The Bounds Of Reason 3

III

There was a barrier on the bridge. The way was barred by a long, solid beam set on wooden trestles. In front and behind it stood halberdiers in studded leather coats and mail hoods. A purple banner bearing the emblem of a silver gryphon fluttered lazily above the barrier.

‘What the devil?’ Three Jackdaws said in surprise, approaching at a walk. ‘Is there no way through?’ ‘Got a safe-conduct?’ the nearest halberdier asked, without taking the stick he was chewing, either from hunger or to kill time, from his mouth.

‘Safe-conduct? What is it, the plague? Or war, perhaps? On whose orders do you obstruct the way?’ ‘Those of King Niedamir, Lord of Caingorn,’ the guardsman replied, shifting the stick to the other side of his mouth and pointing at the banner. ‘Without a safe-conduct you can’t go up.’ ‘Some sort of idiocy,’ Geralt said in a tired voice. ‘This isn’t Caingorn, but Barefield’s territory. Barefield, not Caingorn, levies tolls from the bridges on the Braa. What has Niedamir to do with it?’ ‘Don’t ask me,’ the guard said, spitting out his stick. ‘Not my business. I’m here to check safe-conducts. If you want, talk to our decurion.’ ‘And where might he be?’

‘He’s basking in the sun over there, behind the toll collector’s lodgings,’ the halberdier said, looking not at Geralt but at the naked thighs of the Zerrikanians, who were stretching languidly in their saddles.

Behind the toll collector’s cottage sat a guard on a pile of dry logs, drawing a woman in the sand with the end of his halberd. It was actually a certain part of a woman, seen from an unusual perspective. Beside him, a slim man with a fanciful plum bonnet pulled down over his eyes, adorned with a silver buckle and a long, twitching heron’s feather, was reclining, gently plucking the strings of a lute.

Geralt knew that bonnet and that feather, which were famed from the Buina to the Yaruga, known in manor houses, fortresses, inns, taverns and whorehouses. Particularly whorehouses.

‘Dandelion!’

‘Geralt the Witcher!’ A pair of cheerful cornflower-blue eyes shone from under the bonnet, now shoved back on his head. ‘Well, I never! You’re here too? You don’t have a safe-conduct by any chance?’ ‘What’s everyone’s problem with this safe-conduct?’ The Witcher dismounted. ‘What’s happening here, Dandelion? We wanted to cross the Braa, myself and this knight, Borch Three Jackdaws, and our escort. And we cannot, it appears.’ ‘I can’t either,’ Dandelion stood up, took off his bonnet and bowed to the Zerrikanians with exaggerated courtesy. ‘They don’t want to let me cross either. This decurion here won’t let me, Dandelion, the most celebrated minstrel and poet within a thousand miles, through, although he’s also an artist, as you can see.’ ‘I won’t let anyone cross without a safe-conduct,’ the decurion said resolutely, at which he completed his drawing with a final detail, prodding the end of his halberd shaft in the sand.

‘No matter,’ the Witcher said. ‘We’ll ride along the left bank. The road to Hengfors is longer that way, but needs must.’ ‘To Hengfors?’ the bard said, surprised. ‘Aren’t you following Niedamir, Geralt? And the dragon?’ ‘What dragon?’ Three Jackdaws asked with interest.

‘You don’t know? You really don’t know? Oh, I shall have to tell you everything, gentlemen. I’m waiting here, in any case; perhaps someone who knows me will come with a safe-conduct and let me join them. Please be seated.’ ‘Just a moment,’ Three Jackdaws said. ‘The sun is almost a quarter to the noontide and I have an awful thirst. We cannot talk on an empty stomach. Téa, Véa, head back to the town at a trot and buy a keg.’ ‘I like the cut of your jib, sire…’

‘Borch, also known as Three Jackdaws.’

‘Dandelion, also known as the Unparalleled. By certain girls.’

‘Talk, Dandelion,’ the Witcher said impatiently. ‘We aren’t going to loiter around here till evening.’ The bard seized the fingerboard of his lute and plucked the strings vigorously.

‘How would you prefer it, in verse or in normal speech?’

‘Normal speech.’

‘As you please,’ Dandelion said, not putting his lute down. ‘Listen then, noble gentlemen, to what occurred a week ago near the free town of Barefield. ‘Twas thus, that at the crack of dawn, when the rising sun had barely tinged pink the shrouds of mist hanging pendent above the meadows—’ ‘It was supposed to be normal speech,’ Geralt reminded him.

‘Isn’t it? Very well, very well. I understand. Concise, without metaphors. A dragon alighted on the pastures outside Barefield.’ ‘Oh, come on,’ the Witcher said. ‘It doesn’t seem very likely to me. No one has seen a dragon in these parts for years. Wasn’t it just a common or garden dracolizard? Dracolizard specimens can occasionally be as large as—’ ‘Don’t insult me, Witcher. I know what I’m talking about. I saw it. As luck would have it I was at the market in Barefield and saw it all with my own eyes. The ballad’s composed, but you didn’t want—’ ‘Go on. Was it big?’

‘The length of three horses. No taller than a horse at the withers, but much fatter. Sand grey.’ ‘In other words, green.’

‘Yes. It swooped down unexpectedly, flew right into a flock of sheep, scattered the shepherds, did for about a dozen beasts, devoured four of them and flew away.’ ‘Flew away…’ Geralt shook his head. ‘And that was all?’

‘No. Because it came again the next day, this time nearer to the town. It swooped down on a knot of women washing their linen on the banks of the Braa. And how they bolted, old friend! I’ve never laughed so much. Then the dragon circled Barefield a couple of times and flew towards the pastures, where it fell on the sheep again. Only then did the chaos and confusion begin, because few had believed the herdsmen before. The mayor called out the town constabulary and the guilds, but before they could form up, the plebs took matters into their own hands and did for it.’ ‘How?’

‘In a forceful peasant manner. The local master cobbler, a certain Sheepbagger, came up with a way of dealing with the brute. They killed a sheep, stuffed it full of hellebore, deadly nightshade, poison parsley, brimstone and cobbler’s tar. Just to be sure, the local apothecary poured in two quarts of his concoction for carbuncles, and the priest from the temple of Kreve said prayers over the carcass. Then they stood the poisoned sheep among the flock, held up by a stake. If truth be told, no one believed the dragon would be lured by that shit, which stank to high heaven, but reality surpassed our expectations. Ignoring the living and bleating baa-lambs, the reptile swallowed the bait and the stake.’ ‘And what then? Go on, Dandelion.’

‘What do you think I’m doing? I am telling you. Listen to what happened next. In less time than a skilled man needs to unlace a woman’s corset, the dragon suddenly began to roar and vent smoke from its front and rear ends. It turned somersaults, tried to take off, and then collapsed and lay still. Two volunteers set off to check whether the poisoned reptile was still breathing. It was the local gravedigger and the town halfwit, the fruit of the union between the retarded daughter of a woodcutter and a squad of hired pikemen who marched through Barefield at the time of Warlord Nelumbo’s rebellion.’ ‘Now you’re lying, Dandelion.’

‘Not lying, just embellishing, and there’s a difference.’

‘Not much of one. Speak on, we’re wasting time.’

‘Well then, as I was saying, the gravedigger and the doughty idiot set off as scouts. Afterwards, we built them a small, but pleasing, burial mound.’ ‘Aha,’ Borch said, ‘that means the dragon was still alive.’

‘And how,’ Dandelion said cheerfully. ‘It was alive. But it was so weak it didn’t devour either the gravedigger or the halfwit, it just lapped up their blood. And then, to general consternation, it flew away, taking flight with some difficulty. Every furlong it fell with a clatter and then rose again. It walked occasionally, dragging its back legs. Some courageous individuals followed it, keeping it in view. And do you know what?’ ‘Speak, Dandelion.’

‘The dragon disappeared among the ravines of the Kestrel Mountains, near the source of the Braa, and hid in the caves there.’ ‘Now everything’s clear,’ Geralt said. ‘The dragon has probably lived in those caves for centuries, in a state of torpor. I’ve heard of cases like that. And his treasure hoard must be there too. Now I know why they’re blocking the bridge. Someone wants to get his greedy hands on the treasure. And that someone is Niedamir of Caingorn.’ ‘Exactly,’ the troubadour confirmed. ‘The whole of Barefield is fair seething for that reason, because they claim that the dragon and its hoard belongs to them. But they hesitate to cross Niedamir. Niedamir’s a young whelp, who hasn’t started shaving, but he’s already proved it doesn’t pay to fall foul of him. And he wants that dragon, like the very devil, which is why he’s reacted so fast.’ ‘Wants the treasure, you mean.’

‘Actually, more the dragon than the treasure. For you see, Niedamir has his eye on the kingdom of Malleore. A princess, of a–so to speak–beddable age was left there after the sudden and odd death of the prince. The noblemen of Malleore look on Niedamir and the other suitors with reluctance, for they know that the new ruler will keep them on a short leash–unlike the callow princess. So they dug up some dusty old prophecy saying that the mitre and the lass’s hand belong to the man who vanquishes the dragon. Because no one had seen a dragon there for ages, they thought they were safe. Niedamir, of course, laughed at the legend, took Malleore by force, and that was that, but when the news of the Barefield dragon got out, he realised he could hoist the Malleore nobility by their own petard. If he showed up there clutching the dragon’s head, the people would greet him like a monarch sent by the gods, and the noblemen wouldn’t dare breathe a word. Does it surprise you, then, that he rushed after the dragon like a scalded cat? Particularly since it’s dead on its feet? For him it’s a real godsend, a stroke of luck, by thunder.’ ‘And he’s shut the competition out.’

‘So it would appear. And the people of Barefield. Except that he sent riders with safe-conducts throughout the countryside. They’re for the ones who are supposed to actually kill the dragon, because Niedamir himself is in no hurry to walk into a cave wielding a sword. In a flash he drafted in the most renowned dragon slayers. You probably know most of them, Geralt.’ ‘Possibly. Who has turned up?’

‘Eyck of Denesle, to begin with.’

‘Damn…’ the Witcher whistled softly. ‘The pious and virtuous Eyck, a knight without flaw or blemish, in person.’ ‘Do you know him, Geralt?’ Borch asked. ‘Is he really the scourge of dragons?’ ‘Not just dragons. Eyck is a match for any monster. He’s even killed manticores and gryphons. He’s dispatched a few dragons, so I’ve heard. He’s good. But he spoils my business, the swine, because he doesn’t take any money for it. Who else, Dandelion?’ ‘The Crinfrid Reavers.’

‘Well, that’s the dragon done for. Even if it has recovered. That trio are a good team. They fight pretty dirty, but they’re effective. They’ve wiped out all the dracolizards and forktails in Redania, not to mention three red and one black dragon which they also dispatched, and that’s no mean feat. Is that everybody?’ ‘No. Six dwarves under the command of Yarpen Zigrin have joined in.’ ‘I don’t know him.’

‘But you have heard of the dragon Ocvist from Quartz Mountain?’

‘Yes. And I saw some gemstones from its hoard. There were sapphires of remarkable colour and diamonds as large as cherries.’ ‘Well, know you that because Yarpen Zigrin and his dwarves did for Ocvist. A ballad was composed about it, but it was lousy because it wasn’t one of mine. You’ve missed nothing if you haven’t heard it.’ ‘Is that everybody?’

‘Yes. Not counting you. You claim not to know about the dragon. Who knows, perhaps that’s true? But now you do. Well?’ ‘Nothing. That dragon doesn’t interest me.’

‘Hah! Very crafty, Geralt. Because you don’t have a safe-conduct anyway.’ ‘The dragon doesn’t interest me, I told you. But what about you, Dandelion? What draws you here?’ ‘The usual,’ the troubadour shrugged. ‘I need to be near the action and the excitement. Everyone will be talking about the fight with the dragon. Of course, I could compose a ballad based on reports, but it’ll sound different sung by someone who saw the fight with his own eyes.’ ‘Fight?’ Three Jackdaws laughed. ‘More like some kind of pig-sticking or a carcass being quartered. I’m listening and I’m astounded. Celebrated warriors rushing here as fast as they can to finish off a half-dead dragon, poisoned by a peasant. It makes me want to laugh and vomit.’ ‘You’re wrong,’ Geralt said. ‘If the dragon hasn’t expired from the poison, its constitution has probably already fought it off and it’s back at full strength. It actually doesn’t make much difference. The Crinfrid Reavers will kill it anyway, but it’ll put up a fight, if you want to know.’ ‘So you’re betting on the Reavers, Geralt?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Don’t be so sure.’ The artistic guard, who had been silent up to then, spoke up. ‘A dragon is a magical creature and you can’t kill it any other way than with spells. If anybody can deal with it then it’s that sorceress who rode through yesterday.’ ‘Who was that?’ Geralt cocked his head.

‘A sorceress,’ the guard repeated, ‘I told you.’

‘Did she give her name?’

‘She did, but I’ve forgotten it. She had a safe-conduct. She was young, comely, in her own way, but those eyes… You know how it is, sire. You come over all cold when they look at you.’ ‘Know anything about this, Dandelion? Who could it be?’

‘No,’ the bard grimaced. ‘Young, comely and “those eyes”. Some help that is. They’re all like that. Not one of them that I know–and I know plenty–looks older than twenty-five, thirty; though some of them, I’ve heard, can recall the times when the forest soughed as far as where Novigrad stands today. Anyway, what are elixirs and mandrake for? And they also sprinkle mandrake in their eyes to make them shine. As women will.’ ‘Was her hair red?’ the Witcher asked.

‘No, sire,’ the decurion said. ‘Coal-black.’

‘And her horse, what colour was it? Chestnut with a white star?’

‘No. Black, like her hair. Well, gentlemen, I’m telling you, she’ll kill the dragon. A dragon’s a job for a sorcerer. Human strength isn’t enough against it.’ ‘I wonder what the cobbler Sheepbagger would have to say about that,’ Dandelion laughed. ‘If he’d had something stronger to hand than hellebore and deadly nightshade the dragon’s skin would be drying on the Barefield stockade, the ballad would be ready, and I wouldn’t be fading in this sun…’ ‘Why exactly didn’t Niedamir take you with him?’ Geralt asked, looking askance at the poet. ‘You were in Barefield when he set off, after all. Could it be that the king doesn’t like artists? How come you’re fading here, instead of strumming an air by the royal stirrups?’ ‘The cause was a certain young widow,’ Dandelion said dejectedly. ‘The hell with it. I tarried, and the next day Niedamir and the others were already over the river. They even took that Sheepbagger with them and some scouts from the Barefield constabulary; they just forgot about me. I’ve explained it to the decurion, but he keeps repeating—’ ‘If there’s a safe-conduct, I let you through,’ the halberdier said dispassionately, relieving himself on the wall of the toll collector’s cottage. ‘If there isn’t, I don’t let you through. I’ve got me orders—’ ‘Oh,’ Three Jackdaws interrupted him, ‘the girls are returning with the beer.’ ‘And they aren’t alone,’ Dandelion added, standing up. ‘Look at that horse. Big as a dragon.’ The Zerrikanians galloped up from the birch wood, flanking a rider sitting on a large, restless warhorse.

The Witcher also stood up.

The rider was wearing a long, purple, velvet kaftan with silver braid and a short coat trimmed with sable fur. Sitting erect in the saddle, he looked imperiously down at them. Geralt knew that kind of look. And was not fond of it.

‘Greetings, gentlemen. I am Dorregaray,’ the rider introduced himself, dismounting slowly and with dignity. ‘Master Dorregaray. Sorcerer.’ ‘Master Geralt. Witcher.’

‘Master Dandelion. Poet.’

‘Borch, also known as Three Jackdaws. And my girls, who are removing the bung from that keg, you have already met, Master Dorregaray.’ ‘That is so, indeed,’ the sorcerer said without a smile. ‘We exchanged bows, I and the beautiful warriors from Zerrikania.’ ‘Well then, cheers,’ Dandelion distributed the leather cups brought by Véa. ‘Drink with us, Master Sorcerer. My Lord Borch, shall I also serve the decurion?’ ‘Of course. Join us, soldier.’

‘I presume,’ the sorcerer said, after taking a small, distinguished sip, ‘that the same purpose has brought you gentlemen to the barrier on the bridge, as it has me?’ ‘If you have the dragon in mind, Master Dorregaray,’ Dandelion said, ‘that is so, indeed. I want to be there and compose a ballad. Unfortunately, that decurion there, clearly a fellow without refinement, doesn’t want to let me through. He demands a safe-conduct.’ ‘I beg your pardon,’ the halberdier said, draining his cup and smacking his lips. ‘I’ve been ordered on pain of death not to let anyone through without a safe-conduct. And I’m told the whole of Barefield has already gathered with wagons, and plans to head up after the dragon. I have my orders—’ ‘Your orders, soldier,’ Dorregaray frowned, ‘apply to the rabble, who might hinder; trollops, who might spread debauchery and foul sicknesses; thieves, scum and rabble. But not to me.’ ‘I won’t let anyone through without a safe-conduct,’ the decurion glowered, ‘I swear—’ ‘Don’t swear,’ Three Jackdaws interrupted him. ‘Better to have another drink. Téa, pour this stout-hearted soldier a beer. And let us be seated, gentlemen. Drinking standing up, in a rush and without due reverence, does not become the nobility.’ They sat down on logs around the keg. The halberdier, newly raised to nobility, blushed with pleasure.

‘Drink, brave centurion,’ Three Jackdaws urged.

‘But I am a decurion, not a centurion,’ the halberdier said, blushing even more intensely.

‘But you will be a centurion, for certain,’ Borch grinned. ‘You’re an astute fellow, you’ll be promoted in no time.’ Dorregaray, declining a refill, turned towards Geralt.

‘People are still talking about the basilisk in town, Witcher, sir, and you now have your eye on the dragon, I see,’ he said softly. ‘I wonder whether you’re so short of money, or whether you murder endangered creatures for the simple pleasure of it.’ ‘Curious interest,’ Geralt answered, ‘coming from someone who is rushing not to be late for the butchering of a dragon, in order to knock out its teeth, so crucial, after all, in the making of magical cures and elixirs. Is it true, sorcerer, sir, that the best ones are those removed from a living dragon?’ ‘Are you certain that is why I am going there?’

‘I am. But someone has already beaten you to it, Dorregaray. A female companion of yours has already gone through with a safe-conduct, which you don’t have. She is black-haired, if that’s of any interest to you.’ ‘On a black horse?’

‘Apparently.’

‘Yennefer,’ Dorregaray said, glumly. Unnoticed by anybody, the Witcher twitched.

A silence fell, broken only by the belching of the future centurion.

‘Nobody… without a safe-conduct…’

‘Will two hundred lintars suffice?’ Geralt calmly took from his pocket the purse received from the fat Alderman.

‘Ah, Geralt,’ Three Jackdaws smiled mysteriously, ‘so you—’

‘My apologies, Borch. I’m sorry, but I won’t ride with you to Hengfors. Another time perhaps. Perhaps we’ll meet again.’ ‘I have no interest in going to Hengfors,’ Three Jackdaws said slowly. ‘Not at all, Geralt.’ ‘Put away that purse, sire,’ the future centurion said menacingly, ‘that’s sheer bribery. I won’t even let you through for three hundred.’ ‘And for five hundred?’ Borch took out his pouch. ‘Put away that purse, Geralt. I’ll pay the toll. This has begun to amuse me. Five hundred, soldier, sir. One hundred a piece, counting my girls as one gorgeous item. What?’ ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ the future centurion said, distressed, stowing Borch’s pouch away under his jacket. ‘What will I tell the king?’ ‘Tell him,’ Dorregaray said, straightening up and removing an ornate ivory wand from his belt, ‘that you were overcome by fear when you saw it.’ ‘Saw what, sire?’

The sorcerer flourished his wand and shouted an incantation. A pine tree on the riverbank burst into flames. In one moment the entire tree was engulfed from top to bottom in a blaze of fire.

‘To horse!’ cried Dandelion, springing up and slinging his lute across his back. ‘To horse, gentlemen! And ladies!’ ‘Raise the barrier!’ the rich decurion with a good chance of becoming a centurion shouted to the halberdiers.

On the bridge, beyond the barrier, Véa reined in her horse. It skittered, hooves thudding on the planking. The woman, tossing her plaits, screamed piercingly.

‘That’s right, Véa!’ Three Jackdaws shouted back. ‘Onwards, my lords. To horse! We’ll ride in the Zerrikanian fashion, with a thundering and a yelling!’