The Bounds Of Reason 4

IV

‘Well, just look,’ said the oldest of the Reavers, Boholt, massive and burly, like the trunk of an old oak tree. ‘So Niedamir didn’t chase you away, my good sirs, though I was certain he would. But it’s not for us paupers to question royal commands. Join us by the campfire. Make yourselves a pallet, boys. And between you and me, Witcher, what did you talk to the king about?’ ‘About nothing,’ Geralt said, making himself comfortable by leaning back against his saddle, which he had dragged over beside the fire. ‘He didn’t even come out of his tent to talk to us. He just sent that flunky of his, what’s his name…’ ‘Gyllenstiern,’ said Yarpen Zigrin, a stocky, bearded dwarf, who was rolling a huge resinous tree stump he had dragged from the undergrowth into the fire. ‘Pompous upstart. Fat hog. When we joined the hunt he came over, nose stuck up towards the heavens, pooh-pooh, “remember, you dwarves”, he says, “who’s in command, who you have to obey, King Niedamir gives the orders here and his word is law” and so on. I stood and listened and I thought to myself, I’ll have my lads knock him to the ground and I’ll piss all over his cape. But I dropped the idea, you know, because word would get around again that dwarves are nasty, that they’re aggressive, that they’re whoresons and it’s impossible to live with them in… what the hell was it?… harmonium, or whatever it is. And right away there’d be another pogrom somewhere, in some little town or other. So I just listened politely and nodded.’ ‘It looks like that’s all Lord Gyllenstiern knows,’ Geralt said, ‘because he said the same to us and all we did was nod too.’ ‘And I reckon,’ the second Reaver said, spreading a blanket over a pile of brushwood, ‘it was a bad thing Niedamir didn’t chase you away. Doesn’t bear thinking how many people are after this dragon. Swarms of them. It’s not a hunting expedition no more, it’s a funeral procession. I need elbow room when I’m fighting.’ ‘Come off it, Gar,’ Boholt said, ‘the more the merrier. What, never hunted a dragon before? There’s always a swarm of people behind a dragon, a noisy rabble, a veritable bordello on wheels. But when the reptile shows up, guess who’s left standing in the field. Us, that’s who.’ Boholt was silent for a moment, took a long draw from a large, wicker-bound demijohn, blew his nose loudly and coughed.

‘Another thing,’ he continued. ‘In practice it’s often only after the dragon’s been killed that the merrymaking and bloodletting begins and the heads start rolling. It’s only when the treasure’s being shared out that the hunters go for each others’ throats. Right, Geralt? Oi? Am I right? Witcher, I’m talking to you.’ ‘I’m aware of cases like that,’ Geralt concurred dryly.

‘Aware, you say. No doubt from hearsay, because I can’t say I’ve ever heard of you stalking a dragon. Never in all my born days have I heard of a witcher hunting dragons. Which makes it all the stranger you’re here.’ ‘True,’ drawled Kennet, also known as Beanpole, the youngest Reaver. ‘That’s strange. And we—’

‘Wait, Beanpole, I’m talking,’ Boholt cut in, ‘and besides, I don’t plan to talk for too long. Anyway, the Witcher knows what I’m on about. I know him and he knows me, and up to now we haven’t got in each other’s way and we probably never will. See, lads, if I wanted to disrupt the Witcher’s work or snatch the loot from under his nose, the Witcher would waste no time slashing me with that witcher razor of his, and he’d be within his rights. Agreed?’ No one seconded or challenged this. There was nothing to suggest that Boholt cared either way.

‘Aye,’ he continued, ‘the more the merrier, as I said. And the Witcher may prove useful to the company. It’s wild and deserted round here, and should a frightener, or ilyocoris, or a striga, jump out at us, there might be trouble. But if Geralt’s standing by there won’t be any trouble, because that’s his speciality. But dragons aren’t his speciality. Right?’ Once more no one seconded or challenged this.

‘Lord Three Jackdaws is with Geralt,’ continued Boholt, handing the demijohn to Yarpen, ‘and that’s enough of a guarantee for me. So who’s bothering you, Gar, Beanpole? Can’t be Dandelion, can it?’ ‘Dandelion,’ Yarpen Zigrin said, passing the demijohn to the bard, ‘always tags along whenever something interesting’s happening and everybody knows he doesn’t interfere, doesn’t help and won’t slow the march down. Bit like a burr on a dog’s tail. Right, boys?’ The ‘boys’–stocky, bearded dwarves–cackled, shaking their beards. Dandelion pushed his bonnet back and drank from the demijohn.

‘Oooh, bloody hell,’ he groaned, gasping for air. ‘It takes your voice away. What was it distilled from, scorpions?’ ‘There’s one thing irking me, Geralt,’ Beanpole said, taking the demijohn from the minstrel, ‘and that’s you bringing that sorcerer along. We can hardly move for sorcerers.’ ‘That’s true,’ the dwarf butted in. ‘Beanpole’s right. We need that Dorregaray like a pig needs a saddle. For some time now we’ve had our very own witch, the noble Yennefer. Ugh.’ He spat her name.

‘Yes indeed,’ Boholt said, scratching himself on his bull neck, from which a moment earlier he had unfastened a leather collar, bristling with steel studs. ‘There are too many sorcerers here, gentlemen. Two too many, to be precise. And they’re a sight too thick with our Niedamir. Just look, we’re under the stars around a fire, and they, gentlemen, are in the warm, plotting in the royal tent, the cunning foxes. Niedamir, the witch, the wizard and Gyllenstiern. And Yennefer’s the worst. And do you want to know what they’re plotting? How to cheat us, that’s what.’ ‘And stuffing themselves with venison,’ Beanpole interjected gloomily. ‘And what did we eat? Marmot! And what’s a marmot, I ask you? A rat, nothing else. So what have we eaten? Rat!’ ‘Never mind,’ Gar said, ‘We’ll soon be sampling dragon’s tail. There’s nothing like dragon’s tail, roasted over charcoal.’ ‘Yennefer,’ Boholt went on, ‘is a foul, nasty, mouthy bint. Not like your lasses, Lord Borch. They are quiet and agreeable, just look, they’ve sat down by the horses, they’re sharpening their sabres. I walked past, said something witty, they smiled and showed their little teeth. Yes, I’m glad they’re here, not like Yennefer, all she does is scheme and scheme. And I tell you, we have to watch out, because we’ll end up with shit all from our agreement.’ ‘What agreement, Boholt?’

‘Well, Yarpen, do we tell the Witcher?’

‘Ain’t got nothing against it,’ the dwarf answered.

‘There’s no more booze,’ Beanpole interjected, turning the demijohn upside down.

‘Get some then. You’re the youngest, m’lord. The agreement was our idea, Geralt, because we aren’t hirelings or paid servants, and we won’t be having Niedamir send us after that dragon and then toss a few pieces of gold in our direction. The truth is we’ll cope with that dragon without Niedamir, but Niedamir won’t cope without us. So it’s clear from that who’s worth more and whose share should be bigger. And we put the case fairly–whoever takes on the dragon in mortal combat and bests it takes half of the treasure hoard. Niedamir, by virtue of his birthright and title, takes a quarter, in any event. And the rest, provided they help, will share the remaining quarter between themselves, equally. What do you think about that?’ ‘And what does Niedamir think about it?’

‘He said neither yes nor no. But he’d better not put up a fight, the whippersnapper. I told you, he won’t take on the dragon himself, he has to count on experts, which means us, the Reavers, and Yarpen and his lads. We, and no one else, will meet the dragon at a sword’s length. The rest, including the sorcerers, if they give honest assistance, will share a quarter of the treasure among themselves.’ ‘Who do you include in the rest, apart from the sorcerers?’ Dandelion asked with interest.

‘Certainly not buskers and poetasters,’ Yarpen Zigrin cackled. ‘We include those who put in some work with a battle-axe, not a lute.’ ‘Aha,’ Three Jackdaws said, looking up at the starry sky. ‘And how will the cobbler Sheepbagger and his rabble be contributing?’ Yarpen Zigrin spat into the campfire, muttering something in dwarven.

‘The constabulary from Barefield know these bloody mountains and will act as guides,’ Boholt said softly, ‘hence it will be fair to allow them a share of the spoils. It’s a slightly different matter with the cobbler. You see, it will go ill if the peasantry become convinced that when a dragon shows up in the land, instead of sending for professionals, they can casually poison it and go back to humping wenches in the long grass. If such a practice became widespread, we’d probably have to start begging. Yes?’ ‘That’s right,’ Yarpen added. ‘For which reason, I tell you, something bad ought to befall that cobbler, before the bastard passes into legend.’ ‘If it’s meant to befall him, it’ll befall him,’ Gar said with conviction. ‘Leave it to me.’

‘And Dandelion,’ the dwarf took up, ‘will blacken his name in a ballad, make him look a fool. So that he’ll suffer shame and dishonour, for generations to come.’ ‘You’ve forgotten about one thing,’ Geralt said. ‘There’s one person here who could throw a spoke in the wheel. Who won’t assent to any divisions or agreements. I mean Eyck of Denesle. Have you talked to him?’ ‘What about?’ Boholt said, grinding his teeth, using a stout stick to move the logs around in the campfire. ‘You won’t get anywhere with Eyck, Geralt. He knows nothing about business.’ ‘As we rode up to your camp,’ Three Jackdaws said, ‘we met him. He was kneeling on the rocks, in full armour, staring at the sky.’ ‘He’s always doing that,’ Beanpole said. ‘He’s meditating, or saying his prayers. He says he must, because he has orders from the gods to protect people from evil.’ ‘Back home in Crinfrid,’ Boholt muttered, ‘we keep people like that on a chain in the cowshed, and give them a piece of coal so they can draw outlandish pictures on the walls. But that’s enough gossip about my neighbours, we’re talking business.’ A petite, young woman with black hair held tightly by a gold hairnet, wrapped in a woollen cloak, noiselessly entered the circle of light.

‘What reeks so much round here?’ Yarpen Zigrin asked, pretending not to see her. ‘Not brimstone, is it?’ ‘No,’ Boholt, glancing to the side and sniffing pointedly, ‘it’s musk or some other scent.’

‘No, it has to be…’ the dwarf grimaced. ‘Oh! Why it’s the noble Madam Yennefer! Welcome, welcome.’ The sorceress’s eyes slowly swept over the company, her shining eyes coming to rest for a while on the Witcher. Geralt smiled faintly.

‘May I join you?’

‘But of course, good lady,’ Boholt said and hiccoughed. ‘Sit down here, on the saddle. Move your arse, Kennet, and give the noble sorceress the saddle.’ ‘From what I hear, you’re talking business, gentlemen.’ Yennefer sat down, stretching out her shapely, black-stockinged legs in front of her. ‘Without me?’ ‘We didn’t dare,’ Yarpen Zigrin said, ‘trouble such an important personage.’

‘If would be better, Yarpen’–Yennefer narrowed her eyes, turning her head towards the dwarf–’if you kept quiet. From the very first day you’ve been treating me as if I were nothing but air, so please continue, don’t let me bother you. Because it doesn’t bother me either.’ ‘Really, m’lady,’ Yarpen’s smile revealed uneven teeth. ‘May I be infested by ticks, if I haven’t been treating you better than the air. I’ve been known, for example, to spoil the air, which there’s no way I’d dare to do in your presence.’ The bearded ‘boys’ roared with thunderous laughter, but fell silent immediately at the sight of the blue glow which suddenly enveloped the sorceress.

‘One more word and you’ll end as spoiled air, Yarpen,’ Yennefer said in a voice with a metallic edge, ‘and a black stain on the grass.’ ‘Indeed,’ Boholt cleared his throat, relieving the silence that had fallen. ‘Quiet, Zigrin. Let’s hear what Madam Yennefer has to say to us. She just complained that we’re talking about business without her. From which I conclude she has some kind of offer for us. Let’s hear, my lords, what kind of offer it is. As long as she doesn’t suggest killing the dragon by herself, using spells.’ ‘And what if I do?’ Yennefer raised her head. ‘Don’t think it’s possible, Boholt?’

‘It might be possible. But it’s not profitable, because you’d be certain to demand half the dragon’s hoard.’ ‘At least half,’ the sorceress said coldly.

‘Well, you see for yourself there’s no profit in it for us. We, my lady, are poor warriors, and if the loot passes us by, hunger will come beckoning. We live on sorrel and pigweed…’ ‘Only once in a blue moon do we manage to catch a marmot,’ Yarpen Zigrin interrupted in a sombre voice.

‘… we drink spring water,’ Boholt took a swig from the demijohn and shuddered slightly. ‘There’s no choice for us, Madam Yennefer. It’s either loot, or freeze to death in the winter huddled against a fence. For inns cost money.’ ‘Beer does too,’ Gar added.

‘And dirty strumpets,’ Beanpole said, daydreaming.

‘Which is why,’ Boholt said, looking up at the sky, ‘we will kill the dragon, by ourselves, without spells and without your help.’ ‘Are you certain about that? Just remember there are limits to what is possible, Boholt.’

‘Perhaps there are, but I’ve never come across them. No, m’lady. I repeat, we’ll kill the dragon ourselves, without any spells.’ ‘Particularly,’ Yarpen Zigrin added, ‘since spells surely have their own limits, which, unlike our own, we don’t know.’ ‘Did you come up with that yourself?’ Yennefer asked slowly. ‘Or did someone put you up to it? Does the presence of the Witcher in this select company give you the right to such brazenness?’ ‘No,’ Boholt replied, looking at Geralt, who seemed to be dozing, stretched out lazily on a blanket with his saddle beneath his head, ‘the Witcher has nothing to do with it. Listen, noble Yennefer. We put forward a proposition to the king, but he hasn’t honoured us with an answer. We’re patient, we’ll wait till the morning. Should the king agree to a settlement, we ride on together. If not, we go back.’ ‘Us too,’ the dwarf snarled.

‘There won’t be any bargaining,’ Boholt continued. ‘Take it or leave it. Repeat our words to Niedamir, Madam Yennefer. And I’ll tell you; a deal’s also good for you and for Dorregaray, if you come to an agreement with him. We don’t need the dragon’s carcass, mark you, we’ll take but the tail. And the rest is yours, you can have whatever you want. We won’t stint you with the teeth or the brain; we’ll keep nothing that you need for sorcery.’ ‘Of course,’ Yarpen Zigrin added, chuckling, ‘the carrion will be for you, sorcerers, no one will take it from you. Unless some other vultures do.’ Yennefer stood up, throwing her cloak over her shoulder.

‘Niedamir won’t wait until morning,’ she said sharply. ‘He has agreed to your conditions already. Against mine and Dorregaray’s advice, mark you.’ ‘Niedamir,’ Boholt slowly drawled, ‘is displaying astonishing wisdom for one so young. To me, Madam Yennefer, wisdom includes the ability to turn a deaf ear to foolish or insincere advice.’ Yarpen Zigrin snorted into his beard.

‘You’ll be singing a different tune,’ the sorceress put her hands on her hips, ‘when the dragon lacerates and perforates you and shatters your shinbones. You’ll be licking my shoes and begging for help. As usual. How well, oh, how very well do I know your sort. I know you so well it makes me sick.’ She turned away and disappeared into the gloom, without saying goodbye.

‘In my day,’ Yarpen Zigrin said, ‘sorceresses stayed in their towers, read learned books and stirred cauldrons. They didn’t get under warriors’ feet, didn’t interfere in our business. And didn’t wiggle their bottoms in front of a fellow.’ ‘Frankly speaking, she can wiggle all she likes,’ Dandelion said, tuning his lute. ‘Right, Geralt? Geralt? Hey, where’s the Witcher?’ ‘What do we care?’ Boholt muttered, throwing another log on the fire. ‘He went somewhere. Perhaps he had to relieve himself, my lord. It’s his business.’ ‘That’s right,’ the bard agreed and strummed the strings. ‘Shall I sing you something?’

‘Sing, dammit,’ Yarpen Zigrin said and spat. ‘But don’t be thinking, Dandelion, that I’ll give you as much as a shilling for your bleating. It’s not the royal court, son.’ ‘I can see that,’ the troubadour nodded.