‘So what’s the problem?’
‘You must be joking! It’s a knight errant’s noble vocation to wander. Not for a monthly salary!’
‘The one does not preclude the other,’ said the vampire Regis very gravely. ‘Truly. Believe me, Angoulême.’
‘Believe him, Angoulême,’ said Geralt dryly. ‘Stop running around the palace looking for scandal and go and keep Milva company. She’s in a dreadful state, she oughtn’t to be alone.’
‘True. I think auntie’s got her period, because she’s as angry as a wasp. I think—’
‘Angoulême!’
‘I’m going, I’m going.’
Geralt and Regis stopped beside a bed of slightly wilted centifolia roses. But they were unable to talk any longer. A very thin man in an elegant cloak the colour of umber emerged from behind the orangery.
‘Good day,’ he bowed, brushing his knees with a marten kalpak. ‘May I ask which of you gentlemen is the witcher, known as Geralt, and renowned for his craft?’
‘I am he.’
‘I am Jean Catillon, steward of the Castel Toricella vineyards. The fact is that a witcher would serve us very well in the vineyard. I wished to find out if you would not consider . . .’
‘What is it about?’
‘It is thus,’ began steward Catillon. ‘Owing to this damned war, merchants visit more seldom, our reserves are growing, and there is less and less space for the barrels. We thought it was a small problem, for beneath the castles the cellars go on for miles, ever deeper. I think the cellars extend to the centre of the earth. We also found a little cellar under Toricella, beautiful, if you please, vaulted, not too dry, not too damp, just right for the wine to mature—’
‘What of it?’ the Witcher interrupted.
‘It turned out that some kind of monster prowls in the cellar, if you please, which probably came from the depths of the earth. It burned two people, melted their flesh to the bone, and blinded another, because, he, I mean the monster, sire, spits and pukes some sort of caustic lye—’
‘A solpuga,’ Geralt stated bluntly. ‘Also called a venomer.’
‘Well, well,’ smiled Regis. ‘You can see for yourself, Lord Catillon, that you’re dealing with an expert. This expert, one might say, is a godsend. And have you turned to the renowned local knights errant in this matter? The duchess has an entire regiment of them, and missions like these are, let’s face it, their speciality, their raison d’être.’
‘Not at all.’ Steward Catillon shook his head. ‘Their raison d’être is to protect the roads and passes, for if the merchants couldn’t get here, we’d all be reduced to beggary. What’s more, the knights are bold and valiant, but only on horseback. None of them would venture under the ground. What’s more, they’re expen—’
He broke off and fell silent. He had the expression of a person who, if he could, would kick himself. And greatly regretted it.
‘They’re expensive,’ Geralt finished off the sentence, without excessive spitefulness. ‘So you ought to know, good sir, that I’m more expensive. It’s a free market. And there’s free competition. If we sign a contract, I’ll dismount and head underground. Think it through, but don’t ponder too long, for I’m not staying long in Toussaint.’
‘You astonish me,’ said Regis, as soon as the steward had gone. ‘Has the witcher in you suddenly revived? Are you accepting contracts? Going after monsters?’
‘I’m astonished myself,’ replied Geralt frankly. ‘I reacted instinctively, prompted by an inexplicable impulse. I’ll weasel out of it. I’ll treat every quote they offer as too low. Always. Let’s get back to our conversation . . .’
‘Hold on.’ The vampire gestured with his eyes. ‘Something tells me you have more clients.’
Geralt swore under his breath. Two knights were walking towards him down the cypress-lined avenue.
He recognised the first at once; the huge bull’s head on a snow-white tabard couldn’t have been confused with any other crest. The other knight – tall, grey-haired, with nobly angular physiognomy, as though carved from granite – had five gold demi fleurs-de-lis on his blue tunic.
Having stopped at the regulation distance of two paces, the knights bowed. Geralt and Regis returned the bows, after which the four of them observed a silence of ten heartbeats as decreed by chivalric custom.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Bull’s Head, ‘may I introduce Baron Palmerin de Launfal. My name is, as you may recall—’
‘Baron de Peyrac-Peyran. How could we not?’
‘We have an urgent matter for Master Witcher.’ Peyrac-Peyran got down to business. ‘Regarding, so to speak, a professional undertaking.’
‘Yes.’
‘In private.’
‘I have no secrets from Master Regis.’
‘But the noble gentlemen undoubtedly do,’ the vampire smiled. ‘For which reason, with your permission, I shall go to look at that charming little pavilion, probably a temple of quiet and private contemplation. Lord de Peyrac-Peyran . . . Lord de Launfal . . .’
They exchanged bows.
‘I’m all ears.’ Geralt interrupted the silence, having no intention of waiting for the tenth heartbeat to die away.
‘The matter,’ Peyrac-Peyran lowered his voice and looked around timidly, ‘concerns this succubus . . . Well, this nocturnal phantom, the one that haunts. Which the duchess and the ladies have commissioned you to destroy. Have they promised you much for the killing of the spectre?’
‘I beg your pardon, but that’s a trade secret.’
‘But of course,’ responded Palmerin de Launfal, the knight with the fleur-de-lis cross. ‘Your conduct is commendable. Indeed, I greatly fear that I shall be insulting you with this proposal, but in spite of that I submit it. Relinquish the contract, Master Witcher. Don’t go after the succubus, leave it in peace. Saying nothing to the ladies or the duchess. And ’pon my word, we, the gentlemen of Toussaint, will outbid the ladies’ offer. Bewildering you with our generosity.’
‘A proposal,’ said the Witcher coldly, ‘that is indeed not very far from an insult.’
‘Sir Geralt,’ Palmerin de Launfal’s face was hard and grave. ‘I shall tell you what emboldened us to make the offer. It was the rumour about you that said you only kill monsters that represent a danger. A real danger. Not an imagined one, stemming from ignorance or prejudice. Permit me to say that the succubus doesn’t threaten or harm anybody. It haunts people’s dreams. From time to time . . . And bedevils a little . . .’
‘But exclusively adults,’ Peyrac-Peyran added quickly.
‘The ladies of Toussaint,’ said Geralt looking around, ‘would not be happy to learn of this conversation. The duchess likeways.’
‘We agree absolutely with you,’ mumbled Palmerin de Launfal. ‘Discretion is recommended in every respect. One should let sleeping bigots lie.’
‘Open me an account in one of the local dwarven banks,’ Geralt said slowly and softly. ‘And astonish me with your generosity. I nonetheless warn you that I’m not easily astonished.’
‘And we shall nonetheless do our best,’ promised Peyrac-Peyran proudly.
They exchanged farewell bows.
Regis, who had naturally heard everything with his vampirish hearing, returned.
‘Now,’ he said without a smile, ‘you may also naturally claim that that was an involuntary reaction and an inexplicable impulse. But you’ll be hard pressed to explain away the open bank account.’
Geralt looked somewhere high up, far away, above the tops of the cypresses.
‘Who knows,’ he said, ‘perhaps we’ll spend a few days here, after all. Bearing in mind Milva’s ribs, perhaps even more than a few days. Perhaps a few weeks? So it won’t hurt if we gain financial independence for that time.’
*
‘Hence the account at the Cianfanellis’,’ nodded Reynart de Bois-Fresnes. ‘Well, well. If the duchess learned about this there would certainly be a reshuffle, a new distribution of patents of nobility. Ha, p
erhaps I would be promoted? I give my word, I truly regret not having the makings of an informer. Tell me about the famous feast I was so looking forward to. I so wished to be at that banquet, to eat and drink! But they sent me abroad, to the watchtower, in the cold, foul weather. Eh, what a blight, the doom of a knight . . .’
‘The great and grandiosely heralded feast,’ began Geralt, ‘was preceded by serious preparations. We had to find Milva, who’d hidden in the stables, and convince her that the fate of Ciri and almost the entire world depended on her participation in the banquet. We almost had to force her into a dress. Then we had to make Angoulême promise she would avoid saying “fuck” and “arse”. Once we’d finally achieved everything and intended to relax with a glass of wine, Chamberlain Le Goff appeared, smelling of icing sugar and puffed up like a swine’s bladder.’
*
‘In the given circumstances, I must stress,’ began Chamberlain Le Goff nasally, ‘that there are no inferior places at Her Grace’s table. No one has the right to feel piqued by the place assigned to him or her. We in Toussaint, nonetheless, avidly observe ancient traditions and customs, and according to those customs—’
‘Get to the point, sir.’
‘The feast is tomorrow. I must execute a seating plan according to honour and rank.’
‘Naturally,’ said the Witcher gravely. ‘I’ll tell you what’s what. The most noble of us, both in rank and honour, is Dandelion.’
‘Viscount Julian,’ said the chamberlain, putting on airs, ‘is an extraordinarily honoured guest. And thus will sit at Her Grace’s right hand.’
‘Naturally,’ the Witcher repeated, as grave as death itself. ‘And regarding us, he didn’t reveal our ranks, titles and honours, did he?’
‘He only revealed—’ the chamberlain cleared his throat ‘—that my lords and ladies are incognito on a knightly mission, and he was not able to betray its details or your true names, coats of arms and titles, since they are protected by vows.’
‘Precisely. So what’s the problem?’
‘Why, I must seat you! You are guests, and moreover the viscount’s comrades, so in any case I will place you nearer the head of the table . . . among the barons. But, of course, it cannot be that you are all equal, lords and ladies, for it is never thus that everyone is equal. If by rank or birth one of you is more superior, he ought to sit at the top table, near the duchess . . .’
‘He,’ the Witcher unhesitatingly pointed at the vampire, who was standing close by, raptly admiring a tapestry that took up almost the whole wall, ‘is a count. But hush! It’s a secret.’
‘Understood,’ the chamberlain almost choked in amazement. ‘In the given circumstances . . . I shall put him on the right of Countess Notturna, nobly born aunt of the Lady Duchess.’
‘Neither you nor the aunt will regret it.’ Geralt was poker-faced. ‘He has no equal either in comportment or in the conversational arts.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. You meanwhile, Lord of Rivia, will sit beside the Esteemed Lady Fringilla. As tradition dictates. You bore her to the Vat, you are . . . hmmm . . . her champion, as ’twere . . .’
‘Understood.’
‘Very well. Ah, Your Grace . . .’
‘Yes?’ the vampire said in surprise. He had just moved away from the tapestry, which depicted a fight between giants and cyclopes.
‘Nothing, nothing,’ smiled Geralt. ‘We’re just chatting.’
‘Aha.’ Regis nodded. ‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, gentlemen . . . But that cyclops in the tapestry, the one with the club . . . Look at his toes. He, let’s be frank, has two left feet.’
‘Verily,’ Chamberlain Le Goff confirmed without a trace of amazement. ‘There are plenty of tapestries like that in Beauclair. The master who wove them was a true master. But he drank an awful lot. As artists do.’
*
‘It’s time we were going,’ said the Witcher, avoiding the eyes of the girls tipsy on wine who were glancing at him from the table, where they’d been amusing themselves with fortune-telling. ‘Let’s be off, Reynart. Let’s pay, mount up and ride to Beauclair.’
‘I know where you’re hurrying,’ the knight grinned. ‘Don’t worry, your green-eyed lady is waiting. It’s only just struck midnight. Tell me about the feast.’
‘I’ll tell you and we’ll ride.’
‘And we’ll ride.’
*
The sight of the table, arranged in a gigantic horseshoe, signalled emphatically that autumn was passing and winter was coming. Game in all possible forms and varieties dominated the delicacies heaped on great serving dishes and platters. There were huge quarters of boar, haunches and saddles of venison, various forcemeats, aspics and pink slices of meat, autumnally garnished with mushrooms, cranberries, plum jam and hawthorn berry sauce. There were autumn fowls – grouse, capercaillie, and pheasant, decoratively served with wings and tails, there was roast guinea fowl, quail, partridge, garganey, snipe, hazel grouse and mistle thrush. There were also genuine dainties, such as fieldfare, roasted whole, without having been drawn, since the juniper berries with which the innards of these small birds are full form a natural stuffing. There was salmon trout from mountain lakes, there was zander, there was burbot and pike’s liver. A green accent was given by raiponce, late-spring salad, which, if such a need arose, could even be dug up from under the snow.
Mistletoe took the place of flowers.
The evening’s ornament was placed on a large silver tray in the middle, forming the centrepiece of the high table at which Duchess Anarietta and the most distinguished guests were seated. Among truffles, flowers cut from carrots, quartered lemons and artichoke hearts lay a huge sturgeon, and on its back was a whole roast heron, standing on one leg, holding a gold ring in its upraised beak.
‘I vow on the heron,’ cried Peyrac-Peyran, the baron with the bull’s head in his arms whom the Witcher knew well, standing and lifting up his goblet. ‘I vow on the heron to defend knightly honour and the virtue of ladies and I vow never, ever to yield the field to anyone!’
The oath was rewarded with thunderous applause. And the eating began.
‘I vow on the heron!’ yelled another knight, with bushy whiskers pointing pugnaciously upwards. ‘I promise to defend the borders and Her Grace Anna Henrietta to the last drop of my blood! And in order to prove my loyalty, I vow to paint a heron on my shield and fight incognito for a year, concealing my name and arms, calling myself the Knight of the White Heron! I wish Her Grace good health!’
‘Good health! Happiness! Viva! Long live Her Grace!’
Anarietta thanked them with a faint nod of her head, decorated with a diamond-encrusted tiara. She had so many diamonds on her that she could have scratched glass just by passing. Beside her sat Dandelion, smiling foolishly. A little further away, between two matrons, sat Emiel Regis. He was dressed in a black, velvet jacket, looking like a vampire. He was waiting on the ladies and entertaining them with his conversation. They listened with fascination.
Geralt took the platter with the zander garnished with parsley and served Fringilla Vigo, who sat on his left, and was dressed in a gown of mauve satin and a gorgeous amethyst necklace, which sat prettily on her breast. Fringilla, watching him from beneath her black eyelashes, raised her goblet and smiled enigmatically.
‘Your good health, Geralt. I’m glad they put us together.’
‘Don’t count your chickens,’ he replied with a smile, for he was actually in decent humour. ‘The feast has only just begun.’
‘On the contrary. It has lasted long enough for you to have complimented me. How long must I wait?’
‘You are enchantingly beautiful.’
‘Slowly, slowly, with restraint!’ She laughed – he would have sworn – entirely sincerely. ‘At this rate I’m afraid to think where we might end up by the end of the banquet. Start with . . . Hmm . . . Say that I have a tasteful dress and that mauve suits me.’
‘Mauve suits you. Although I confess I like you most in whi
te.’
He saw a challenge in her emerald eyes. He was afraid to take it up. He was in such good humour.
Cahir and Milva had been seated opposite. Cahir was sitting between two very young and ceaselessly twittering noblewomen, perhaps the barons’ daughters. The archer, meanwhile, was accompanied by an older, gloomy knight with a pockmarked face, who was as quiet as a stone.
A little further away, meanwhile, sat Angoulême, calling the tune – and making a racket – among some young knights errant.
‘What’s this?’ she yelled, picking up a silver knife with a rounded end. ‘Without a point? Are they afraid we’ll start stabbing each other or what?’
‘Such knives,’ explained Fringilla, ‘have been used in Beauclair since the times of Duchess Carolina Roberta, Anna Henrietta’s grandmamma. It infuriated Caroberta when during banquets the guests used the knives to pick their teeth. And you can’t pick your teeth with a knife with a rounded end.’
‘You cannot,’ agreed Angoulême, contorting her face roguishly. ‘Luckily they’ve also given us forks!’
She pretended to put the fork in her mouth, but stopped on seeing Geralt’s menacing look. The young knightling on her right chuckled shrilly. Geralt picked up a dish of duck in aspic and served Fringilla. He saw Cahir doing his uttermost to satisfy the barons’ daughters’ whims, while they gazed at him. He saw the young knights buzzing around Angoulême, vying with each other to pass her dishes and chuckling at her foolish jokes.
He saw Milva crumbling bread, staring at the tablecloth.
Fringilla seemed to read his thoughts.
‘She’s done poorly, your taciturn companion,’ she whispered, leaning towards him. ‘Why, it can happen when a seating plan is being drawn up. Baron de Trastamara isn’t blessed with courtliness. Or eloquence.’
‘Perhaps that’s better,’ Geralt said softly. ‘A courtier drooling graciousness would’ve been worse. I know Milva.’
‘Are you sure?’ She glanced at him swiftly. ‘You aren’t measuring her according to your own standards, are you? Which, incidentally, are quite cruel.’
The Saga of the Witcher Page 161
