholars and astrologers. Our libraries and book collections stand open before you. You are certain, we deeply trust, to find some track, sign or spoor that will indicate the right way. Do not act hastily. You need not hurry. You may stay here as you like; you are a most welcome guest.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace.’ Geralt bowed. ‘Thank you for your kindness and favour. We must, nonetheless, set off as soon as we have rested a little. Ciri is still in danger. When we stay in one place too long the threat not only grows, but begins to endanger the people who show us kindness. And unrelated strangers. I wouldn’t want to allow that to happen for anything.’
The duchess was silent for some time, stroking Dandelion’s forearm with measured movements, as you would a cat.
‘Your words are noble and virtuous,’ she said at last. ‘But you have nothing to fear. Our knights routed the ne’er-do-wells pursuing you so that none escaped with his life. Viscount Julian told us about it. Anyone who dares to trouble you will meet the same fate. You are under our care and protection.’
‘I value that.’ Geralt bowed again, under his breath cursing his knee – but not only his knee. ‘Nonetheless I cannot omit to mention something Viscount Dandelion forgot to tell Your Enlightened Ladyship. The ne’er-do-wells from the mine who pursued me to Belhaven, and whom your valiant knighthood vanquished in Caed Myrkvid, were indeed ne’er-do-wells of the first water, but they bore Nilfgaardian livery.’
‘And what of it?’
It was on the tip of his tongue to say that if the Nilfgaardians had captured Aedirn in twenty days, they would need just twenty minutes to capture her little duchy.
‘There is a war on,’ he said instead. ‘What happened in Belhaven and Caed Myrkvid may be regarded as a diversion at the rear. That usually results in repression. In wartime—’
‘The war,’ the duchess interrupted him, raising her pointy nose, ‘is definitely over. We wrote to our cousin, Emhyr var Emreis, regarding this matter. We sent a memorandum to him, in which we demanded that he put an end forthwith to the senseless bloodletting. The war is sure to be over, peace is sure to have been concluded.’
‘Not exactly,’ replied Geralt coldly. ‘Fire and sword are wreaking havoc on the far side of the Yaruga, blood is flowing. There’s nothing to indicate that it’s about to end. Quite the contrary, I’d say.’
He immediately regretted what he’d said.
‘What?’ The duchess’s nose, it appeared, became even pointier, and a nasty, grindingly snarling note sounded in her voice. ‘Did I hear right? The war is still raging? Why wasn’t I informed of this? Minister Tremblay?’
‘Your Grace, I . . .’ mumbled one of the golden chains, genuflecting. ‘I didn’t want to . . . concern . . . worry . . . Your Grace . . .’
‘Guard!’ Her Majesty howled. ‘To the tower with him! You are in disfavour, Lord Tremblay! In disfavour! Lord Chamberlain! Mister Secretary!’
‘At your service, Your Enlightened Ladyship . . .’
‘Have the chancellery immediately issue a severe note to our cousin, the Emperor of Nilfgaard. We demand that he immediately, and I mean immediately, stops warring and makes peace. For war and discord are evil things! Discord ruins and accord builds!’
‘Your Grace,’ mumbled the chamberlain-confectioner, as white as castor sugar, ‘is absolutely right.’
‘What are you stil
l doing here, gentlemen? We have issued our orders! Be off with you, this instant!’
Geralt looked around discreetly. The courtiers had stony expressions, from which he concluded that similar incidents were nothing new at the court. He made a firm resolution only to say ‘yes’ to the Lady Duchess in future.
Anarietta brushed the tip of her nose with her handkerchief and then smiled at Geralt.
‘As you see,’ she said, ‘your anxieties were unfounded. You have nothing to fear and may rest here as long as you like.’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
In the silence, the tapping of a death watch beetle in one of the pieces of antique furniture could be heard distinctly. As could the curses being hurled by a groom in a distant courtyard.
‘We also have a request for you, Master Geralt,’ Anarietta interrupted the silence. ‘In your capacity as a witcher.’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
‘It is the request of many noble ladies of Toussaint, and ours at the same time. A nocturnal monster is plaguing local homesteads. This devil, this phantom, this succubus in female form, so lewd that we daren’t describe it, torments our virtuous and faithful husbands. She haunts bedchambers at night, committing lewd acts and disgusting perversions, which modesty forbids us to speak of. You, as an expert, surely know what the matter is.’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
‘The ladies of Toussaint ask you to put an end to this abomination. And we add our voice to this request. And assure you of our generosity.’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
*
Angoulême found the Witcher and the vampire in the palace grounds, where they were enjoying a walk and a discreet conversation.
‘You won’t believe me,’ she panted. ‘You won’t believe me when I tell you . . . But it’s the honest truth . . .’
‘Spit it out.’
‘Reynart de Bois-Fresnes, the Chequered Knight errant, is standing in a queue before the ducal treasurer with the other knights errant. And do you know for what? For his monthly salary! The queue, I’m telling you, is half an arrow-shot long, and it’s sparkling with coats of arms. I asked Reynart what it’s all about and he said errant knights also get hungry.’
The Saga of the Witcher Page 160
