فصل 5

CHAPTER FIVE

“Did you say something?”

The boy sniffed and pushed his over-sized velvet hat, a pheasant’s feather hanging rakishly to the side, back from his forehead.

“Are you a knight?” he repeated, gazing at Geralt with wide eyes as blue as the sky.

“No,” replied the witcher, surprised that he felt like answering. “I’m not.”

“But you’ve got a sword! My daddy’s one of King Foltest’s knights. He’s got a sword, too. Bigger than yours!” Geralt leaned his elbows on the railing and spat into the water eddying at the barge’s wake.

“You carry it on your back,” the little snot persisted. The hat slipped down over his eyes again.

“What?”

“The sword. On your back. Why have you got the sword on your back?”

“Because someone stole my oar.”

The little snot opened his mouth, demanding that the impressive gaps left by milk teeth be admired.

“Move away from the side,” said the witcher. “And shut your mouth or flies will get in.”

The boy opened his mouth even wider.

“Grey-haired yet stupid!” snarled the little snot’s mother, a richly attired noblewoman, pulling her offspring away by the beaver collar of his cloak. “Come here, Everett! I’ve told you so many times not to be familiar with the passing rabble!” Geralt sighed, gazing at the outline of islands and islets looming through the morning mist. The barge, as ungainly as a tortoise, trudged along at an appropriate speed – that being the speed of a tortoise – dictated by the lazy Delta current. The passengers, mostly merchants and peasants, were dozing on their baggage. The witcher unfurled the scroll once more and returned to Ciri’s letter.

…I sleep in a large hall called a Dormitorium and my bed is terribly big, I tell you. I’m with the Intermediary Girls. There are twelve of us but I’m most friendly with Eurneid, Katye and Iola the Second. Whereas today I Ate Broth and the worst is that sometimes we have to Fast and get up very early at Dawn. Earlier than in Kaer Morhen. I will write the rest tomorrow for we shall presently be having Prayers. No one ever prayed in Kaer Morhen, I wonder why we have to here. No doubt because this is a Temple.

Geralt. Mother Nenneke has read and said I must not write Silly Things and write clearly without mistakes. And about what I’m studying and that I feel well and healthy. I feel well and am healthy if unfortunately Hungry, but Soone be Dinner. And Mother Nenneke also said write that prayer has never harmed anybody yet, neither me nor, certainly, you.

Geralt, I have some free time again, I will write therefore that I am studying. To read and write correct Runes. History. Nature. Poetry and Prose. To express myself well in the Common Speech and in the Elder Speech. I am best at the Elder Speech, I can also write Elder Runes. I will write something for you and you will see for yourself. Elaine blath, Feainnewedd. That meant: Beautiful flower, child of the Sun. You see for yourself that I can. And also— Now I can write again for I have found a new quill for the old one broke. Mother Nenneke read this and praised me that it was correct. That I am obedient, she told me to write, and that you should not worry. Don’t worry, Geralt.

Again I have some time so I will write what happened. When we were feeding the turkey hens, I, Iola and Katye, One Enormous Turkey attacked us, a red neck it had and was Terrible Horrible. First it attacked Iola and then it wanted to attack me but I was not afraid because it was smaller and slower than the Pendulum anyway. I dodged and did a pirouette and walloped it twice with a switch until it Made Off. Mother Nenneke does not allow me to carry My Sword here, a pity, for I would have shown that Turkey what I learned in Kaer Morhen. I already know that in the Elder Runes it would be written Caer a’Muirehen and that it means Keep of the Elder Sea. So no doubt that is why there are Shells and Snails there as well as Fish imprinted on the stones. And Cintra is correctly written Xin’trea. Whereas my name comes from Zireael for that means Swallow and that means that… “Are you busy reading?”

He raised his head.

“I am. So? Has anything happened? Someone noticed something?”

“No, nothing,” replied the skipper, wiping his hands on his leather jerkin. “There’s calm on the water. But there’s a mist and we’re already near Crane Islet—” “I know. It’s the sixth time I’ve sailed this way, Boatbug, not counting the return journeys. I’ve come to know the trail. My eyes are open, don’t worry.” The skipper nodded and walked away to the prow, stepping over travellers’ packages and bundles stacked everywhere. Squeezed in amidships, the horses snorted and pounded their hooves on the deck-boards. They were in the middle of the current, in dense fog. The prow of the barge ploughed the surface of water lilies, parting their clumps. Geralt turned back to his reading.

…that means I have an elven name. But I am not, after all, an elf, Geralt, there is also talk about the Squirrels here. Sometimes even the Soldiers come and ask questions and say that we must not treat wounded elves. I have not squealed a word to anyone about what happened in spring, don’t worry. And I also remember to practise, don’t think otherwise. I go to the park and train when I have time. But not always, for I also have to work in the kitchen or in the orchard like all the girls. And we also have a terrible amount of studying to do. But never mind, I will study. After all, you too studied in the Temple, Mother Nenneke told me. And she also told me that just any idiot can brandish a sword but a witcher-girl must be wise.

Geralt, you promised to come. Come.

Your Ciri

PS Come, come.

PS II. Mother Nenneke told me to end with Praise be to Great Melitele, may her blessing and favour always go with you. And may nothing happen to you.

Ciri

I’d like to go to Ellander, he thought, putting away the letter. But it’s dangerous. I might lead them to— These letters have got to end. Nenneke makes use of temple mail but still… Damn it, it’s too risky.

“Hmmm… Hmm…”

“What now, Boatbug? We’ve passed Crane Islet.”

“And without incident, thank the gods,” sighed the skipper. “Ha, Geralt, I see this is going to be another peaceful trip. Any moment now the mist is going to clear and when the sun peeps through, the fear is over. The monster won’t show itself in the sunlight.” “That won’t worry me in the least.”

“So I should think.” Boatbug smiled wryly. “The company pays you by the trip. Regardless whether something happens or not a penny falls into your pouch, doesn’t it?” “You ask as if you didn’t know. What is this – envy talking? That I earn money standing leaning against the side, watching the lapwings? And what do you get paid for? The same thing. For being on board. When everything is going smoothly you haven’t got anything to do. You stroll from prow to stern, grinning at the women or trying to entice merchants to have a drink. I’ve been hired to be on board too. Just in case. The transport is safe because a witcher is on board. The cost of the witcher is included in the price of the trip, right?” “Well, that certainly is true,” sighed the skipper. “The company won’t lose out. I know them well. This is the fifth year I sail the Delta for them from Foam to Novigrad, from Novigrad to Foam. Well, to work, witcher, sir. You go on leaning against the side and I’ll go for a stroll from prow to stern.” The mist thinned a little. Geralt extracted another letter from his bag, one he had recently received from a strange courier. He had already read it about thirty times.

Dear friend…

The witcher swore quietly, looking at the sharp, angular, even runes drawn with energetic sweeps of the pen, faultlessly reflecting the author’s mood. He felt once again the desire to try to bite his own backside in fury. When he was writing to the enchantress a month ago he had spent two nights in a row contemplating how best to begin. Finally, he had decided on “Dear friend.” Now he had his just deserts.

Dear friend, your unexpected letter – which I received not quite three years after we last saw each other – has given me much joy. My joy is all the greater as various rumours have been circulating about your sudden and violent death. It is a good thing that you have decided to disclaim them by writing to me; it is a good thing, too, that you are doing so so soon. From your letter it appears that you have lived a peaceful, wonderfully boring life, devoid of all sensation. These days such a life is a real privilege, dear friend, and I am happy that you have managed to achieve it.

I was touched by the sudden concern which you deigned to show as to my health, dear friend. I hasten with the news that, yes, I now feel well; the period of indisposition is behind me, I have dealt with the difficulties, the description of which I shall not bore you with.

It worries and troubles me very much that the unexpected present you received from Fate brings you worries. Your supposition that this requires professional help is absolutely correct. Although your description of the difficulty – quite understandably – is enigmatic, I am sure I know the Source of the problem. And I agree with your opinion that the help of yet another magician is absolutely necessary. I feel honoured to be the second to whom you turn. What have I done to deserve to be so high on your list?

Rest assured, my dear friend; and if you had the intention of supplicating the help of additional magicians, abandon it because there is no need. I leave without delay, and go to the place which you indicated in an oblique yet, to me, understandable way. It goes without saying that I leave in absolute secrecy and with great caution. I will surmise the nature of the trouble on the spot and will do all that is in my power to calm the gushing source. I shall try, in so doing, not to appear any worse than other ladies to whom you have turned, are turning or usually turn with your supplications. I am, after all, your dear friend. Your valuable friendship is too important to me to disappoint you, dear friend.

Should you, in the next few years, wish to write to me, do not hesitate for a moment. Your letters invariably give me boundless pleasure.

Your friend Yennefer

The letter smelled of lilac and gooseberries.

Geralt cursed.

He was torn from his reverie by the movement on deck and a rocking of the barge that indicated they were changing course. Some of the passengers crowded starboard. Skipper Boatbug was yelling orders from the bow; the barge was slowly and laboriously turning towards the Temerian shore, leaving the fairway and ceding right of way to two ships looming through the mist. The witcher watched with curiosity.

The first was an enormous three-masted galliass at least a hundred and forty yards long, carrying an amaranth flag with a silver eagle. Behind it, its forty oars rhythmically hard at work, glided a smaller, slim galley adorned with a black ensign with gold-red chevron.

“Ooohh, what huge dragons,” said Boatbug standing next to the witcher. “They’re pushing a heck of a wave, the way they’re ploughing the river.” “Interesting,” muttered Geralt. “The galliass is sailing under the Redanian flag but the galley is from Aedirn.” “From Aedirn, very much so,” confirmed the skipper. “And it carries the Governor of Hagge’s pennon. But note, both ships have sharp keels, near on four yards’ draught. That means they’re not sailing to Hagge itself – they wouldn’t cross the rapids and shallows up the river. They’re heading to Foam or White Bridge. And look, there are swarms of soldiers on the decks. These aren’t merchants. They’re war ships, Geralt.” “Someone important is on that galliass. They’ve set up a tent on deck.”

“That’s right, that’s how the nobles travel.” Boatbug nodded, picking his teeth with a splinter peeled from the barge’s side. “It’s safer by river. Elven commandos are roaming the forests. There’s no knowing which tree an arrow’s going to come flying from. But on the water there’s no fear. Elves, like cats, don’t like water. They prefer dwelling in brushwood…” “It’s got to be someone really important. The tent is rich.”

“That’s right, could be. Who knows, maybe King Vizimir himself is favouring the river with his presence? All sorts of people are travelling this way now… And while we’re at it, in Foam you asked me to keep my ears open in case anyone was interested in you, asking about you. Well, that weakling there, you see him?” “Don’t point, Boatbug. Who is he?”

“How should I know? Ask him yourself, he’s coming over. Just look at his stagger! And the water’s as still as a mirror, pox on it; if it were to swell just a little he’d probably be on all fours, the oaf.” The “oaf” turned out to be a short, thin man of uncertain age, dressed in a large, woollen and none-too-clean cloak pinned in place with a circular brass brooch. Its pin, clearly lost, had been replaced by a crooked nail with a flattened head. The man approached, cleared his throat and squinted with his myopic eyes.

“Hmm… Do I have the pleasure of speaking to Geralt of Rivia, the witcher?”

“Yes, sir. You do.”

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Linus Pitt, Master Tutor and Lecturer in Natural History at the Oxenfurt Academy.” “My very great pleasure.”

“Hmm… I’ve been told that you, sir, are on commission from the Malatius and Grock Company to protect this transport. Apparently from the danger of some monster attack. I wonder what this ‘monster’ could be.” “I wonder myself.” The witcher leaned against the ship’s side, gazing at the dark outline of the marshy meadows on the Temerian river bank looming in the mist. “And have come to the conclusion that I have most likely been hired as a precaution against an attack from a Scoia’tael commando force said to be roaming the vicinity. This is my sixth journey between Foam and Novigrad and no aeschna has shown itself—” “Aeschna? That’s some kind of common name. I would rather you used the scientific terminology. Hmm… aeschna… I truly do not know which species you have in mind—” “I’m thinking of a bumpy and rough-skinned monster four yards in length resembling a stump overgrown with algae and with ten paws and jaws like cut-saws.” “The description leaves a lot to be desired as regards scientific precision. Could it be one of the species of the Hyphydridae family?” “I don’t exclude the possibility,” sighed Geralt. “The aeschna, as far as I know, belongs to an exceptionally nasty family for which no name can be abusive. The thing is, Master Tutor, that apparently a member of this unsympathetic clan attacked the Company’s barge two weeks ago. Here, on the Delta, not far from where we are.” “He who says this” – Linus Pitt gave a screeching laugh – “is either an ignoramus or a liar. Nothing like that could have happened. I know the fauna of the Delta very well. The family Hyphydridae does not appear here at all. Nor do any other quite so dangerous predatory species. The considerable salinity and atypical chemical composition of the water, especially during high tide—” “During high tide,” interrupted Geralt, “when the incoming tide wave passes the Novigrad canals, there is no water – to use the word precisely – in the Delta at all. There is a liquid made up of excrement, soapsuds, oil and dead rats.” “Unfortunately, unfortunately.” The Master Tutor grew sad. “Degradation of the environment… You may not believe it, but of more than two thousand species of fish living in this river only fifty years ago, not more than nine hundred remain. It is truly sad.” They both leaned against the railing and stared into the murky green depths. The tide must have already been coming in because the stench of the water was growing stronger. The first dead rats appeared.

“The white-finned bullhead has died off completely.” Linus Pitt broke the silence. “The mullet has died, as have the snakehead, the kithara, the striped loach, the redbelly dace, the long-barbel gudgeon, the king pickerel…” At a distance of about twenty yards from the ship’s side, the water surged. For a moment, both men saw a twenty-pound or more specimen of the king pickerel swallowing a dead rat and disappearing into the depths, having gracefully flashed its tail fin.

“What was that?” The Master Tutor shuddered.

“I don’t know.” Geralt looked at the sky. “A penguin maybe?”

The scholar glanced at him and bit his lips.

“In all certainty it was not, however, your mythical aeschna! I have been told that witchers possess considerable knowledge about some rare species. But you, you not only repeat rumours and tales, you are also mocking me in a most crude manner… Are you listening to me at all?” “The mist isn’t going to lift,” said Geralt quietly.

“Huh?”

“The wind is still weak. When we sail into the arm of the river, between the islets, it will be even weaker. It is going to be misty right up to Novigrad.” “I’m not going to Novigrad. I get off at Oxenfurt,” declared Pitt dryly. “And the mist? It is surely not so thick as to render navigation impossible; what do you think?” The little boy in the feathered hat ran past them and leaned far out, trying, with his stick, to fish out a rat bouncing against the boat. Geralt approached and tore the stick from him.

“Scram. Don’t get near the side!”

“Muuuummyyyy!”

“Everett! Come here immediately!”

The Master Tutor pulled himself up and glared at the witcher with piercing eyes.

“It seems you really do believe we are in some danger?”

“Master Pitt,” said Geralt as calmly as he could, “two weeks ago something pulled two people off the deck of one of the Company’s barges. In the mist. I don’t know what it was. Maybe it was your hyphydra or whatever its name is. Maybe it was a long-barbel gudgeon. But I think it was an aeschna.” The scholar pouted. “Conjecture,” he declared, “should always be based on solid scientific foundations, not on rumours and gossip. I told you, the hyphydra, which you persist in calling an aeschna, does not appear in the waters of the Delta. It was wiped out a good half-century ago, due – incidentally – to the activity of individuals such as yourself who are prepared to kill anything that does not instantly look right, without forethought, tests, observation or considering its ecological niche.” For a moment, Geralt felt a sincere desire to tell the scholar where he could put the aeschna and its niche, but he changed his mind.

“Master Tutor,” he said calmly, “one of those pulled from the deck was a young pregnant girl. She wanted to cool her swollen feet in the water. Theoretically, her child could, one day, have become chancellor of your college. What do you have to say to such an approach to ecology?” “It is unscientific; it is emotional and subjective. Nature is governed by its own rules and although these rules are cruel and ruthless, they should not be amended. It is a struggle for survival!” The Master Tutor leaned over the railing and spat into the water. “And nothing can justify the extermination of a species, even a predatory one. What do you say to that?” “I say that it’s dangerous to lean out like that. There might be an aeschna in the vicinity. Do you want to try out the aeschna’s struggle for survival on your own skin?” Linus Pitt let go of the railing and abruptly jumped away. He turned a little pale but immediately regained his self-assurance and pursed his lips again.

“No doubt you know a great deal about these fantastical aeschna, witcher?”

“Certainly less than you. So maybe we should make use of the opportunity? Enlighten me, Master Tutor, expound a little upon your knowledge of aquatic predators. I’ll willingly listen, and the journey won’t seem so long.” “Are you making fun of me?”

“Not at all. I would honestly like to fill in the gaps in my education.”

“Hmmm… If you really… Why not? Listen then to me. The Hyphydridae family, belonging to the Amphipoda order, includes four species known to science. Two live exclusively in tropical waters. In our climate, on the other hand, one can come across – though very rarely now – the not-so-large Hyphydra longicauda and the somewhat larger Hyphydra marginata. The biotope of both species is stagnant water or water which flows very slowly. The species are, indeed, predatory, preferring to feed on warm-blooded creatures… Have you anything to add?” “Not right now. I’m listening with bated breath.”

“Yes, hmm… Mention can also be found, in the great books, of the subspecies Pseudohyphydra, which lives in the marshy waters of Angren. However, the learned Bumbler of Aldersberg recently proved that this is an entirely different species, one from the Mordidae family. It feeds exclusively on fish and small amphibians. It has been named Ichthyovorax bumbleri.” “The monster’s lucky,” smiled the witcher. “That’s the third time he was named.”

“How come?”

“The creature you’re talking about is an ilyocoris, called a cinerea in Elder Speech. And if the learned Bumbler states that it feeds exclusively on fish then I assume he has never bathed in a lake with an ilyocoris. But Bumbler is right on one account: the aeschna has as much in common with a cinerea as I do with a fox. We both like to eat duck.” “What cinerea?” The Master Tutor bridled. “The cinerea is a mythical creature! Indeed, your lack of knowledge disappoints me. Truly, I am amazed—” “I know,” interrupted Geralt. “I lose a great deal of my charm when one gets to know me better. Nevertheless I will permit myself to correct your theories a little further, Master Pitt. So, aeschnae have always lived in the Delta and continue to do so. Indeed, there was a time when it seemed that they had become extinct. For they lived off those small seals—” “River porpoises,” corrected the Master Tutor. “Don’t be an ignoramus. Don’t mistake seals for—” “—they lived off porpoises and the porpoises were killed off because they looked like seals. They provided seal-like skins and fat. Then, later, canals were dug out in the upper reaches of the river, dams and barriers built. The current grew weaker; the Delta got silted up and overgrown. And the aeschna underwent mutation. It adapted.” “Huh?”

“Humans have rebuilt its food chain. They supplied warm-blooded creatures in the place of porpoises. Sheep, cattle, swine began to be transported across the Delta. The aeschnae learned in a flash that every barge, raft or barque on the Delta was, in fact, a large platter of food.” “And the mutation? You spoke of mutation!”

“This liquid manure” – Geralt indicated the green water – “seems to suit the aeschna. It enhances its growth. The damn thing can become so large, apparently, that it can drag a cow off a raft with no effort whatsoever. Pulling a human off a deck is nothing. Especially the deck of one of these scows the Company uses to transport passengers. You can see for yourselves how low it sits in the water.” The Master Tutor quickly backed away from the ship’s side, as far as the carts and baggage allowed.

“I heard a splash!” he gasped, staring at the mist between the islets. “Witcher! I heard—” “Calm down. Apart from the splashing you can also hear oars squeaking in rowlocks. It’s the customs officers from the Redanian shore. You’ll see them in a moment and they’ll cause more of a commotion than three, or even four, aeschnae.” Boatbug ran past. He cursed obscenely as the little boy in the feathered hat got under his feet. The passengers and messengers, all extremely nervous, were going through their possessions trying to hide any smuggled goods.

After a little while, a large boat hit the side of the barge and four lively, angry and very noisy individuals jumped on board. They surrounded the skipper, bawled threateningly in an effort to make themselves and their positions seem important, then threw themselves enthusiastically at the baggage and belongings of the travellers.

“They check even before we land!” complained Boatbug, coming up to the witcher and the Master Tutor. “That’s illegal, isn’t it? After all, we’re not on Redanian soil yet. Redania is on the right bank, half a mile from here!” “No,” contradicted the Master Tutor. “The boundary between Redania and Temeria runs through the centre of the Pontar current.” “And how the shit do you measure a current? This is the Delta! Islets, shoals and skerries are constantly changing its layout – the Fairway is different every day! It’s a real curse! Hey! You little snot! Leave that boathook alone or I’ll tan your arse black and blue! Honourable lady! Watch your child! A real curse!” “Everett! Leave that alone or you’ll get dirty!”

“What’s in that chest?” shouted the customs officers. “Hey, untie that bundle! Whose is that cart? Any currency? Is there any currency, I say? Temerian or Nilfgaardian money?” “That’s what a customs war looks like,” Linus Pitt commented on the chaos with a wise expression on his face. “Vizimir forced Novigrad to introduce the ius stapulae. Foltest of Temeria retaliated with a retortive, absolute ius stapulae in Wyzima and Gors Velen. That was a great blow for Redanian merchants so Vizimir increased the tax on Temerian products. He is defending the Redanian economy. Temeria is flooded with cheap goods coming from Nilfgaardian manufactories. That’s why the customs officers are so keen. If too many Nilfgaardian goods were to cross the border, the Redanian economy would collapse. Redania has practically no manufactories and the craftsmen wouldn’t be able to cope with competition.” “In a nutshell,” smiled Geralt, “Nilfgaard is slowly taking over with its goods and gold that which it couldn’t take with arms. Isn’t Temeria defending itself? Hasn’t Foltest blocked his southern borders?” “How? The goods are coming through Mahakam, Brugge, Verden and the ports in Cidaris. Profit is all the merchants are interested in, not politics. If King Foltest were to block his borders, the merchants’ guilds would raise a terrible outcry—” “Any currency?” snarled an approaching customs officer with bloodshot eyes. “Anything to declare?” “I’m a scholar!”

“Be a prince if you like! I’m asking what you’re bringing in?”

“Leave them, Boratek,” said the leader of the group, a tall, broad-shouldered customs officer with a long, black moustache. “Don’t you recognise the witcher? Greetings, Geralt. Do you know him? Is he a scholar? So you’re going to Oxenfurt, are you, sir? With no luggage?” “Quite so. To Oxenfurt. With no luggage.”

The customs officer pulled out an enormous handkerchief and wiped his forehead, moustache and neck.

“And how’s it going today, Geralt?” he asked. “The monster show itself?”

“No. And you, Olsen, seen anything?”

“I haven’t got time to look around. I’m working.”

“My daddy,” declared Everett, creeping up without a sound, “is one of King Foltest’s knights! And he’s got an even bigger moustache than you!” “Scram, kid,” said Olsen, then sighed heavily. “Got any vodka, Geralt?”

“No.”

“But I do.” The learned man from the Academy, pulling a flat skin from his bag, surprised them all.

“And I’ve got a snack,” boasted Boatbug looming up as if from nowhere. “Smoked burbot!”

“And my daddy—”

“Scarper, little snot.”

They sat on coils of rope in the shade of the carts parked amidships, sipping from the skin and devouring the burbot in turn. Olsen had to leave them momentarily when an argument broke out. A dwarven merchant from Mahakam was demanding a lower tax and trying to convince the customs officers that the furs he was bringing in were not silver fox but exceptionally large cats. The mother of the nosey and meddlesome Everett, on the other hand, did not want to undergo an inspection at all, shrilly evoking her husband’s rank and the privileges of nobility.

The ship, trailing braids of gathered nenuphars, water lilies and pond-weed at its sides, slowly glided along the wide strait amongst shrub-covered islets. Bumble bees buzzed menacingly amongst the reeds, and tortoises whistled from time to time. Cranes, standing on one leg, gazed at the water with stoical calm, knowing there was no point in getting worked up – sooner or later a fish would swim up of its own accord.

“And what do you think, Geralt?” Boatbug uttered, licking the burbot’s skin clean. “Another quiet voyage? You know what I’d say? That monster’s no fool. It knows you’re lying in ambush. Hearken to this – at home in our village, there was a river and in that river lived an otter which would creep into the yard and strangle hens. It was so crafty that it never crept in when Father was home, or me and my brothers. It only showed up when Grandpa was left by himself. And our grandpa, hearken, was a bit feeble in the head and paralysis had taken his legs. It was as if the otter, that son-of-a-bitch, knew. Well then, one day our pa—” “Ten per cent ad valorem!” yelled the dwarven merchant from amidships, waving the fox skin about. “That’s how much I owe you and I’m not going to pay a copper more!” “Then I’ll confiscate the lot!” roared Olsen angrily. “And I’ll let the Novigrad guards know so you’ll go to the clink together with your ‘Valorem’! Boratek, charge him to the penny! Hey, have you left anything for me? Have you guzzled it down to the dregs?” “Sit down, Olsen.” Geralt made room for him on the ropes. “Stressful job you’ve got, I see.” “Ah, I’ve had it up to my ears,” sighed the customs officer, then took a swig from the skin and wiped his moustache. “I’m throwing it in, I’m going back to Aedirn. I’m an honest Vengerberger who followed his sister and brother-in-law to Redania but now I’m going back. You know what, Geralt? I’m set on enlisting in the army. They say King Demawend is recruiting for special troops. Half a year’s training in a camp and then it’s a soldier’s pay, three times what I get here, bribes included. This burbot’s too salty.” “I’ve heard about this special army,” confirmed Boatbug. “It’s getting ready for the Squirrels because the regular army can’t deal with the elven commandos. They particularly want half-elves to enlist, I hear. But that camp where they teach them to fight is real hell apparently. They leave fifty-fifty, some to get soldier’s pay, some to the burial ground, feet first.” “And so it should be,” said the customs officer. “The special army, skipper, isn’t just any old unit. It’s not some shitty shield-bearers who just need to be shown which end of the javelin pricks. A special army has to know how to fight like nobody’s business!” “So you’re such a fierce warrior, are you, Olsen? And the Squirrels, aren’t you afraid of them? That they’ll spike your arse with arrows?” “Big deal! I know how to draw a bow too. I’ve already fought Nilfgaard, so elves are nothing to me.” “They say,” Boatbug said with a shudder, “if someone falls into their hands alive, the Scoia’taels’… It’s better they hadn’t been born. They’ll be tortured horrifically.” “Ah, do yourself a favour and shut your face, skipper. You’re babbling like a woman. War is war. You whack the enemy in the backside, and they whack you back. Captured elves aren’t pampered by our men either, don’t you worry.” “The tactic of terror.” Linus Pitt threw the burbot’s head and backbone overboard. “Violence breeds violence. Hatred has grown into hearts… and has poisoned kindred blood…” “What?” Olsen grimaced. “Use a human language!”

“Hard times are upon us.”

“So they are, true,” agreed Boatbug. “There’s sure to be a great war. Every day the sky is thick with ravens, they smell the carrion already. And the seeress Ithlin foretold the end of the world. White Light will come to be, the White Chill will then follow. Or the other way round, I’ve forgotten how it goes. And people are saying signs were also visible in the sky—” “You keep an eye on the fairway, skipper, ‘stead of the sky, or this skiff of yours is going to end up in the shallows. Ah, we’re already level with Oxenfurt. Just look, you can see the Cask!” The mist was clearly less dense now so that they could see the hillocks and marshy meadows of the right bank and, rising above them, a part of the aqueduct.

“That, gentlemen, is the experimental sewage purification plant,” boasted the Master Tutor, refusing his turn to drink. “A great success for science, a great achievement for the Academy. We repaired the old elven aqueduct, canals and sediment trap and we’re already neutralising the sewers of the university, town and surrounding villages and farms. What you call the Cask is a sediment trap. A great success for science—” “Heads down, heads down!” warned Olsen, ducking behind the rail. “Last year, when that thing exploded, the shit flew as far as Crane Islet.” The barge sailed in between islands and the squat tower of the sediment trap and the aqueduct disappeared in the mist. Everyone sighed with relief.

“Aren’t you sailing straight by way of the Oxenfurt arm, Boatbug?” asked Olsen.

“I’m putting in at Acorn Bay first. To collect fish traders and merchants from the Temerian side.” “Hmm…” The customs officer scratched his neck. “At the Bay… Listen, Geralt, you aren’t in any conflict with the Temerians by any chance, are you?” “Why? Was someone asking about me?”

“You’ve guessed it. As you see, I remember you asked me to keep an eye out for anyone interested in you. Well, just imagine, the Temerian Guards have been enquiring about you. The customs officers there, with whom I have a good understanding, told me. Something smells funny here, Geralt.” “The water?” Linus Pitt was afraid, glancing nervously at the aqueduct and the great scientific success.

“That little snotrag?” Boatbug pointed to Everett who was still milling around nearby.

“I’m not talking about that.” The customs officer winced. “Listen, Geralt, the Temerian customs men said these Guards were asking strange questions. They know you sail with the Malatius and Grock barges. They asked… if you sail alone. If you have— Bloody hell, just don’t laugh! They were going on about some underage girl who has been seen in your company, apparently.” Boatbug chuckled. Linus Pitt looked at the witcher with eyes filled with the distaste which befitted someone looking at a white-haired man who has drawn the attention of the law on account of his preference for underage girls.

“That’s why,” Olsen hawked, “the Temerian customs officers thought it might be some private matters being settled, into which the Guards had been drawn. Like… Well, the girl’s family or her betrothed. So the officers cautiously asked who was behind all this. And they found out. Well, apparently it’s a nobleman with a tongue ready as a chancellor’s, neither poor nor miserly, who calls himself… Rience, or something like that. He’s got a red mark on his left cheek as if from a burn. Do you know anyone like that?” Geralt got up.

“Boatbug,” he said. “I’m disembarking in Acorn Bay.”

“How’s that? And what about the monster?”

“That’s your problem.”

“Speaking of problems,” interrupted Olsen, “just look starboard, Geralt. Speak of the devil.” From behind an island, from the swiftly lifting mist, loomed a lighter. A black burgee dotted with silver lilies fluttered lazily from its mast. The crew consisted of several men wearing the pointed hats of Temerian Guards.

Geralt quickly reached into his bag and pulled out both letters – the one from Ciri and the one from Yennefer. He swiftly tore them into tiny shreds and threw them into the river. The customs officer watched him in silence.

“Whatever are you doing, may I ask?”

“No. Boatbug, take care of my horse.”

“You want to…” Olsen frowned. “You intend to—”

“What I intend is my business. Don’t get mixed up in this or there’ll be an incident. They’re sailing under the Temerian flag.” “Bugger their flag.” The customs officer moved his cutlass to a more accessible place on his belt and wiped his enamelled gorget, an eagle on a red background, with his sleeve. “If I’m on board carrying out an inspection, then this is Redania. I will not allow—” “Olsen,” the witcher interrupted, grabbing him by the sleeve, “don’t interfere, please. The man with a burned face isn’t on the lighter. And I have to know who he is and what he wants. I’ve got to see him face to face.” “You’re going to let them put you in the stocks? Don’t be a fool! If this is a private settling of scores, privately commissioned revenge, then as soon as you get past the islet, on the Whirl, you’ll fly overboard with an anchor round your neck. You’ll be face to face all right, but it’ll be with crabs at the bottom of the river!” “They’re Temerian Guards, not bandits.”

“Is that so? Then just look at their mugs! Besides, I’ll know instantly who they really are. You’ll see.” The lighter, approaching rapidly, reached the barge. One of the Guards threw the rope over while another attached the boathook to the railing.

“I be the skipper!” Boatbug blocked the way as three men leaped on deck. “This is a ship belonging to the Malatius and Grock Company! What…” One of the men, stocky and bald, pushed him brusquely aside with his arm, thick as the branch of an oak.

“A certain Gerald, called Gerald of Rivia!” he thundered, measuring the skipper with his eyes. “Is such a one on board?” “No.”

“I am he.” The witcher stepped over the bundles and packages and drew near. “I am Geralt, and called Geralt. What is this about?” “I arrest you in the name of the law.” The bald man’s eyes skimmed over the passengers. “Where’s the girl?” “I’m alone.”

“You lie!”

“Hold it, hold it.” Olsen emerged from behind the witcher’s back and put his hand on his shoulder. “Keep calm, no shouting. You’re too late, Temerians. He has already been arrested and in the name of the law at that. I caught him. For smuggling. I’m taking him to the guardhouse in Oxenfurt according to orders.” “What’s that?” The bald man frowned. “And the girl?”

“There is no girl here, nor has there been.”

The Guards looked at each other in uncertain silence. Olsen grinned broadly and turned up his black moustache.

“You know what we’ll do?” he snorted. “Sail with us to Oxenfurt, Temerians. We and you are simple folk, how are we to know the ins and outs of law? The commandant of the Oxenfurt guardhouse is a wise and worldly man, he’ll judge the matter. You know our commandant, don’t you? Because he knows yours, the one from the Bay, very well. You’ll present your case to him… Show him your orders and seals… You do have a warrant with all the necessary seals, don’t you, eh?” The bald man just stared grimly at the customs officer.

“I don’t have the time or the inclination to go to Oxenfurt!” he suddenly bawled. “I’m taking the rogue to our shore and that’s that! Stran, Vitek! Get on with it, search the barge! Find me the girl, quick as a flash!” “One minute, slow down.” Olsen was not perturbed by the yelling and drew out his words slowly and distinctly. “You’re on the Redanian side of the Delta, Temerians. You don’t have anything to declare, by any chance, do you? Or any contraband? We’ll have a look presently. We’ll do a search. And if we do find something then you will have to take the trouble to go to Oxenfurt for a while, after all. And we, if we wish to, we can always find something. Boys! Come here!” “My daddy,” squeaked Everett all of a sudden, appearing at the bald man’s side as if from nowhere, “is a knight! He’s got an even bigger blade than you!” In a flash, the bald man caught the boy by his beaver collar and snatched him up from the deck, knocking his feathered hat off. Wrapping his arm around the boy’s waist he put the cutlass to his throat.

“Move back!” he roared. “Move back or I’ll slash the brat’s neck!”

“Evereeeeett!” howled the noblewoman.

“Curious methods,” said the witcher slowly, “you Temerian Guards use. Indeed, so curious that it makes it hard to believe you’re Guards.” “Shut your face!” yelled the bald one, shaking Everett, who was squealing like a piglet. “Stran, Vitek, get him! Fetter him and take him to the lighter! And you, move back! Where’s the girl, I’m asking you? Give her to me or I’ll slaughter this little snot!” “Slaughter him then,” drawled Olsen giving a sign to his men and pulling out his cutlass. “Is he mine or something? And when you’ve slaughtered him, we can talk.” “Don’t interfere!” Geralt threw his sword on the deck and, with a gesture, held back the customs officers and Boatbug’s sailors. “I’m yours, liar-guard, sir. Let the boy go.” “To the lighter!” The bald man retreated to the side of the barge without letting Everett go, and grabbed a rope. “Vitek, tie him up! And all of you, to the stern! If any of you move, the kid dies!” “Have you lost your mind, Geralt?” growled Olsen.

“Don’t interfere!”

“Evereeeett!”

The Temerian lighter suddenly rocked and bounced away from the barge. The water exploded with a splash and two long green, coarse paws bristling with spikes like the limbs of a praying mantis, shot out. The paws grabbed the Guard holding the boathook and, in the wink of an eye, dragged him under water. The bald Guard howled savagely, released Everett, and clung onto the ropes which dangled from the lighter’s side. Everett plopped into the already-reddening water. Everybody – those on the barge and those on the lighter – started to scream as if possessed.

Geralt tore himself away from the two men trying to bind him. He thumped one in the chin then threw him overboard. The other took a swing at the witcher with an iron hook, but faltered and drooped into Olsen’s hands with a cutlass buried to the hilt in his ribs.

The witcher leaped over the low railing. Before the water – thick with algae – closed in over his head, he heard Linus Pitt, the Lecturer of Natural History at the Academy of Oxenfurt, shout, “What is that? What species? No such animal exists!” He emerged just by the Temerian lighter, miraculously avoiding the fishing spear which one of baldy’s men was jabbing at him. The Guard didn’t have time to strike him again before he splashed into the water with an arrow in his throat. Geralt, catching hold of the dropped spear, rebounded with his legs against the side of the boat, dived into the seething whirlpool and forcefully jabbed at something, hoping it was not Everett.

“It’s impossible!” he heard the Master Tutor’s cries. “Such an animal can’t exist! At least, it shouldn’t!” I agree with that last statement entirely, thought the witcher, jabbing the aeschna’s armour, bristling with its hard bumps. The corpse of the Temerian Guard was bouncing up and down inertly in the sickle-shaped jaws of the monster, trailing blood. The aeschna swung its flat tail violently and dived to the bottom, raising clouds of silt.

He heard a thin cry. Everett, stirring the water like a little dog, had caught hold of baldy’s legs as he was trying to climb on to the lighter by the ropes hanging down the side. The ropes gave way and both the Guard and the boy disappeared with a gurgle under the surface of the water. Geralt threw himself in their direction and dived. The fact that he almost immediately came across the little boy’s beaver collar was nothing but luck. He tore Everett from the entangled algae, swam out on his back and, kicking with his legs, reached the barge.

“Here, Geralt! Here!” He heard cries and shouts, each louder than the other: “Give him here!”, “The rope! Catch hold of the rope!”, “Pooooox!”, “The rope! Geraaalt!”, “With the boathook, with the boathook!”, “My booyyyy!”.

Someone tore the boy from his arms and dragged him upwards. At the same moment, someone else caught Geralt from behind, struck him in the back of the head, covered him over with his bulk and pushed him under the water. Geralt let go of the fishing spear, turned and caught his assailant by the belt. With his other hand he tried to grab him by the hair but in vain. It was baldy.

Both men emerged, but only for an instant. The Temerian lighter had already moved a little from the barge and both Geralt and baldy, locked in an embrace, were in between them. Baldy caught Geralt by the throat; the witcher dug a thumb in his eye. The Guard yelled, let go and swam away. Geralt could not swim – something was holding him by the leg and dragging him into the depths. Next to him, half a body bounced to the surface like a cork. And then he knew what was holding him; the information Linus Pitt yelled from the barge deck was unnecessary.

“It’s an anthropod! Order Amphipoda! Group Mandibulatissimae!”

Geralt violently thrashed his arms in the water, trying to yank his leg from the aeschna’s claws as they pulled him towards the rhythmical snap of its jaws. The Master Tutor was correct once again. The jaws were anything but small.

“Grab hold of the rope!” yelled Olsen. “The rope, grab it!”

A fishing spear whistled past the witcher’s ear and plunged with a smack into the monster’s algae-ridden armour as it surfaced. Geralt caught hold of the shaft, pressed down on it, bounced forcefully away, brought his free leg in and kicked the aeschna violently. He tore himself away from the spiked paws, leaving his boot, a fair part of his trousers and a good deal of skin behind. More fishing spears and harpoons whizzed through the air, most of them missing their mark. The aeschna drew in its paws, swished its tail and gracefully dived into the green depths.

Geralt seized the rope which fell straight onto his face. The boathook, catching him painfully in the side, caught him by the belt. He felt a tug, rode upwards and, taken up by many hands, rolled over the railing and tumbled on deck dripping with water, slime, weeds and blood. The passengers, barge crew and customs officers crowded around him. Leaning over the railings, the dwarf with the fox furs and Olsen were firing their bows. Everett, wet and green with algae, his teeth clattering, sobbed in his mother’s arms explaining to everybody that he hadn’t meant to do it.

“Geralt!” Boatbug yelled at his ear, “are you dead?”

“Damn it…” The witcher spat out seaweed. “I’m too old for this sort of thing… Too old…”

Nearby, the dwarf released his bowstring and Olsen roared joyously.

“Right in the belly! Ooh-ha-ha! Great shot, my furry friend! Hey, Boratek, give him back his money! He deserves a tax reduction for that shot!” “Stop…” wheezed the witcher, attempting in vain to stand up. “Don’t kill them all, damn it! I need one of them alive!” “We’ve left one,” the customs officer assured him. “The bald one who was bickering with me. We’ve shot the rest. But baldy is over there, swimming away. I’ll fish him out right away. Give us the boathooks!” “Discovery! A great discovery!” shouted Linus Pitt, jumping up and down by the barge side. “An entirely new species unknown to science! Absolutely unique! Oh, I’m so grateful to you, witcher! As of today, this species is going to appear in books as… As Geraltia maxiliosa pitti!” “Master Tutor,” Geralt groaned, “if you really want to show me your gratitude, let that damn thing be called Everetia.” “Just as beautiful,” consented the scholar. “Oh, what a discovery! What a unique, magnificent specimen! No doubt the only one alive in the Delta—” “No,” uttered Boatbug suddenly and grimly. “Not the only one. Look!”

The carpet of water lilies adhering to the nearby islet trembled and rocked violently. They saw a wave and then an enormous, long body resembling a rotting log, swiftly paddling its many limbs and snapping its jaws. The bald man looked back, howled horrifically and swam away, stirring up the water with his arms and legs.

“What a specimen, what a specimen,” Pitt quickly noted, thrilled no end. “Prehensile cephalic limbs, four pairs of chelae… Strong tail-fan… Sharp claws…” The bald man looked back again and howled even more horribly. And the Everetia maxiliosa pitti extended its prehensile cephalic limbs and swung its tail-fan vigorously. The bald man surged the water in a desperate, hopeless attempt to escape.

“May the water be light to him,” said Olsen. But he did not remove his hat.

“My daddy,” rattled Everett with his teeth, “can swim faster than that man!”

“Take the child away,” growled the witcher.

The monster spread its claws, snapped its jaws. Linus Pitt grew pale and turned away.

Baldy shrieked briefly, choked and disappeared below the surface. The water throbbed dark red.

“Pox.” Geralt sat down heavily on the deck. “I’m too old for this sort of thing… Far, far too old…” * * *

What can be said? Dandilion simply adored the town of Oxenfurt.

The university grounds were surrounded by a wall and around this wall was another ring – that of the huge, loud, breathless, busy and noisy townlet. The wooden, colourful town of Oxenfurt with its narrow streets and pointed roofs. The town of Oxenfurt which lived off the Academy, off its students, lecturers, scholars, researchers and their guests, who lived off science and knowledge, off what accompanies the process of learning. In the town of Oxenfurt, from the by-products and chippings of theory, practice, business and profit were born.

The poet rode slowly along a muddy, crowded street, passing workshops, studios, stalls, shops small and large where, thanks to the Academy, tens of thousands of articles and wonderful things were produced and sold which were unattainable in other corners of the world where their production was considered impossible, or pointless. He passed inns, taverns, stands, huts, counters and portable grills from which floated the appetising aromas of elaborate dishes unknown elsewhere in the world, seasoned in ways not known elsewhere, with garnishes and spices neither known of nor used anywhere else. This was Oxenfurt, the colourful, joyful, noisy and sweet-smelling town of miracles into which shrewd people, full of initiative, had turned dry and useless theories drawn little by little from the university. It was also a town of amusements, constant festivities, permanent holidays and incessant revelry. Night and day the streets resounded with music, song, and the clinking of chalices and tankards, for it is well known that nothing is such thirsty work as the acquisition of knowledge. Although the chancellor’s orders forbade students and tutors to drink and play before dusk, drinking and playing took place around the clock in Oxenfurt, for it is well known that if there is anything that makes men thirstier than the acquisition of knowledge it is the full or partial prohibition of drinking.

Dandilion smacked his lips at his bay gelding and rode on, making his way through the crowds roaming the streets. Vendors, stall-holders and travelling charlatans advertised their wares and services loudly, adding to the confusion which reigned all around them.

“Squid! Roast squid!”

“Ointment for all spots’n’boils! Only sold here! Reliable, miraculous ointment!”

“Cats, mouse-catching, magic cats! Just listen, my good people, how they miaow!”

“Amulets! Elixirs! Philtres, love potions, guaranteed aphrodisiacs! One pinch and even a corpse will regain its vigour! Who’ll buy, who’ll buy?” “Teeth extracted! Almost painless! Cheap, very cheap!”

“What do you mean by cheap?” Dandilion was curious as he bit into a stick-skewered squid as tough as a boot.

“Two farthings an hour!”

The poet shuddered and spurred his gelding on. He looked back surreptitiously. Two people who had been following in his tracks since the town hall stopped at the barber-shop pretending to ponder over the price of the barber’s services displayed on a chalkboard. Dandilion did not let himself be deceived. He knew what really interested them.

He rode on. He passed the enormous building of the bawdy-house The Rosebud, where he knew refined services either unknown or simply unpopular in other corners of the world were offered. For some time his rational mind struggled against his character and that desire to enter for an hour. Reason triumphed. Dandilion sighed and rode on towards the university trying not to look in the direction of the taprooms from which issued the sounds of merriment.

Yes, what more can be said – the troubadour loved the town of Oxenfurt.

He looked around once more. The two individuals had not made use of the barber’s services, although they most certainly should have. At present they were standing outside a musical instrument shop, pretending to ponder over the clay ocarinas. The shopkeeper was falling over himself praising his goods and counting on making some money. Dandilion knew there was nothing to count on.

He directed his horse towards the Philosophers’ Gate, the main gate to the Academy. He dealt swiftly with the formalities, which consisted of signing into a guest book and someone taking his gelding to the stables.

Beyond the Philosophers’ Gate a different world greeted him. The college land was excluded from the ordinary infrastructure of town buildings; unlike the town it was not a place of dogged struggle for every square yard of space. Everything here was practically as the elves had left it. Wide lanes – laid with colourful gravel – between neat, eye-pleasing little palaces, open-work fences, walls, hedges, canals, bridges, flower-beds and green parks had been crushed in only a few places by some huge, crude mansion constructed in later, post-elven times. Everything was clean, peaceful and dignified – any kind of trade or paid service was forbidden here, not to mention entertainment or carnal pleasures.

Students, absorbed in large books and parchments, strolled along the lanes. Others, sitting on benches, lawns and in flower-beds, repeated their homework to each other, discussed or discreetly played at evens or odds, leapfrog, pile-up or other games demanding intelligence. Professors engrossed in conversation or debate also strolled here with dignity and decorum. Younger tutors milled around with their eyes glued to the backsides of female students. Dandilion ascertained with joy that, since his day, nothing had changed in the Academy.

A breeze swept in from the Delta carrying the faint scent of the sea and the somewhat stronger stink of hydrogen sulphide from the direction of the grand edifice of the Department of Alchemy which towered above the canal. Grey and yellow linnets warbled amongst the shrubs in the park adjacent to the students’ dormitories, while an orang-utan sat in the poplar having, no doubt, escaped from the zoological gardens in the Department of Natural History.

Not wasting any time, the poet marched briskly through the labyrinth of lanes and hedges. He knew the University grounds like the back of his hand – and no wonder, considering he had studied there for four years, then had lectured for a year in the Faculty of Trouvereship and Poetry. The post of lecturer had been offered to him when he had passed his final exams with full marks, to the astonishment of professors with whom he had earned the reputation of lazybones, rake and idiot during his studies. Then, when, after several years of roaming around the country with his lute, his fame as a minstrel had spread far and wide, the Academy had taken great pains to have him visit and give guest lectures. Dandilion yielded to their requests only sporadically, for his love of wandering was constantly at odds with his predilection for comfort, luxury and a regular income. And also, of course, with his liking for the town of Oxenfurt.

He looked back. The two individuals, not having purchased any ocarinas, pipes or violins, strode behind him at a distance, paying great attention to the treetops and façades.

Whistling lightheartedly the poet changed direction and made towards the mansion which housed the Faculty of Medicine and Herbology. The lane leading to the faculty swarmed with female students wearing characteristic pale green cloaks. Dandilion searched intently for familiar faces.

“Shani!”

A young medical student with dark red hair cropped just below her ears raised her head from a volume on anatomy and got up from her bench.

“Dandilion!” She smiled, squinting her happy, hazel eyes. “I haven’t seen you for years! Come on, I’ll introduce you to my friends. They adore your poems—” “Later,” muttered the bard. “Look discreetly over there, Shani. See those two?”

“Snoops.” The medical student wrinkled her upturned nose and snorted, amazing Dandilion – not for the first time – with how easily students could recognise secret agents, spies and informers. Students’ aversion to the secret service was legendary, if not very rational. The university grounds were extraterritorial and sacred, and students and lecturers were untouchable while there – and the service, although it snooped, did not dare to bother or annoy academics.

“They’ve been following me since the market place,” said Dandilion, pretending to embrace and flirt with the medical student. “Will you do something for me, Shani?” “Depends what.” The girl tossed her shapely neck like a frightened deer. “If you’ve got yourself into something stupid again…” “No, no,” he quickly reassured her. “I only want to pass on some information and can’t do it myself with these shits stuck to my heels—” “Shall I call the lads? I’ve only got to shout and you’ll have those snoops off your back.” “Oh, come on. You want a riot to break out? The row over the bench ghetto for non-humans has just about ended and you can’t wait for more trouble? Besides, I loathe violence. I’ll manage the snoops. However, if you could…” He brought his lips closer to the girl’s hair and took a while to whisper something. Shani’s eyes opened wide.

“A witcher? A real witcher?”

“Quiet, for the love of gods. Will you do that, Shani?”

“Of course.” The medical student smiled readily. “Just out of curiosity to see, close up, the famous—” “Quieter, I asked you. Only remember: not a word to anyone.”

“A physician’s secret.” Shani smiled even more beautifully and Dandilion was once more filled with the desire to finally compose a ballad about girls like her – not too pretty but nonetheless beautiful, girls of whom one dreams at night when those of classical beauty are forgotten after five minutes.

“Thank you, Shani.”

“It’s nothing, Dandilion. See you later. Take care.”

Duly kissing each other’s cheeks, the bard and the medical student briskly moved off in opposite directions – she towards the faculty, he towards Thinkers’ Park.

He passed the modern, gloomy Faculty of Technology building, dubbed the “Deus ex machina” by the students, and turned on to Guildenstern Bridge. He did not get far. Two people lurked around a corner in the lane, by the flowerbed with a bronze bust of the first chancellor of the Academy, Nicodemus de Boot. As was the habit of all snoops in the world, they avoided meeting others’ eyes and, like all snoops in the world, they had coarse, pale faces. These they tried very hard to furnish with an intelligent expression, thanks to which they resembled demented monkeys.

“Greetings from Dijkstra,” said one of the spies. “We’re off.”

“Likewise,” the bard replied impudently. “Off you go.”

The spies looked at each other then, rooted to the spot, fixed their eyes on an obscene word which someone had scribbled in charcoal on the plinth supporting the chancellor’s bust. Dandilion sighed.

“Just as I thought,” he said, adjusting the lute on his shoulder. “So am I going to be irrevocably forced to accompany you somewhere, gentlemen? Too bad. Let’s go then. You go first, I’ll follow. In this particular instance, age may go before beauty.” * * *

Dijkstra, head of King Vizimir of Redania’s secret service, did not resemble a spy. He was far from the stereotype which dictated that a spy should be short, thin, rat-like, and have piercing eyes forever casting furtive glances from beneath a black hood. Dijkstra, as Dandilion knew, never wore hoods and had a decided preference for bright coloured clothing. He was almost seven foot tall and probably only weighed a little under two quintals. When he crossed his arms over his chest – which he did with habitual pleasure – it looked as if two cachalots had prostrated themselves over a whale. As far as his features, hair colour and complexion were concerned, he looked like a freshly scrubbed pig. Dandilion knew very few people whose appearance was as deceptive as Dijkstra’s – because this porky giant who gave the impression of being a sleepy, sluggish moron, possessed an exceptionally keen mind. And considerable authority. A popular saying at King Vizimir’s court held that if Dijkstra states it is noon yet darkness reigns all around, it is time to start worrying about the fate of the sun.

At present, however, the poet had other reasons to worry.

“Dandilion,” said Dijkstra sleepily, crossing the cachalots over the whale, “you thick-headed halfwit. You unmitigated dunce. Do you have to spoil everything you touch? Couldn’t you, just once in your life, do something right? I know you can’t think for yourself. I know you’re almost forty, look almost thirty, think you’re just over twenty and act as though you’re barely ten. And being aware of this, I usually furnish you with precise instructions. I tell you what you have to do, when you have to do it and how you’re to go about it. And I regularly get the impression that I’m talking to a stone wall.” “I, on the other hand,” retorted the poet, feigning insolence, “regularly have the impression that you talk simply to exercise your lips and tongue. So get to the point, and eliminate the figures of speech and fruitless rhetoric. What are you getting at this time?” They were sitting at a large oak table amongst bookshelves crammed with volumes and piled with rolls of parchment, on the top floor of the vice-chancellor’s offices, in leased quarters which Dijkstra had amusingly named the Faculty of Most Contemporary History and Dandilion called the Faculty of Comparative Spying and Applied Sabotage. There were, including the poet, four present – apart from Dijkstra, two other people took part in the conversation. One of these was, as usual, Ori Reuven, the aged and eternally sniffing secretary to the chief of Redanian spies. The other was no ordinary person.

“You know very well what I’m getting at,” Dijkstra replied coldly. “However, since you clearly enjoy playing the idiot I won’t spoil your game and will explain using simple words. Or maybe you’d like to make use of this privilege, Philippa?” Dandilion glanced at the fourth person present at the meeting, who until then had remained silent. Philippa Eilhart must have only recently arrived in Oxenfurt, or was perhaps intending to leave at once, since she wore neither a dress nor her favourite black agate jewellery nor any sharp make-up. She was wearing a man’s short jacket, leggings and high boots – a “field” outfit as the poet called it. The enchantress’s dark hair, usually loose and worn in a picturesque mess, was brushed smooth and tied back at the nape of her neck.

“Let’s not waste time,” she said, raising her even eyebrows. “Dandilion’s right. We can spare ourselves the rhetoric and slick eloquence which leads nowhere when the matter at hand is so simple and trivial.” “Ah, even so.” Dijkstra smiled. “Trivial. A dangerous Nilfgaardian agent, who could now be trivially locked away in my deepest dungeon in Tretogor, has trivially escaped, trivially warned and frightened away by the trivial stupidity of two gentlemen known as Dandilion and Geralt. I’ve seen people wander to the scaffolds over lesser trivialities. Why didn’t you inform me about your ambush, Dandilion? Did I not instruct you to keep me informed about all the witcher’s intentions?” “I didn’t know anything about Geralt’s plans,” Dandilion lied with conviction. “I told you that he went to Temeria and Sodden to hunt down this Rience. I also told you that he had returned. I was convinced he had given up. Rience had literally dissolved into thin air, the witcher didn’t find the slightest trail, and this – if you remember – I also told you—” “You lied,” stated the spy coldly. “The witcher did find Rience’s trail. In the form of corpses. That’s when he decided to change his tactics. Instead of chasing Rience, he decided to wait for Rience to find him. He signed up to the Malatius and Grock Company barges as an escort. He did so intentionally. He knew that the Company would advertise it far and wide, that Rience would hear of it and then venture to try something. And so Rience did. The strange, elusive Master Rience. The insolent, self-assured Master Rience who does not even bother to use aliases or false names. Master Rience who, from a mile off, smells of Nilfgaardian chimney smoke. And of being a renegade sorcerer. Isn’t that right, Philippa?” The magician neither affirmed nor denied it. She remained silent, watching Dandilion closely and intently. The poet lowered his eyes and hawked hesitantly. He did not like such gazes.

Dandilion divided women – including magicians – into very likeable, likeable, unlikeable and very unlikeable. The very likeable reacted to the proposition of being bedded with joyful acquiescence, the likeable with a happy smile. The unlikeable reacted unpredictably. The very unlikeable were counted by the troubadour to be those to whom the very thought of presenting such a proposition made his back go strangely cold and his knees shake.

Philippa Eilhart, although very attractive, was decidedly very unlikeable.

Apart from that, Philippa Eilhart was an important figure in the Council of Wizards, and King Vizimir’s trusted court magician. She was a very talented enchantress. Word had it that she was one of the few to have mastered the art of polymorphy. She looked thirty. In truth she was probably no less than three hundred years old.

Dijkstra, locking his chubby fingers together over his belly, twiddled his thumbs. Philippa remained silent. Ori Reuven coughed, sniffed and wriggled, constantly adjusting his generous toga. His toga resembled a professor’s but did not look as if it had been presented by a senate. It looked more as if it had been found on a rubbish heap.

“Your witcher, however,” suddenly snarled the spy, “underestimated Master Rience. He set a trap but – demonstrating a complete lack of common sense – banked on Rience troubling himself to come in person. Rience, according to the witcher’s plan, was to feel safe. Rience wasn’t to smell a trap anywhere, wasn’t to spy Master Dijkstra’s subordinates lying in wait for him. Because, on the witcher’s instructions, Master Dandilion had not squealed to Master Dijkstra about the planned ambush. But according to the instructions received, Master Dandilion was duty bound to do so. Master Dandilion had clear, explicit instructions in this matter which he deigned to ignore.” “I am not one of your subordinates.” The poet puffed up with pride. “And I don’t have to comply with your instructions and orders. I help you sometimes but I do so out of my own free will, from patriotic duty, so as not to stand by idly in face of the approaching changes—” “You spy for anyone who pays you,” Dijkstra interrupted coldly. “You inform on anyone who has something on you. And I’ve got a few pretty good things on you, Dandilion. So don’t be saucy.” “I won’t give in to blackmail!”

“Shall we bet on it?”

“Gentlemen.” Philippa Eilhart raised her hand. “Let’s be serious, if you please. Let’s not be diverted from the matter in hand.” “Quite right.” The spy sprawled out in the armchair. “Listen, poet. What’s done is done. Rience has been warned and won’t be duped a second time. But I can’t let anything like this happen in the future. That’s why I want to see the witcher. Bring him to me. Stop wandering around town trying to lose my agents. Go straight to Geralt and bring him here, to the faculty. I have to talk to him. Personally, and without witnesses. Without the noise and publicity which would arise if I were to arrest the witcher. Bring him to me, Dandilion. That’s all I require of you at present.” “Geralt has left,” the bard lied calmly. Dijkstra glanced at the magician. Dandilion, expecting an impulse to sound out his mind, tensed but he did not feel anything. Philippa was watching him, her eyes narrowed, but nothing indicated that she was using spells to verify his truthfulness.

“Then I’ll wait until he’s back,” sighed Dijkstra, pretending to believe him. “The matter I want to see him about is important so I’ll make some changes to my schedule and wait for the witcher. When he’s back, bring him here. The sooner the better. Better for many people.” “There might be a few difficulties,” Dandilion grimaced, “in convincing Geralt to come here. He – just imagine it – harbours an inexplicable aversion to spies. Although to all intents and purposes he seems to understand it is a job like any other, he feels repulsion for those who execute it. Patriotic reasons, he’s wont to say, are one thing, but the spying profession attracts only out-and-out scoundrels and the lowest—” “Enough, enough.” Dijkstra waved his hand carelessly. “No platitudes, please, platitudes bore me. They’re so crude.” “I think so, too,” snorted the troubadour. “But the witcher’s a simple soul, a straightforward honest simpleton in his judgement, nothing like us men-of-the-world. He simply despises spies and won’t want to talk to you for anything in the world, and as for helping the secret services, there’s no question about it. And you haven’t got anything on him.” “You’re mistaken,” said the spy. “I do. More than one thing. But for the time being that brawl on the barge near Acorn Bay is enough. You know who those men who came on board were? They weren’t Rience’s men.” “That’s not news to me,” said the poet casually. “I’m sure they were a few scoundrels of the likes of which there is no shortage in the Temerian Guards. Rience has been asking about the witcher and no doubt offering a nice sum for any news about him. It’s obvious that the witcher is very important to him. So a few crafty dogs tried to grab Geralt, bury him in some cave and then sell him to Rience, dictating their conditions and trying to bargain as much out of him as possible. Because they would have got very little, if anything at all, for mere information.” “My congratulations on such perspicacity. The witcher’s, of course, not yours – it would never have occurred to you. But the matter is more complex than you think. My colleagues, men belonging to King Foltest’s secret service, are also, as it turns out, interested in Master Rience. They saw through the plan of those – as you called them – crafty dogs. It is they who boarded the barge, they who wanted to grab the witcher. Perhaps as bait for Rience, perhaps for a different end. At Acorn Bay, Dandilion, the witcher killed Temerian agents. Their chief is very, very angry. You say Geralt has left? I hope he hasn’t gone to Temeria. He might never return.” “And that’s what you have on him?”

“Indeed. That’s what I have. I can pacify the Temerians. But not for nothing. Where has the witcher gone, Dandilion?” “Novigrad,” the troubadour lied without thinking. “He went to look for Rience there.”

“A mistake, a mistake,” smiled the spy, pretending not to have caught the lie. “You see what a shame it is he didn’t overcome his repulsion and get in touch with me. I’d have saved him the effort. Rience isn’t in Novigrad. Whereas there’s no end of Temerian agents there. Probably all waiting for the witcher. They’ve caught on to something I’ve known for a long time. Namely, that Geralt, the witcher from Rivia, can answer all kinds of questions if he’s asked in the right manner. Questions which the secret services of each of the Four Kingdoms are beginning to ask themselves. The arrangement is simple: the witcher comes here, to the department, and gives me the answers to these questions. And he’ll be left in peace. I’ll calm the Temerians and guarantee his safety.” “What questions are you talking about? Maybe I can answer them?”

“Don’t make me laugh, Dandilion.”

“Yet,” Philippa Eilhart said suddenly, “perhaps he can? Maybe he can save us time? Don’t forget, Dijkstra, our poet is mixed up to his ears in this affair and we’ve got him here but we haven’t got the witcher. Where is the child seen with Geralt in Kaedwen? The girl with ashen hair and green eyes? The one Rience asked you about back in Temeria when he caught and tortured you? Eh, Dandilion? What do you know about the girl? Where has the witcher hidden her? Where did Yennefer go when she received Geralt’s letter? Where is Triss Merigold hiding, and why is she hiding?” Dijkstra did not stir, but his swift glance at the magician showed Dandilion that the spy was taken aback. The questions Philippa had raised had clearly been asked too soon. And directed to the wrong person. The questions appeared rash and careless. The trouble was that Philippa Eilhart could be accused of anything but rashness and carelessness.

“I’m very sorry,” he said slowly, “but I don’t know the answer to any of the questions. I’d help you if I could. But I can’t.” Philippa looked him straight in the eyes.

“Dandilion,” she drawled. “If you know where that girl is, tell us. I assure you that all that I and Dijkstra care about is her safety. Safety which is being threatened.” “I have no doubt,” lied the poet, “that’s all you care about. But I really don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never seen the child you’re so interested in. And Geralt—” “Geralt,” interrupted Dijkstra, “never confided in you, never said a word even though, no doubt, you inundated him with questions. Why do you think that might be, Dandilion? Could it be that this simple soul, this simpleton who despises spies, sensed who you really are? Leave him alone, Philippa, it’s a waste of time. He knows shit-all, don’t be taken in by his cocksure expressions and ambiguous smirks. He can help us in only one way. When the witcher emerges from his hide-out, he’ll get in touch with him, no one else. Just imagine, he considers him to be a friend.” Dandilion slowly raised his head.

“Indeed,” he confirmed. “He considers me to be such. And just imagine, Dijkstra, that it’s not without reason. Finally accept the fact and draw your conclusions. Have you drawn them? Right, so now you can try blackmail.” “Well, well,” smiled the spy. “How touchy you are on that point. But don’t sulk, poet. I was joking. Blackmail between us comrades? Out of the question. And believe me, I don’t wish that witcher of yours any ill nor am I thinking of harming him. Who knows – maybe I’ll even come to some understanding with him, to the advantage of us both? But in order for that to happen I’ve got to see him. When he appears, bring him to me. I ask you sincerely, Dandilion, very sincerely. Have you understood how sincerely?” The troubadour snorted. “I’ve understood how sincerely.”

“I’d like to believe that’s true. Well, go now. Ori, show our troubadour to the door.”

“Take care.” Dandilion got to his feet. “I wish you luck in your work and your personal life. My regards, Philippa. Oh, and Dijkstra! Those agents traipsing after me. Call them off.” “Of course,” lied the spy. “I’ll call them off. Is it possible you don’t believe me?”

“Nothing of the kind,” lied the poet. “I believe you.”

Dandilion stayed on the Academy premises until evening. He kept looking around attentively but didn’t spot any snoops following him. And that was precisely what worried him most.

At the Faculty of Trouvereship he listened to a lecture on classical poetry. Then he slept sweetly through a seminar on modern poetry. He was woken up by some tutors he knew and together they went to the Department of Philosophy to take part in a long-enduring stormy dispute on “The essence and origins of life.” Before it had even grown dark, half of the participants were outright drunk while the rest were preparing for blows, out-shouting each other and creating a hullabaloo hard to describe. All this proved handy for the poet.

He slipped unseen into the garret, clambered out by the window vent, slid down by way of the gutter onto the roof of the library, and – nearly breaking his leg – jumped across onto the roof of the dissecting theatre. From there he got into the garden adjacent to the wall. Amidst the dense gooseberry bushes he found a hole which he himself had made bigger when a student. Beyond the hole lay the town of Oxenfurt.

He merged into the crowd, then quickly sneaked down the backstreets, dodging like a hare chased by hounds. When he reached the coach house he waited a good half hour, hidden in the shadows. Not spotting anything suspicious, he climbed the ladder to the thatch and leaped onto the roof of the house belonging to Wolfgang Amadeus Goatbeard, a brewer he knew. Gripping the moss-covered roof tiles, he finally arrived at the window of the attic he was aiming for. An oil lamp was burning inside the little room. Perched precariously on the guttering, Dandilion knocked on the lead frames. The window was not locked and gave way at the slightest push.

“Geralt! Hey, Geralt!”

“Dandilion? Wait… Don’t come in, please…”

“What’s that, don’t come in? What do you mean, don’t come in?” The poet pushed the window. “You’re not alone or what? Are you bedding someone right now?” Neither receiving nor waiting for an answer he clambered onto the sill, knocking over the apples and onions lying on it.

“Geralt…” he panted and immediately fell silent. Then cursed under his breath, staring at the light green robes of a medical student strewn across the floor. He opened his mouth in astonishment and cursed once more. He could have expected anything. But not this.

“Shani.” He shook his head. “May the—”

“No comments, thank you very much.” The witcher sat down on the bed. And Shani covered herself, yanking the sheet right up to her upturned nose.

“Well, come in then.” Geralt reached for his trousers. “Since you’re coming by way of the window, this must be important. Because if it isn’t I’m going to throw you straight back out through it.” Dandilion clambered off the sill, knocking down the rest of the onions. He sat down, pulling the high-backed, wooden chair closer with his foot. The witcher gathered Shani’s clothes and his own from the floor. He looked abashed and dressed in silence. The medical student, hiding behind him, was struggling with her shirt. The poet watched her insolently, searching in his mind for similes and rhymes for the golden colour of her skin in the light of the oil lamp and the curves of her small breasts.

“What’s this about, Dandilion?” The witcher fastened the buckles on his boots. “Go on.”

“Pack your bags,” he replied dryly. “Your departure is imminent.”

“How imminent?”

“Exceptionally.”

“Shani…” Geralt cleared his throat. “Shani told me about the snoops following you. You lost them, I understand?” “You don’t understand anything.”

“Rience?”

“Worse.”

“In that case I really don’t understand… Wait. The Redanians? Tretogor? Dijkstra?”

“You’ve guessed.”

“That’s still no reason—”

“It’s reason enough,” interrupted Dandilion. “They’re not concerned about Rience any more, Geralt. They’re after the girl and Yennefer. Dijkstra wants to know where they are. He’s going to force you to disclose it to him. Do you understand now?” “I do now. And so we’re fleeing. Does it have to be through the window?”

“Absolutely. Shani? Will you manage?”

The student of medicine smoothed down her robe.

“It won’t be my first window.”

“I was sure of that.” The poet scrutinised her intently, counting on seeing a blush worthy of rhyme and metaphor. He miscalculated. Mirth in her hazel eyes and an impudent smile were all he saw.

A big grey owl glided down to the sill without a sound. Shani cried out quietly. Geralt reached for his sword.

“Don’t be silly, Philippa,” said Dandilion.

The owl disappeared and Philippa Eilhart appeared in its place, squatting awkwardly. The magician immediately jumped into the room, smoothing down her hair and clothes.

“Good evening,” she said coldly. “Introduce me, Dandilion.”

“Geralt of Rivia. Shani of Medicine. And that owl which so craftily flew in my tracks is no owl. This is Philippa Eilhart from the Council of Wizards, at present in King Vizimir’s service and pride of the Tretogor court. It’s a shame we’ve only got one chair in here.” “It’s quite enough.” The enchantress made herself comfortable in the high-backed chair vacated by Dandilion, and cast a smouldering glance over those present, fixing her eyes somewhat longer on Shani. The medical student, to Dandilion’s surprise, suddenly blushed.

“In principle, what I’ve come about is the sole concern of Geralt of Rivia,” Philippa began after a short pause. “I’m aware, however, that to ask anybody to leave would be tactless, and so…” “I can leave,” said Shani hesitantly.

“You can’t,” muttered Geralt. “No one can until the situation’s made clear. Isn’t that so, my lady?” “Philippa to you,” smiled the enchantress. “Let’s throw formalities aside. And no one has to go – no one’s presence bothers me. Astonishes me, at most, but what to do? – life is an endless train of surprises… as one of my friends says… As our mutual friend says, Geralt. You’re studying medicine, are you, Shani? What year?” “Third,” grunted the girl.

“Ah,” Philippa Eilhart was looking not at her but at the witcher, “seventeen, what a beautiful age. Yennefer would give a lot to be that age again. What do you reckon, Geralt? Because I’ll ask her when I get the chance.” The witcher smiled nastily.

“I’ve no doubt you will ask. I’ve no doubt you’ll follow the question with a commentary. I’ve no doubt it’ll amuse you no end. Now come to the point, please.” “Quite right.” The magician nodded, growing serious. “It’s high time. And you haven’t got much time. Dandilion has, no doubt, already informed you that Dijkstra has suddenly acquired the wish to see and talk to you to establish the location of a certain girl. Dijkstra has orders from King Vizimir in this matter and so I think he will be very insistent that you reveal this place to him.” “Of course. Thank you for the warning. Only one thing puzzles me a little. You say Dijkstra received instructions from the king. And you didn’t receive any? After all, you hold a prominent seat in Vizimir’s council.” “Indeed.” The magician was not perturbed by the gibe. “I do. I take my responsibilities seriously, and they consist of warning the king against making mistakes. Sometimes – as in this particular instance – I am not allowed to tell the king outright that he is committing a mistake, or to dissuade him from a hasty action. I simply have to render it impossible for him to make a mistake. You understand what I’m saying?” The witcher confirmed with a nod. Dandilion wondered whether he really did understand, because he knew that Philippa was lying through her teeth.

“So I see,” said Geralt slowly, proving that he understood perfectly well, “that the Council of Wizards is also interested in my ward. The wizards wish to find out where my ward is. And they want to get to her before Vizimir or anybody else does. Why, Philippa? What is it about my ward? What makes her so very interesting?” The magician’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you know?” she hissed. “Do you know so little about her? I wouldn’t like to draw any hasty conclusions but such a lack of knowledge would indicate that your qualifications as her guardian amount to nothing. In truth, I’m surprised that being so unaware and so lacking in information, you decided to look after her. And not only that – you decided to deny the right to look after her to others, others who have both the qualifications and the right. And, on top of that, you ask why? Careful, Geralt, or your arrogance will be the end of you. Watch out. And guard that child, damn it! Guard that girl as though she’s the apple of your eye! And if you can’t do so yourself, ask others to!” For a moment Dandilion thought the witcher was going to mention the role undertaken by Yennefer. He would not be risking anything, and would flatten Philippa’s arguments. But Geralt said nothing. The poet guessed why. Philippa knew everything. Philippa was warning him. And the witcher understood her warning.

He concentrated on observing their eyes and faces, wondering whether by any chance something in the past had tied the two together. Dandilion knew that similar duels of words and allusions – demonstrating a mutual fascination – waged between the witcher and enchantresses very often ended in bed. But observation, as usual, gave him nothing. There was only one way to find out whether something had tied the witcher to anyone – one had to enter through the window at the appropriate moment.

“To look after someone,” the enchantress continued after a while, “means to take upon oneself the responsibility for the safety of a person unable to assure that safety for herself. If you expose your ward… If she comes to any misfortune, the responsibility falls on you, Geralt. Only you.” “I know.”

“I’m afraid you still know too little.”

“So enlighten me. What makes so many people suddenly want to free me from the burden of that responsibility, want to take on my duties and care for my ward? What does the Council of Wizards want from Ciri? What do Dijkstra and King Vizimir want from her? What do the Temerians want from her? What does a certain Rience, who has already murdered three people in Sodden and Temeria who were in touch with me and the girl two years ago, want from her? Who almost murdered Dandilion trying to extract information about her? Who is this Rience, Philippa?” “I don’t know,” said the magician. “I don’t know who Rience is. But, like you, I’d very much like to find out.” “Does this Rience –” Shani unexpectedly – “have a third-degree burn on his face? If so, then I know who he is. And I know where he is.” In the silence which fell the first drops of rain knocked on the gutter outside the window.

Murder is always murder, regardless of motive or circumstance. Thus those who murder or who prepare to murder are malefactors and criminals, regardless of who they may be: kings, princes, marshals or judges. None who contemplates and commits violence has the right to consider himself better than an ordinary criminal. Because it is in the nature of all violence to lead inevitably to crime.

Nicodemus de Boot, Meditations on Life, Happiness and Prosperity