A Little Sacrifice 2

II

‘Ah well,’ Dandelion said. ‘Pity I couldn’t sail with you, but what could I do? Sailing makes me puke like nobody’s business. But you know what, I’ve never spoken to a mermaid. It’s a shame, dammit.’ ‘I know you,’ Geralt said, fastening his saddle bags. ‘You’ll write a ballad anyway.’

‘Never fear. I already have the first stanzas. In my ballad the mermaid will sacrifice herself for the duke, she’ll exchange her fishtail for slender legs, but will pay for it by losing her voice. The duke will betray her, abandon her, and then she’ll perish from grief, and turn into foam, when the first rays of sunshine…’ ‘Who’d believe such rot?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Dandelion snorted. ‘Ballads aren’t written to be believed. They are written to move their audience. But why am I talking to you about this, when you know bugger all about it? You’d better tell me how much Agloval paid you.’ ‘He didn’t pay me anything. He claimed I had failed to carry out the task. That he had expected something else, and he pays for results, not good intentions.’ Dandelion shook his head, took off his bonnet and looked at the Witcher with a forlorn grimace on his mouth.

‘You mean we still don’t have any money?’

‘So it would seem.’

Dandelion made an even more forlorn face.

‘It’s all my fault,’ he moaned. ‘I’m to blame for it all. Geralt, are you angry at me?’

No, the Witcher wasn’t angry at Dandelion. Not at all.

There was no doubt Dandelion was to blame for what had befallen them. He had insisted they went to the fair at Four Maples. Organising festivities, the poet argued, satisfied people’s profound and natural needs. From time to time, the bard maintained, a chap has to meet other people in a place where he can have a laugh and a singsong, gorge himself on kebabs and pierogis, drink beer, listen to music and squeeze a girl as he swung her around in the dance. If every chap wanted to satisfy those needs, Dandelion argued, individually, periodically and randomly, an indescribable mess would arise. For that reason holidays and festivities were invented. And since holidays and festivities exist, a chap ought to frequent them.

Geralt did not challenge this, although taking part in festivities occupied a very low position on the list of his own profound and natural needs. Nonetheless, he agreed to accompany Dandelion, for he was counting on obtaining information from the gathered concentration of people about a possible mission or job; he’d had no work for a long time and his cash reserves had shrunk alarmingly.

The Witcher did not bear Dandelion a grudge for provoking the Rangers of the Forest. He was not innocent either; for he could have intervened and held the bard back. He did not, however, for he could not stand the infamous Guardians of the Forest, known as the Rangers, a volunteer force whose mission was to eradicate non-humans. It had annoyed him to hear their boasts about elves, spriggans and eerie wives bristling with arrows, butchered or hanged. Dandelion, though, who after travelling for some time with the Witcher had become convinced of his impunity from retaliation, had surpassed himself. Initially, the Rangers had not reacted to his mockery, taunts or filthy suggestions, which aroused the thunderous laughter of the watching villagers. When, however, Dandelion sang a hastily-composed obscene and abusive couplet, ending with the words: ‘If you want to be a nothing, be a Ranger,’ an argument and then a fierce, mass punch-up broke out. The shed serving as the dancehall went up in smoke. Intervention came in the form of a squad of men belonging to Castellan Budibog, also known as the Emptyheaded, on whose estates lay Four Maples. The Rangers, Dandelion and Geralt were found jointly guilty of all the damage and offences, which included the seduction of a red-headed and mute girl, who was found in the bushes behind the barn following the incident, blushing and grinning foolishly, with her shift torn up to her armpits. Fortunately, Castellan Budibog knew Dandelion, so it ended with a fine being paid, which nonetheless ate up all the money they had. They also had to flee from Four Maples as fast as they could ride, because the Rangers, who had been chased out of the village, were threatening revenge, and an entire squad of them, numbering over forty men, was hunting rusalkas in the neighbouring forests. Geralt did not have the slightest desire to be hit by one of the Rangers’ arrows, whose heads were barbed like harpoons and inflicted dreadful injuries.

So they had to abandon their original plan, which had involved doing the rounds of the villages on the edge of the forest, where the Witcher had reasonable prospects of work. Instead they rode to Bremervoord, on the coast. Unfortunately, apart from the love affair between Duke Agloval and the mermaid Sh’eenaz, which offered small chances of success, the Witcher had failed to find a job. They had already sold Geralt’s gold signet for food, and an alexandrite brooch the troubadour had once been given as a souvenir by one of his numerous paramours. Things were tight. But no, the Witcher was not angry with Dandelion.

‘No, Dandelion,’ he said. ‘I’m not angry with you.’

Dandelion did not believe him, which was quite apparent by the fact that he kept quiet. Dandelion was seldom quiet. He patted his horse’s neck, and fished around in his saddlebags for the umpteenth time. Geralt knew he would not find anything there they could sell. The smell of food, borne on a breeze from a nearby tavern, was becoming unbearable.

‘Master?’ somebody shouted. ‘Hey, master!’

‘Yes?’ Geralt said, turning around. A big-bellied, well-built man in felt boots and a heavy fur-lined, wolf-skin coat clambered out of a cart pulled by a pair of onagers which had just stopped alongside.

‘Erm… that is,’ the paunchy man said, embarrassed, walking over, ‘I didn’t mean you, sir, I meant… I meant Master Dandelion…’ ‘It is I.’ The poet proudly sat up straight, adjusting his bonnet bearing an egret feather. ‘What is your need, my good man?’ ‘Begging your pardon,’ the paunchy man said. ‘I am Teleri Drouhard, spice merchant and dean of our local Guild. My son, Gaspard, has just plighted his troth to Dalia, the daughter of Mestvin, the cog skipper.’ ‘Ha,’ Dandelion said, maintaining a haughty air. ‘I offer my congratulations and extend my wishes of happiness to the betrothed couple. How may I be of help? Does it concern jus primae noctis? I never decline that.’ ‘Hey? No… that is… You see, the betrothal banquet and ball are this evening. Since it got out that you, master, have come to Bremervoord, my wife won’t let up–just like a woman. Listen, she says, Teleri, we’ll show everybody we aren’t churls like them, that we stand for culture and art. That when we have a feast, it’s refined, and not an excuse to get pissed and throw up. I says to her, silly moo, but we’ve already hired one bard, won’t that suffice? And she says one is too few, ho-ho, Master Dandelion, well, I never, such a celebrity, that’ll be one in the eye for our neighbours. Master? Do us the honour… I’m prepared to give five-and-twenty talars, as a gesture, naturally–to show my support for the arts—’ ‘Do my ears deceive me?’ Dandelion drawled. ‘I, I am to be the second bard? An appendix to some other musician? I? I have not sunk so low, my dear sir, as to accompany somebody!’ Drouhard blushed.

‘Forgive me, master,’ he gibbered. ‘That isn’t what I meant… It was my wife… Forgive me… Do us the honour…’ ‘Dandelion,’ Geralt hissed softly, ‘don’t put on airs. We need those few pennies.’

‘Don’t try to teach me!’ the poet yelled. ‘Me, putting on airs? Me? Look at him! What should I say about you, who rejects a lucrative proposition every other day? You won’t kill hirikkas, because they’re an endangered species, or mecopterans, because they’re harmless, or night spirits, because they’re sweet, or dragons, because your code forbids it. I, just imagine it, also have my self-respect! I also have a code!’ ‘Dandelion, please, do it for me. A little sacrifice, friend, nothing more. I swear, I won’t turn my nose up at the next job that comes along. Come on, Dandelion…’ The troubadour looked down at the ground and scratched his chin, which was covered in soft, fair bristles. Drouhard, mouth gaping, moved closer.

‘Master… Do us this honour. My wife won’t forgive me if I don’t invite you. Now then… I’ll make it thirty.’ ‘Thirty-five,’ Dandelion said firmly.

Geralt smiled and hopefully breathed in the scent of food wafting from the tavern.

‘Agreed, master, agreed,’ Teleri Drouhard said quickly, so quickly it was evident he would have given forty, had the need arisen. ‘And now… My home, if you desire to groom yourself and rest, is your home. And you, sir… What do they call you?’ ‘Geralt of Rivia.’

‘And I invite you too, sir, of course. For a bite to eat and something to drink…’

‘Certainly, with pleasure,’ Dandelion said. ‘Show us the way, my dear sir. And just between us, who is the other bard?’ ‘The honourable Miss Essi Daven.’