‘Nothing, unfortunately,’ replied Fringilla, after clearing her throat. ‘Nothing since the last telecommunication. Not a single attempt at scanning.’
‘That’s bad,’ said Philippa. ‘Frankly speaking, we’d counted on you uncovering something. Please at least tell us . . . has the Witcher calmed down now? Are you capable of keeping him in Toussaint at least until May?’
Fringilla Vigo said nothing for some time. She didn’t have the slightest intention of mentioning to the lodge that only in the last week the Witcher had called her ‘Yennefer’ twice, and both at a moment when in every respect she was entitled to hear her own name. But the lodge, in turn, was entitled to expect the truth. Honesty. And a legitimate conclusion.
‘No,’ she answered at last. ‘Probably not until May. But I’ll do everything in my power to keep him here as long as possible.’
Korred, a monster of the large Strigiformes family (q.v.), also called by local people a corrigan, rutterkin, rumpelstiltskin, fidgeter or mesmer. One thing can be said about him; he is dreadfully beastly. He is such a devil’s spawn and scoundrel, such a bitch’s tail, that we shall not write anything about his appearance or habits, since in sooth I tell you: we shall not waste breath on the whoreson.
Physiologus
CHAPTER FOUR
An odour that was a mixture of the smells of old wooden panelling, melting candles and ten kinds of perfume hung in the columned hall of Montecalvo Castle. Ten specially selected blends of scent used by the ten women seated at a round oak table in armchairs carved in the shape of sphinxes’ heads.
Fringilla Vigo regarded Triss Merigold, was sitting opposite her in a light blue dress buttoned high up to the neck. Beside Triss, remaining in the shadows, sat Keira Metz. Her large, eye-catching earrings of many-facetted citrines sparkled every now and then with a thousand reflections.
‘Please continue, Miss Vigo,’ urged Philippa Eilhart. ‘We’re in a hurry to learn the end of the story. And to take urgent steps.’
Philippa – exceptionally – wasn’t wearing any jewellery apart from a large sardonyx cameo brooch pinned to her vermilion dress. Fringilla had already heard the rumour and knew whose present the cameo brooch had been, and whose profile it depicted.
Sheala de Tancarville, sitting beside Philippa, was all in black, diamonds twinkling subtly. Margarita Laux-Antille wore heavy gold without stones on claret-coloured satins, while Sabrina Glevissig had her favourite onyxes – matching the colour of her eyes – in her necklace, earrings and rings.
Nearest to Fringilla sat the two elves – Francesca Findabair and Ida Emean aep Sivney.
The Daisy of the Valleys was, as usual, regal, though today neither her coiffure nor her crimson dress were extraordinarily splendid and the red of her diadem and necklace was that of modest – though tasteful – garnets, not rubies. Ida Emean, meanwhile, was dressed in muslins and tulles in autumn tones, so delicate and gauzy that they swayed and undulated like anemones even in the barely perceptible drafts triggered by the movement of the centrally heated air.
As usual of late, Assire var Anahid’s modest but distinguished elegance aroused admiration. The Nilfgaardian sorceress wore a single emerald cabochon in a gold setting on a gold chain resting in the high décolletage of her close-fitting, dark-green dress. Her manicured fingernails, painted very dark green, gave the composition a flavour of truly magical extravagance.
‘We’re waiting, Miss Vigo,’ reminded Sheala de Tancarville. ‘Time’s passing.’
Fringilla cleared her throat.
‘December came,’ she began her story. ‘Yule came, then the New Year. The Witcher calmed down sufficiently to stop mentioning Ciri in every conversation. The expeditions against monsters that he regularly undertook seemed utterly to absorb him. Well, perhaps not quite utterly . . .’
She paused. It seemed to her she could detect a flash of hatred in Triss Merigold’s azure eyes. But it might just have been the gleam of flickering candle flame. Philippa snorted, playing with her brooch.
‘Don’t overdo the modesty, Miss Vigo. This is a closed circle. A circle of women who know what, apart from pleasure, sex can serve. We all use that tool when the need arises. Please go on.’
‘Even if during the day he maintained the appearance of secretiveness, superiority and pride,’ continued Fringilla, ‘at night he was completely in my power. He told me everything. He paid homage to my femininity, which considering his age was extremely generous, I must admit. And then he fell asleep. In my arms, with his mouth on my bosom. Searching for a surrogate for the maternal love he never experienced.’
This time, she was certain, it wasn’t the gleam of candlelight. Very well, I pray you, envy me, she thought. Envy me. There’s plenty to envy.
‘He was,’ she repeated, ‘completely in my power.’
*
‘Come back to bed, Geralt. The sky’s still bloody grey!’
‘I’m meeting someone. I have to ride to Pomerol.’
‘I don’t want you to ride to Pomerol.’
‘I’m meeting someone. I’ve given my word. The manager of the vineyard will be waiting for me by the gate.’
‘This monster hunting of yours is stupid and pointless. What are you trying to prove by killing another monster from the caverns? Your masculinity? I know better ways. Come on, back to bed. You aren’t going to any Pomerol. At least not so quickly. The steward can wait, and anyway, what is a steward? I want to make love with you.’
‘Forgive me. I don’t have time. I’ve given my word.’
‘I want to make love with you!’
‘If you want to join me for breakfast, start getting dressed.’
‘I don’t think you love me, Geralt. Don’t you love me anymore? Answer me!’
‘Put on that grey and pearl dress, the one with the mink trimming. It suits you very much.’
*
‘He was completely under my spell, he fulfilled my every wish,’ repeated Fringilla. ‘He did everything I demanded of him. That’s how it was.’
‘And we believe you,’ said Sheala de Tancarville, extremely dryly. ‘Please continue.’
Fringilla coughed into her fist.
‘The problem was his troop,’ she went on. ‘That strange assemblage he called a company. Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, who watched me and flushed with effort trying to remember me. But he couldn’t recall, because when I stayed at Darn Dyffra, his grandparents’ family castle, he was six or seven. Milva, an apparently swashbuckling and haughty girl, and whom I happened to catch crying twice hiding in a corner of the stable. Angoulême, a flighty whelp. And Regis Terzieff-Godefroy. A character I was unable to fathom. That entire gang had an influence on him I couldn’t eradicate.’
Very well, very well, she thought, don’t raise your eyebrows so high, don’t sneer. Wait. That’s not the end of the story yet. You’re yet to hear of my triumph.
‘Every morning,’ she continued, ‘the whole company would meet in the kitchen in the basement of Beauclair Palace. The royal chef was fond of them, God knows why. He always cooked something up for them, so ample and tasty that breakfast usually lasted two, and occasionally even three, hours. Geralt and I ate with them many times. Which is how I know what absurd conversations they used to have.’
*
Two hens, one black, the other speckled, were walking around the kitchen, stepping timidly on their clawed feet. Glancing at the company breaking their fast, the hens pecked crumbs from the floor.
The company had gathered in the palace kitchen, as they did every morning. The royal chef was fond of them, God knows why, and always had something tasty for them. Today it was scrambled eggs, sour rye soup, stewed aubergine, rabbit forcemeat, goose breasts and sausage with beetroot, with a large circle of goat’s cheese on the side. They all ate briskly and in silence. Apart from Angoulême, who was talking nonsense.
‘And I tell you we should set up a brothel here. When we’ve done what we have to do, let’s return and open a house of ill r
epute. I’ve looked around in town. There’s everything here. There are ten barber’s shops alone, and eight apothecaries. But there’s only one knocking shop and it’s more like a seedy shithouse than a proper cathouse, I tell you. There’s no competition. We’ll open a luxury bordello. We’ll buy a big house with a garden—’
‘Angoulême, have mercy.’
‘—just for respectable punters. I’ll be the madam. I tell you, we’ll make a fortune and live like kings. Finally they’ll elect me councillor, and then I won’t let you die for sure, because when they elect me, I’ll elect you and before you can say Jack Robinson—’
‘Angoulême, we’ve asked. There, eat some bread and forcemeat.’
It was quiet for a while.
‘What are you hunting today, Geralt? Tough job?’
‘Eyewitnesses give conflicting descriptions.’ The Witcher raised his head from his plate. ‘So it’s either a pryskirnik, i.e. a fairly hard job, or a drelichon, i.e. a fairly hard job, or a nazhempik, i.e. a fairly easy one. It might turn out the job’s extremely easy, because they last saw the monster before Lammas last year. It might have bolted from Pomerol over the hills and far away.’
‘I hope it has,’ said Fringilla, gnawing at a goose bone.
‘And how’s Dandelion doing?’ the Witcher suddenly asked. ‘I haven’t seen him for such a long time that I get all my information about him from lampoons sung in the town.’
‘We aren’t any better off,’ smiled Regis with pursed lips. ‘All we know is that our poet is on such intimate terms with Lady Duchess Anarietta that she’s allowed him, even before witnesses, to use quite a familiar cognomen. He calls her Little Weasel.’
‘That’s very apt!’ Angoulême said with her mouth full. ‘That lady duchess really does have a weaselly nose. Not to mention her teeth.’
‘No one’s perfect.’ Fringilla narrowed her eyes.
‘How very true.’
The hens, the black and the speckled one, had become audacious enough to begin pecking at Milva’s boots. The archer drove them away with a brisk kick and an oath.
Geralt had been scrutinising her for some time. Now he made up his mind.
‘Maria,’ he said gravely, almost harshly, ‘I know our conversations can’t be considered serious or our jokes sophisticated. But you don’t have to pull such sour faces. What’s the matter?’
‘Something must be the matter,’ said Angoulême. Geralt silenced her with a fierce look. Too late.
‘What do you know?’ Milva stood up suddenly, almost knocking over her chair. ‘What do you know, eh? The Devil take you! You can kiss my arse, all of you, get it?’
She grabbed her cup from the table, drained it and smashed it on the floor without a second thought. And ran out, slamming the door.
‘Things are serious—’ Angoulême began a moment later, but this time the vampire silenced her.
‘The matter is very serious,’ he confirmed. ‘I hadn’t expected such an extreme reaction from our archer. One usually reacts like that when one is jilted, not when one jilts another.’
‘What the bloody hell are you talking about?’ said Geralt, annoyed. ‘Eh? Perhaps someone will finally explain what this is all about?’
‘It’s about Baron Amadis de Trastamara.’
‘The tight-lipped hunter?’
‘The very same. He proposed to Milva. Three days ago on a hunting trip. He’d been inviting her to go hunting for a month . . .’
‘One hunt—’ Angoulême flashed her teeth impudently ‘—lasted two days. With the night spent in his hunting lodge, get it? I swear—’
‘Shut up, girl. Speak, Regis.’
‘He formally and ceremoniously asked for her hand. Milva declined, it appears, in quite a harsh way. The baron, though he looks level-headed, was upset by the rejection, sulked like a jilted stripling and immediately left Beauclair. And since then Milva has been walking around downcast.’
‘We’ve been here too long,’ muttered the Witcher. ‘Too long.’
‘Now who’s talking?’ said Cahir, who had said nothing up until then. ‘Who’s talking?’
‘Forgive me.’ The Witcher stood up. ‘We’ll talk about it when I return. The steward of Pomerol vineyard is waiting for me. And punctuality is part of the witchers’ code.’
*
After Milva’s abrupt exit and the Witcher’s departure the rest of the company ate in silence. The two hens, one black, the other speckled, walked around the kitchen, stepping timidly on their clawed feet.
‘I have a small problem . . .’ said Angoulême, raising her eyes towards Fringilla from over the plate she was wiping with a crust.
‘I understand,’ nodded the sorceress. ‘It’s nothing dreadful. When was your last period?’
‘What do you mean?’ Angoulême leaped to her feet, frightening the chickens. ‘It’s nothing of the sort. It’s something completely different!’
‘Tell me.’
‘Geralt wants to leave me here when he goes back on the road.’
‘Oh.’
‘He says,’ Angoulême snapped, ‘that he can’t put me at risk, and similar rubbish. And I want to go with him—’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t interrupt me, will you? I want to go with him, with Geralt, because it’s only when I’m with him I’m not afraid that One-Eyed Fulko will catch me. And here in Toussaint—’
‘Angoulême,’ Regis interrupted her, ‘your words are in vain. Madam Vigo is listening, but can’t hear. Only one thing horrifies her: the Witcher leaving.’
‘Oh,’ Fringilla repeated, turning her head towards him and screwing up her eyes. ‘What are you hinting at, Mr Terzieff-Godefroy? The Witcher leaving? And when might that be? If one might ask?’
‘Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow,’ the vampire replied in a soft voice. ‘But one day, for certain. No offence intended.’
‘I don’t feel offended,’ responded Fringilla coldly. ‘If you had me in mind, naturally. Returning to you, Angoulême, I assure you that I shall discuss the matter of leaving Toussaint with Geralt. I guarantee you that the Witcher will hear my opinion on the subject.’
‘Why, naturally,’ snorted Cahir. ‘How did I know you’d say that, Madam Fringilla?’
The sorceress looked long and hard at him.
‘The Witcher,’ she said finally, ‘ought not to leave Toussaint. No one who wishes him well should encourage him to do that. Where will he have it so good as here? He’s living in the lap of luxury. He has his monsters to hunt, he’s earning a pretty penny from it. His friend and comrade is the favourite of the reigning duchess, and the duchess herself is also favourably disposed to him. Mainly owing to the succubus that was haunting people’s bedchambers. Yes, yes, gentlemen. Anarietta, like all the noble ladies of Toussaint, is inordinately well-disposed towards the Witcher. For the succubus has suddenly stopped haunting. The ladies of Toussaint have thus clubbed together to pay him a special bonus, which they will deposit in the Witcher’s account in the Cianfanellis’ bank any day now. Increasing the small fortune that the Witcher has already stored up there.’
‘A pretty gesture from the ladies.’ Regis didn’t lower his gaze. ‘And a well-deserved bonus. It isn’t easy to stop a succubus from haunting. You may believe me, Madam Fringilla.’
‘I do. And while we’re on the subject, one of the palace guards claims he saw it. At night, on the battlements of Caroberta’s Tower. In the company of another spectre. Some kind of vampire. The two demons were taking a stroll, the guard swore, and they looked as though they were friends. Do you perhaps know anything about this, Mr Regis? Are you able to explain it, sir?’
‘No, I’m not, madam.’ Regis didn’t even bat an eyelid. ‘There are things in heaven and earth that even philosophers have never dreamed about.’
‘Without doubt there are such things,’ said Fringilla, nodding her black hair. ‘Regarding, nonetheless, whether the Witcher is preparing to depart, do you know anything else? For you see, he hasn’t m
entioned any such plan, and he usually tells me everything.’
‘Of course he does,’ Cahir grunted. Fringilla ignored him.
‘Mr Regis?’
‘No,’ the vampire said after a moment’s silence. ‘No, Madam Fringilla, please worry not. The Witcher doesn’t show us any greater affection or confidence than you. He doesn’t whisper into our ears any secrets he would keep from you.’
‘Where, then—’ Fringilla was as composed as granite ‘—do these revelations about departing come from?’
‘Well, it’s like our darling Angoulême’s catchphrase, which brims with youthful charm.’ The vampire didn’t bat an eyelid this time either. ‘There comes a time when you’ve either got to shit or free up the shithouse. In other words—’
‘Spare the other words,’ Fringilla interrupted sharply. ‘Those charming ones will suffice.’
Silence reigned for quite some time. The two hens, the black and the speckled one, walked around pecking whatever they could. Angoulême wiped her beetroot-stained nose with her sleeve. The vampire toyed pensively with the wooden peg from the sausage.
‘Thanks to me,’ Fringilla broke the silence, ‘Geralt has come to know Ciri’s lineage, the complexities and secrets of her genealogy, known only to a few. Thanks to me he knows what he had no idea about a year ago. Thanks to me he has information, and information is a weapon. Thanks to me and my magical protection he is safe from enemy scanning, and thus also from assassins. Thanks to me and my magic his knee doesn’t hurt him now and he can bend it. Around his neck is a medallion, made by my magical art, possibly not as good as his original witcher one, but powerful anyway. Thanks to me – and only me – in the spring or summer he will be able to face his enemies in combat, equipped with information, protected, fit, prepared and armed. If anyone present here has done more for Geralt, given him more, may they step forward. I’d be happy to honour them.’
No one said anything. The hens pecked Cahir’s boots, but the young Nilfgaardian paid no attention. ‘Verily,’ he said with a sneer, ‘none of us has given Geralt more than you, m’lady.’
The Saga of the Witcher Page 164
