A Little Sacrifice 3

III

Geralt rubbed a sleeve over the silver studs of his jacket and his belt buckle one more time, smoothed down his hair, which was held down with a clean headband, and polished his boots by rubbing one leg against the other.

‘Dandelion?’

‘Mm?’ The bard smoothed the egret feather pinned to his bonnet, and straightened and pulled down his jerkin. The two of them had spent half the day cleaning their garments and tidying them up. ‘What, Geralt?’ ‘Behave in such a way as they throw us out after supper and not before.’

‘You must be joking,’ the poet said indignantly. ‘Watch your manners yourself. Shall we go in?’ ‘We shall. Do you hear? Somebody’s singing. A woman.’

‘Have you only just noticed? That’s Essi Daven, known as Little Eye. What, have you never met a female troubadour? True, I forgot you steer clear of places where art flourishes. Little Eye is a gifted poet and singer, though not without her flaws, among which impertinence, so I hear, is not the least. What she is singing now happens to be one of my ballads. She will soon hear a piece of my mind which will make that little eye of hers water.’ ‘Dandelion, have mercy. They’ll throw us out.’

‘Don’t interfere. These are professional issues. Let’s go in.’

‘Dandelion?’

‘Hey?’

‘Why Little Eye?’

‘You’ll see.’

The banquet was being held in a huge storeroom, emptied of barrels of herrings and cod liver oil. The smell had been killed–though not entirely–by hanging up bunches of mistletoe and heather decorated with coloured ribbons wherever possible. Here and there, as is customary, were also hung plaits of garlic meant to frighten off vampires.

The tables and benches, which had been pushed towards the walls, had been covered with white linen, and in a corner there was a large makeshift hearth and spit. It was crowded but not noisy. More than four dozen people of various estates and professions, not to mention the pimply youth and his snub-nosed fiancée, with her eyes fixed on her husband-to-be, were listening reverentially to a sonorous and melodious ballad sung by a young woman in a demure blue frock, sitting on a platform with a lute resting on her knee. The woman could not have been older than eighteen, and was very slim. Her long, luxuriant hair was the colour of dark gold. They entered as the girl finished the song and thanked the audience for the thunderous applause with a nod of her head, which shook her hair gently.

‘Greetings, master, greetings,’ Drouhard, dressed in his best clothes, leapt briskly over to them and pulled them towards the centre of the storeroom. ‘Greetings to you, too, Gerard, sir… I am honoured… Yes… Come here… Noble ladies, noble gentlemen! Here is our honoured guest, who gave us this honour and honoured us… Master Dandelion, the celebrated singer and poetast… poet, I mean, has honoured us with this great honour… Thus honoured, we…’ Cheers and applause resounded, and just in time, for it was looking as though Drouhard would honour and stammer himself to death. Dandelion, blushing with pride, assumed a superior air and bowed carelessly, then waved a hand at a row of girls sitting on a long bench, like hens on a roost, being chaperoned by older matrons. The girls were sitting stiffly, giving the impression they had been stuck to the bench with carpenter’s glue or some other powerful adhesive. Without exception they were holding their hands on tightly-clenched knees and their mouths were half-open.

‘And presently,’ Drouhard called. ‘Come forth, help yourself to beer, fellows, and to the vittles! Prithee, prithee! Avail yourselves…’ The girl in the blue dress forced her way through the crowd, which had crashed onto the food-laden tables like a sea wave.

‘Greetings, Dandelion,’ she said.

Geralt considered the expression ‘eyes like stars’ banal and hackneyed, particularly since he had begun travelling with Dandelion, as the troubadour was inclined to throw that compliment about freely, usually, indeed, undeservedly. However, with regard to Essi Daven, even somebody as little susceptible to poetry as the Witcher had to concede the aptness of her nickname. For in her agreeable and pretty, but otherwise unremarkable, little face shone a huge, beautiful, shining, dark blue eye, which riveted the gaze. Essi Daven’s other eye was largely covered and obscured by a golden curl, which fell onto her cheek. From time to time Essi flung the curl away with a toss of her head or a puff, at which point it turned out that Little Eye’s other little eye was in every way the equal of the first.

‘Greetings, Little Eye,’ Dandelion said, grimacing. ‘That was a pretty ballad you just sang. You’ve improved your repertoire considerably. I’ve always maintained that if one is incapable of writing poetry oneself one should borrow other people’s. Have you borrowed many of them?’ ‘A few,’ Essi Daven retorted at once and smiled, revealing little white teeth. ‘Two or three. I wanted to use more, but it wasn’t possible. Dreadful gibberish, and the tunes, though pleasant and unpretentious in their simplicity–not to say primitivism–are not what my audiences expect. Have you written anything new, Dandelion? I don’t seem to be aware of it.’ ‘Small wonder,’ the bard sighed. ‘I sing my ballads in places to which only the gifted and renowned are invited, and you don’t frequent such locations, after all.’ Essi blushed slightly and blew the lock of hair aside.

‘Very true,’ she said. ‘I don’t frequent bordellos, as the atmosphere depresses me. I sympathise with you that you have to sing in places like that. But well, that’s the way it is. If one has no talent, one can’t choose one’s audiences.’ Now Dandelion visibly blushed. Little Eye, however, laughed joyously, flung an arm around his neck all of a sudden and kissed him on the cheek. The Witcher was taken aback, but not too greatly. A professional colleague of Dandelion’s could not, indeed, differ much from him in terms of predictability.

‘Dandelion, you old bugger,’ Essi said, still hugging the bard’s neck. ‘I’m glad to see you again, in good health and in full possession of your mental faculties.’ ‘Pshaw, Poppet.’ Dandelion seized the girl around the waist, picked her up and spun her around so that her dress billowed around her. ‘You were magnificent, by the Gods, I haven’t heard such marvellous spitefulness for ages. You bicker even more captivatingly than you sing! And you look simply stunning!’ ‘I’ve asked you so many times,’ Essi said, blowing her lock of hair away and glancing at Geralt, ‘not to call me Poppet, Dandelion. Besides, I think it’s high time you introduced me to your companion. I see he doesn’t belong to our guild.’ ‘Save us, O Gods,’ the troubadour laughed. ‘He, Poppet, has no voice or ear, and can only rhyme “rear” with “beer”. This is Geralt of Rivia, a member of the guild of witchers. Come closer, Geralt, and kiss Little Eye’s hand.’ The Witcher approached, not really knowing what to do. One usually only kissed ladies of the rank of duchess and higher on the hand, or the ring, and one was supposed to kneel. Regarding women of lower standing that gesture, here, in the South, was considered erotically unambiguous and as such tended to be reserved only for close couples.

Little Eye dispelled his doubts, however, by willingly holding her hand out high with the fingers facing downwards. He grasped it clumsily and feigned a kiss. Essi, her beautiful eye still popping out of her head, blushed.

‘Geralt of Rivia,’ she said. ‘What company you keep, Dandelion.’

‘It is an honour for me,’ the Witcher muttered, aware he was rivalling Drouhard in eloquence. ‘Madam—’ ‘Damn it,’ Dandelion snorted. ‘Don’t abash Little Eye with all that stammering and titling. She’s Essi, he’s Geralt. End of introductions. Let’s get to the point, Poppet.’ ‘If you call me Poppet once more you’ll get a slap. What point do we have to get to?’ ‘We have to agree on how we’re going to sing. I suggest one after the other, a few ballads each. For the effect. Of course, singing our own ballads.’ ‘Suits me.’

‘How much is Drouhard paying you?’

‘None of your business. Who goes first?’

‘You.’

‘Agreed. Hey, look who’s joined us. The Most Noble Duke of Agloval. He’s just coming in, look.’ ‘Well, well,’ Dandelion said gleefully. ‘The audience is going up-market. Although, on the other hand, we oughtn’t to count on him. He’s a skinflint. Geralt can confirm it. The local duke bloody hates paying. He hires, admittedly. But he’s not so good at paying.’ ‘I’ve heard a few things about him.’ Essi, looking at Geralt, tossed the lock of hair back from her cheek. ‘They were talking about it in the harbour and by the jetty. The famous Sh’eenaz, right?’ Agloval responded to the deep bows of the two rows by the door with a brief nod, and then almost immediately went over to Drouhard and drew him away into a corner, giving a sign that he was not expecting deference or ceremony in the centre of the storehouse. Geralt watched them out of the corner of his eye. They spoke softly, but it was apparent that they were both agitated. Drouhard kept wiping his forehead with a sleeve, shaking his head, and scratching his neck. He was asking questions which the duke, surly and dour, was responding to by shrugging.

‘His Grace,’ Essi said quietly, moving closer to Geralt, ‘looks preoccupied. Affairs of the heart again? The misunderstanding from earlier today with his famous mermaid? Hey, Witcher?’ ‘Perhaps,’ Geralt answered, looking askance at the poet, astonished and strangely annoyed by her question. ‘Well, everybody has some personal problems. However, not everybody likes them to be sung about from the rooftops.’ Little Eye blanched slightly, blew away her lock of hair and looked at him defiantly.

‘By saying that did you mean to offend or only tease me?’

‘Neither one nor the other. I merely wanted to forestall further questions about the problems between Agloval and the mermaid. Questions I do not feel entitled to answer.’ ‘I understand.’ Essi Daven’s gorgeous eye narrowed slightly. ‘I won’t burden you with a similar dilemma. I shall not ask you any of the questions I meant to ask, and which, if I’m to be frank, I treated only as a prelude and invitation to a pleasant conversation. Very well, that conversation will not come to pass, then, and you need fear not that the content will be sung from some rooftop. It has been my pleasure.’ She turned on her heel and walked off towards the tables, where she was immediately greeted with respect. Dandelion shifted his weight from foot to foot and coughed tellingly.

‘I won’t say that was exquisitely courteous of you, Geralt.’

‘It came out wrongly,’ the Witcher agreed. ‘I hurt her, quite unintentionally. Perhaps I should follow her and apologise?’ ‘Drop it,’ the bard said and added aphoristically, ‘There is never a second opportunity to make a first impression. Come on, let’s have a beer instead.’ They did not make it to the beer. Drouhard pushed his way through a garrulous group of merchants.

‘Gerard, sir,’ he said. ‘Please step this way. His Grace would like to talk to you.’ ‘Very well.’

‘Geralt,’ Dandelion seized him by the sleeve. ‘Don’t forget.’

‘Forget what?’

‘You promised to agree to any task, without complaint. I shall hold you to it. What was it you said? A little sacrifice?’ ‘Very well, Dandelion.’

He went off with Drouhard into the corner of the storeroom, away from the guests. Agloval was sitting at a low table. He was accompanied by a colourfully dressed, weather-beaten man with a short, black beard whom Geralt had not noticed earlier.

‘We meet again, Witcher,’ the duke said. ‘Although this morning I swore I didn’t want to see you again. But I do not have another witcher to hand, so you will have to do. Meet Zelest, my bailiff and pearl diving steward. Speak, Zelest.’ ‘This morning,’ said the weather-beaten individual in a low voice, ‘we planned to go diving outside the usual grounds. One boat went further westwards, beyond the headland, towards the Dragons Fangs.’ ‘The Dragons Fangs,’ Agloval cut in, ‘are two volcanic reefs at the end of the headland. They can be seen from our coast.’ ‘Aye,’ Zelest confirmed. ‘People don’t usually sail there, for there are whirlpools and rocks, it’s dangerous to dive there. But there’s fewer and fewer pearls by the coast. Aye, one boat went there. A crew of seven souls, two sailors and five divers, including one woman. When they hadn’t returned by the eventide we began to fret, although the sea was calm, as if oil had been poured on it. I sent a few swift skiffs there and we soon found the boat drifting on the sea. There was no one in it, not a living soul. Vanished into thin air. We know not what happened. But there must have been fighting there, a veritable massacre. There were signs…’ ‘What signs?’ the Witcher squinted.

‘Well, the whole deck was spattered in blood.’

Drouhard hissed and looked around anxiously. Zelest lowered his voice.

‘It was as I said,’ he repeated, clenching his jaw. ‘The boat was spattered in gore, length and breadth. No question but a veritable massacre took place on board. Something killed those people. They say it was a sea monster. No doubt, a sea monster.’ ‘Not pirates?’ asked Geralt softly. ‘Or pearl diving competition? Do you rule out a normal knife fight?’ ‘We do,’ said the duke. ‘There are no pirates here, no competition. And knife fights don’t result in everybody–to the last man–disappearing. No, Geralt. Zelest is right. It was a sea monster, and nothing else. Listen, now no one dares go to sea, not even to the nearby and familiar fishing grounds. The people are scared stiff and the harbour is paralysed. Even the cogs and galleys aren’t setting out. Do you see, Witcher?’ ‘I see,’ Geralt nodded. ‘Who will show me this place?’

‘Ha,’ Agloval placed a hand on the table and drummed his fingers. ‘I like that. That’s witcher talk. Getting to the point at once, without unnecessary chatter. Yes, I like that. Do you see, Drouhard? I told you, a hungry witcher is a good witcher. Well, Geralt? After all, were it not for your musical companion you would have gone to bed without your supper again. My information is correct, is it not?’ Drouhard lowered his head. Zelest stared vacantly ahead.

‘Who’ll show me the place?’ Geralt repeated, looking coldly at Agloval.

‘Zelest,’ said the duke, his smile fading. ‘Zelest will show you the Dragons Fangs and the route to them. When will you start work?’ ‘First thing tomorrow morning. Be at the harbour, Mr Zelest.’

‘Very well, Master Witcher.’

‘Excellent.’ The duke rubbed his hands and smiled mockingly again. ‘Geralt, I’m relying on you to do better with this monster than you did with the Sh’eenaz situation. I really am. Aha, one more thing. I forbid any gossiping about this incident; I don’t want any more panic than we already have on our hands. Do you understand, Drouhard? I’ll order your tongue torn out if you breathe a word.’ ‘I understand, Your Grace.’

‘Good,’ Agloval said, getting up. ‘Then I shall go, I shall not interfere with the ball, nor provoke any rumours. Farewell, Drouhard. Wish the betrothed couple happiness on my behalf.’ ‘My thanks, Duke.’

Essi Daven, who was sitting on a low stool surrounded by a dense crowd of listeners, was singing a melodious and wistful ballad about the woeful fate of a betrayed lover. Dandelion, leaning against a post, was muttering something under his breath and counting bars and syllables on his fingers.

‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Do you have a job, Geralt?’

‘Yes,’ the Witcher answered, not going into details, which in any case did not concern the bard.

‘I told you I smelt a rat–and money. Good, very good. I’ll make some money, you will too, we’ll be able to afford to revel. We’ll go to Cidaris, in time for the grape harvest festival. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve spotted something interesting on the bench over there.’ Geralt followed the poet’s gaze, but aside from about a dozen girls with half-open mouths he saw nothing interesting. Dandelion pulled down his jerkin, set his bonnet over his right ear and approached the bench in long swinging strides. Having passed the matrons guarding the maidens with a deft flanking manoeuvre, he began his customary ritual of flashing a broad smile.

Essi Daven finished her ballad, and was rewarded with applause, a small purse and a large bouquet of pretty–though somewhat withered–chrysanthemums.

The Witcher circulated among the guests, looking for an opportunity to finally occupy a seat at the table, which was laden with vittles. He gazed longingly at the rapidly vanishing pickled herrings, stuffed cabbage leaves, boiled cod heads and mutton chops, at the rings of sausage and capons being torn into pieces, and the smoked salmon and hams being chopped up with knives. The problem was that there were no vacant seats at the table.

The maidens and matrons, somewhat livened up, surrounded Dandelion, calling squeakily for a performance. Dandelion smiled falsely and made excuses, ineffectually feigning modesty.

Geralt, overcoming his embarrassment, virtually forced his way to the table. An elderly gentleman, smelling strongly of vinegar, moved aside surprisingly courteously and willingly, almost knocking off several guests sitting alongside him. Geralt got down to eating without delay and in a flash had cleared the only dish he could reach. The gentleman smelling of vinegar passed him another. In gratitude, the Witcher listened attentively to the elderly gentleman’s long tirade concerning the present times and the youth of today. The elderly gentleman stubbornly described sexual freedom as ‘laxity’, so Geralt had some difficulty keeping a straight face.

Essi stood by the wall, beneath bunches of mistletoe, alone, tuning her lute. The Witcher saw a young man in a brocaded waisted kaftan approaching and saying something to the poet, smiling wanly the while. Essi looked at the young man, her pretty mouth sneering slightly, and said several quick words. The young man cowered and walked hurriedly away, and his ears, as red as beetroots, glowed in the semi-darkness for a long time afterwards.

‘… abomination, shame and disgrace,’ the elderly gentleman smelling of vinegar continued. ‘One enormous laxity, sir.’ ‘Indeed,’ Geralt nodded tentatively, wiping his plate with a hunk of bread.

‘May I request silence, noble ladies, noble lords,’ Drouhard called, walking into the middle of the room. ‘The celebrated Master Dandelion, in spite of being a little bodily indisposed and weary, shall now sing for us his celebrated ballad about Queen Marienn and the Black Raven! He shall do it at the urgent plea of Miss Veverka, the miller’s daughter, whom, he said, he may not refuse.’ Miss Veverka, one of the less comely girls on the bench, became beautified in the blink of an eye. Uproar and applause erupted, drowning out further laxity from the elderly gentleman smelling of vinegar. Dandelion waited for total silence, played a striking prelude on his lute, after which he began to sing, without taking his eyes off Miss Veverka, who was growing more beautiful with each verse. Indeed, Geralt thought, that whoreson is more effective than all the magical oils and creams Yennefer sells in her little shop in Vengerberg.

He saw Essi steal behind the crowded semicircle of Dandelion’s audience and cautiously vanish through the door to the terrace. Driven by a strange impulse, he slipped nimbly out from behind the table and followed her.

She stood, leaning forward, resting her elbows on the railing of the jetty, head drawn into her delicate, upraised shoulders. She was gazing at the rippling sea, glistening from the light of the moon and the fires burning in the harbour. A board creaked beneath Geralt’s foot. Essi straightened up.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ he said, stiffly, searching for that sudden grimace on her lips to which she had treated the young man in brocade a moment earlier.

‘You aren’t disturbing me,’ she replied, smiling and tossing back her lock of hair. ‘I’m not seeking solitude here, but fresh air. Was all that smoke and airlessness bothering you too?’ ‘A little. But I’m more bothered by knowing that I offended you. I came here to apologise, Essi, to try to regain the chance of a pleasant conversation.’ ‘You deserve my apology,’ she said, pressing her hands down on the railing. ‘I reacted too impetuously. I always react too impetuously, I don’t know how to control myself. Excuse me and give me another chance. For a conversation.’ He approached and leaned on the railing beside her. He felt the warmth emanating from her, and the faint scent of verbena. He liked the scent of verbena, although the scent of verbena was not the scent of lilac and gooseberry.

‘What do you connect with the sea, Geralt?’ she asked suddenly.

‘Unease,’ he answered, almost without thinking.

‘Interesting. And you seem so calm and composed.’

‘I didn’t say I feel unease. You asked for associations.’

‘Associations are the image of the soul. I know what I’m talking about, I’m a poet.’ ‘And what do you associate with the sea, Essi?’ he asked quickly, to put an end to discussions about the unease he was feeling.

‘With constant movement,’ she answered after a pause. ‘With change. And with riddles, with mystery, with something I cannot grasp, which I might be able to describe in a thousand different ways, in a thousand poems, never actually reaching the core, the heart of the matter. Yes, that’s it.’ ‘And so,’ he said, feeling the verbena affecting him more and more strongly. ‘What you feel is also unease. And you seem so calm and composed.’ She turned towards him, tossing back her golden curl and fixing her gorgeous eyes on him.

‘I’m not calm or composed, Geralt.’

It happened suddenly, utterly unexpectedly. The movement he made, which was supposed to have been just a touch, a gentle touch of her arms, turned into a powerful grasp of both hands around her very slender waist, into a rapid, though not rough, pulling of her closer, and into a sudden, passionate contact of their bodies. Essi stiffened suddenly, straightened, bent her torso powerfully backwards, pressed her hands down on his, firmly, as though she wanted to pull away and push his hands from her waist, but instead of that she seized them tightly, tipped her head forward, parted her lips and hesitated.

‘Why… Why this?’ she whispered. Her eye was wide open, her golden curl had fallen onto her cheek.

Calmly and slowly he tipped his head forward, brought his face closer and suddenly and quickly pursed his lips into a kiss. Essi, however, even then, did not release his hands grasping her waist and still powerfully arched her back, avoiding bodily contact. Remaining like that they turned around slowly, as though in a dance. She kissed him eagerly, expertly. For a long time.

Then she nimbly and effortlessly freed herself from his embrace, turned away, once again leaned on the railing, and drew her head into her shoulders. Geralt suddenly felt dreadfully, indescribably stupid. The feeling stopped him from approaching her, from putting an arm around her hunched back.

‘Why?’ she asked coolly, without turning around. ‘Why did you do that?’

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and the Witcher suddenly understood he had made a mistake. He suddenly knew that insincerity, lies, pretence and bravado would lead him straight into a swamp, where only a springy, matted layer of grass and moss, liable to yield, tear or break at any moment, separated him from the abyss below.

‘Why?’ she repeated.

He did not answer.

‘Are you looking for a woman for the night?’

He did not reply. Essi turned slowly and touched his arm.

‘Let’s go back in,’ she said easily, but he was not deceived by her manner, sensing how tense she was. ‘Don’t make that face. It was nothing. And the fact that I’m not looking for a man for tonight isn’t your fault. Is it?’ ‘Essi…’

‘Let’s go back, Geralt. Dandelion has played three encores. It’s my turn. Come on, I’ll sing…’ She glanced at him strangely and blew her lock of hair away from her eye.

‘I’ll sing for you.’