The Lesser Evil

THE LESSER EVIL

I

As usual, cats and children noticed him first. A striped tomcat sleeping on a sun-warmed stack of wood, shuddered, raised his round head, pulled back his ears, hissed and bolted off into the nettles. Three-year-old Dragomir, fisherman Trigla’s son, who was sitting on the hut’s threshold doing his best to make dirtier an already dirty shirt, started to scream as he fixed his tearful eyes on the passing rider.

The witcher rode slowly, without trying to overtake the hay-cart obstructing the road. A laden donkey trotted behind him, stretching its neck and constantly pulling the cord tied to the witcher’s pommel tight. In addition to the usual bags, the long-eared animal was lugging a large shape, wrapped in a saddlecloth, on its back. The gray-white flanks of the ass were covered with black streaks of dried blood.

The cart finally turned down a side street leading to a granary and harbor from which a sea breeze blew, carrying the stink of tar and ox’s urine. Geralt picked up his pace. He didn’t react to the muffled cry of the woman selling vegetables who was staring at the bony, taloned paw sticking out beneath the horse blanket, bobbing up and down in time with the donkey’s trot. He didn’t look round at the crowd gathering behind him and rippling with excitement.

There were, as usual, many carts in front of the alderman’s house. Geralt jumped from the saddle, adjusted the sword on his back and threw the reins over the wooden barrier. The crowd following him formed a semi-circle around the donkey.

Even outside, the alderman’s shouts were audible.

“It’s forbidden, I tell you! Forbidden, goddammit! Can’t you understand what I say, you scoundrel?” Geralt entered. In front of the alderman, small, podgy and red with rage, stood a villager holding a struggling goose by the neck.

“What—By all the gods! Is that you, Geralt? Do my eyes deceive me?” And turning to the peasant again: “Take it away, you boor! Are you deaf?” “They said,” mumbled the villager, squinting at the goose, “that a wee something must be given to his lordship, otherways—” “Who said?” yelled the alderman. “Who? That I supposedly take bribes? I won’t allow it, I say! Away with you! Greetings, Geralt.” “Greetings, Caldemeyn.”

The alderman squeezed the witcher’s hand, slapped him on the shoulder. “You haven’t been here for a good two years, Geralt. Eh? You can never stay in one place for long, can you? Where are you coming from? Ah, dog’s arse, what’s the difference where? Hey, somebody bring us some beer! Sit down, Geralt, sit down. It’s mayhem here because we’ve the market tomorrow. How are things with you, tell me!” “Later. Come outside first.”

The crowd outside had grown twofold but the empty space around the donkey hadn’t grown any smaller. Geralt threw the horse blanket aside. The crowd gasped and pulled back. Caldemeyn’s mouth fell open.

“By all the gods, Geralt! What is it?”

“A kikimora. Is there any reward for it?”

Caldemeyn shifted from foot to foot, looking at the spidery shape with its dry black skin, that glassy eye with its vertical pupil, the needle-like fangs in the bloody jaws.

“Where—From where—?”

“On the dyke, not some four miles from town. On the swamps. Caldemeyn, people must have disappeared there. Children.” “Well, yes, true enough. But nobody—Who could have guessed—Hey, folks, go home, get back to work! This isn’t a show! Cover it up, Geralt. Flies are gathering.” Back inside, the alderman grabbed a large jug of beer without a word and drank it to the last drop in one draught. He sighed deeply and sniffed.

“There’s no reward,” he said gloomily. “No one suspected that there was something like that lurking in the salt marshes. It’s true that several people have disappeared in those parts, but…Hardly anyone loitered on that dyke. And why were you there? Why weren’t you taking the main road?” “It’s hard for me to make a living on main roads, Caldemeyn.”

“I forgot.” The alderman suppressed a belch, puffing out his cheeks. “And this used to be such a peaceful neighborhood. Even imps only rarely pissed in the women’s milk. And here, right next to us, some sort of felispectre. It’s only fitting that I thank you. Because as for paying you, I can’t. I haven’t the funds.” “That’s a shame. I could do with a small sum to get through the winter.” The witcher took a sip from his jug, wiped away the froth. “I’m making my way to Yspaden, but I don’t know if I’ll get there before the snows block the way. I might get stuck in one of the little towns on the Lutonski road.” “Do you plan to stay long in Blaviken?”

“No. I’ve no time to waste. Winter’s coming.”

“Where are you going to stay? With me perhaps? There’s an empty room in the attic. Why get fleeced by the innkeepers, those thieves. We’ll have a chat and you can tell me what’s happening in the big, wide world.” “Willingly. But what will Libushe have to say about it? It was quite obvious last time that she’s not very keen on me.” “Women don’t have a say in my house. But, just between us, don’t do what you did during supper last time in front of her again.” “You mean when I threw my fork at that rat?”

“No. I mean when you hit it, even in the dark.”

“I thought it would be amusing.”

“It was. But don’t do it in front of Libushe. And listen, this…what’s it called…kiki—” “Kikimora.”

“Do you need it for anything?”

“What would I want it for? You can have them throw it in the cesspool if there’s no reward for it.” “That’s not a bad idea. Hey, Karelka, Borg, Carry-pebble! Any of you there?” A town guard entered with a halberd on his shoulder, the blade catching the doorframe with a crash.

“Carrypebble,” said Caldemeyn. “Get somebody to help you and take the donkey with that muck wrapped up in the horse blanket, lead it past the pigsties and chuck the kikimora in the cesspool. Understood?” “At your command. But…Alderman, sir—”

“What?”

“Maybe before we drown that hideous thing—”

“Well?”

“We could show it to Master Irion. It might be useful to him.”

Caldemeyn slapped his forehead with his open palm.

“You’re not stupid, Carrypebble. Listen, Geralt, maybe our local wizard will spare you something for that carcass. The fishermen bring him the oddest of fish—octopedes, clabaters or herrongs—many have made some money on them. Come on, let’s go to the tower.” “You’ve got yourselves a wizard? Is he here for good or only passing?” “For good. Master Irion. He’s been living in Blaviken for a year. A powerful magus, Geralt, you’ll see that from his very appearance.” “I doubt whether a powerful magus will pay for a kikimora,” Geralt grimaced. “As far as I know, it’s not needed for any elixirs. Your Irion will only insult me, no doubt. We witchers and wizards don’t love each other.” “I’ve never heard of Master Irion insulting anyone. I can’t swear that he’ll pay you but there’s no harm in trying. There might be more kikimoras like that on the marshes and what then? Let the wizard look at the monster and cast some sort of spell on the marshlands or something, just in case.” The witcher thought for a moment.

“Very well, Caldemeyn. What the heck, we’ll risk a meeting with Master Irion. Shall we go?” “We’re off. Carrypebble, chase the kids away and bring the floppyears. Where’s my hat?” II

The tower, built from smoothly hewn blocks of granite and crowned by tooth-like battlements, was impressive, dominating the broken tiles of homesteads and dipping-roofed thatched cottages.

“He’s renovated it, I see,” remarked Geralt. “With spells, or did he have you working at it?” “Spells, chiefly.”

“What’s he like, this Irion?”

“Decent. He helps people. But he’s a recluse, doesn’t say much. He rarely leaves the tower.” On the door, which was adorned with a rosace inlaid with pale wood, hung a huge knocker in the shape of a flat bulging-eyed fish-head holding a brass ring in its toothed jaws. Caldemeyn, obviously well-versed with the workings of its mechanics, approached, cleared his throat and recited: “Alderman Caldemeyn greets you with a case for Master Irion. With him greets you, Witcher Geralt, with respect to the same case.” For a long moment nothing happened; then finally the fish-head moved its toothed mandibles and belched a cloud of steam.

“Master Irion is not receiving. Leave, my good people.”

Caldemeyn waddled on the spot and looked at Geralt. The witcher shrugged. Carrypebble picked his nose with serious concentration.

“Master Irion is not receiving,” the knocker repeated metallically. “Go, my good—” “I’m not a good person,” Geralt broke in loudly. “I’m a witcher. That thing on the donkey is a kikimora, and I killed it not far from town. It is the duty of every resident wizard to look after the safety of the neighborhood. Master Irion does not have to honor me with conversation, does not have to receive me, if that is his will. But let him examine the kikimora and draw his own conclusions. Carrypebble, unstrap the kikimora and throw it down by the door.” “Geralt,” the alderman said quietly. “You’re going to leave but I’m going to have to—” “Let’s go, Caldemeyn. Carrypebble, take that finger out of your nose and do as I said.” “One moment,” the knocker said in an entirely different tone. “Geralt, is that really you?” The witcher swore quietly.

“I’m losing patience. Yes, it’s really me. So what?”

“Come up to the door,” said the knocker, puffing out a small cloud of steam. “Alone. I’ll let you in.” “What about the kikimora?”

“To hell with it. I want to talk to you, Geralt. Just you. Forgive me, Alderman.” “What’s it to me, Master Irion?” Caldemeyn waved the matter aside. “Take care, Geralt. We’ll see each other later. Carrypebble! Into the cesspool with the monster!” “As you command.”

The witcher approached the inlaid door, which opened a little bit—just enough for him to squeeze through—and then slammed shut, leaving him in complete darkness.

“Hey!” he shouted, not hiding his anger.

“Just a moment,” answered a strangely familiar voice.

The feeling was so unexpected that the witcher staggered and stretched out his hand, looking for support. He didn’t find any.

The orchard was blossoming with white and pink, and smelled of rain. The sky was split by the many-colored arc of a rainbow, which bound the crowns of the trees to the distant, blue chain of mountains. The house nestled in the orchard, tiny and modest, was drowning in hollyhocks. Geralt looked down and discovered that he was up to his knees in thyme.

“Well, come on, Geralt,” said the voice. “I’m in front of the house.” He entered the orchard, walking through the trees. He noticed a movement to his left and looked round. A fair-haired girl, entirely naked, was walking along a row of shrubs carrying a basket full of apples. The witcher solemnly promised himself that nothing would surprise him anymore.

“At last. Greetings, witcher.”

“Stregobor!” Geralt was surprised.

During his life, the witcher had met thieves who looked like town councilors, councilors who looked like beggars, harlots who looked like princesses, princesses who looked like calving cows and kings who looked like thieves. But Stregobor always looked as, according to every rule and notion, a wizard should look. He was tall, thin and stooping, with enormous bushy gray eyebrows and a long, crooked nose. To top it off, he wore a black, trailing robe with improbably wide sleeves, and wielded a long staff capped with a crystal knob. None of the wizards Geralt knew looked like Stregobor. Most surprising of all was that Stregobor was, indeed, a wizard.

They sat in wicker chairs at a white marble-topped table on a porch surrounded by hollyhocks. The naked blonde with the apple basket approached, smiled, turned and, swaying her hips, returned to the orchard.

“Is that an illusion, too?” asked Geralt, watching the sway.

“It is. Like everything here. But it is, my friend, a first-class illusion. The flowers smell, you can eat the apples, the bee can sting you, and she”—the wizard indicated the blonde—“you can—” “Maybe later.”

“Quite right. What are you doing here, Geralt? Are you still toiling away, killing the last representatives of dying species for money? How much did you get for the kikimora? Nothing, I guess, or you wouldn’t have come here. And to think that there are people who don’t believe in destiny. Unless you knew about me. Did you?” “No, I didn’t. It’s the last place I could have expected you. If my memory serves me correctly, you used to live in a similar tower in Kovir.” “A great deal has changed since then.”

“Such as your name. Apparently, you’re Master Irion now.”

“That’s the name of the man who created this tower. He died about two hundred years ago, and I thought it right to honor him in some way since I occupied his abode. I’m living here. Most of the inhabitants live off the sea and, as you know, my speciality, apart from illusions, is weather. Sometimes I’ll calm a storm, sometimes conjure one up, sometimes drive schools of whiting and cod closer to the shores with the westerly wind. I can survive. That is,” he added, miserably, “I could.” “How come ‘I could’? Why the change of name?”

“Destiny has many faces. Mine is beautiful on the outside and hideous on the inside. She has stretched her bloody talons toward me—” “You’ve not changed a bit, Stregobor.” Geralt grimaced. “You’re talking nonsense while making wise and meaningful faces. Can’t you speak normally?” “I can,” sighed the wizard. “I can if that makes you happy. I made it all the way here, hiding and running from a monstrous being that wants to murder me. My escape proved in vain—it found me. In all probability, it’s going to try to kill me tomorrow, or at the latest, the day after.” “Aha,” said the witcher dispassionately. “Now I understand.”

“My facing death doesn’t impress you much, does it?”

“Stregobor,” said Geralt, “that’s the way of the world. One sees all sorts of things when one travels. Two peasants kill each other over a field which, the following day, will be trampled flat by two counts and their retinues trying to kill each other off. Men hang from trees at the roadside; brigands slash merchants’ throats. At every step in town you trip over corpses in the gutters. In palaces they stab each other with daggers, and somebody falls under the table at a banquet every minute, blue from poisoning. I’m used to it. So why should a death threat impress me, and one directed at you at that?” “One directed at me at that,” Stregobor repeated with a sneer. “And I considered you a friend. Counted on your help.” “Our last meeting,” said Geralt, “was in the court of King Idi of Kovir. I’d come to be paid for killing the amphisboena which had been terrorizing the neighborhood. You and your compatriot Zavist vied with each other to call me a charlatan, a thoughtless murdering machine and a scavenger. Consequently, not only didn’t Idi pay me a penny, he gave me twelve hours to leave Kovir and, since his hourglass was broken, I barely made it. And now you say you’re counting on my help. You say a monster’s after you. What are you afraid of, Stregobor? If it catches up with you, tell it you like monsters, that you protect them and make sure no witcher scavenger ever troubles their peace. Indeed, if the monster disembowels and devours you, it’ll prove terribly ungrateful.” The wizard turned his head away silently. Geralt laughed. “Don’t get all puffed up like a frog, magician. Tell me what’s threatening you. We’ll see what can be done.” “Have you heard of the Curse of the Black Sun?”

“But of course. Except that it was called the Mania of Mad Eltibald after the wizard who started the lark and caused dozens of girls from good, even noble, families to be murdered or imprisoned in towers. They were supposed to have been possessed by demons, cursed, contaminated by the Black Sun, because that’s what, in your pompous jargon, you called the most ordinary eclipse in the world.” “Eltibald wasn’t mad at all. He deciphered the writing on Dauk menhirs, on tombstones in the Wozgor necropolises, and examined the legends and traditions of weretots. All of them spoke of the eclipse in no uncertain terms. The Black Sun was to announce the imminent return of Lilit, still honored in the East under the name of Niya, and the extermination of the human race. Lilit’s path was to be prepared by ‘sixty women wearing gold crowns, who would fill the river valleys with blood.’” “Nonsense,” said the witcher. “And what’s more, it doesn’t rhyme. All decent predictions rhyme. Everyone knows what Eltibald and the Council of Wizards had in mind at the time. You took advantage of a madman’s ravings to strengthen your own authority. To break up alliances, ruin marriage allegiances, stir up dynasties. In a word: to tangle the strings of crowned puppets even more. And here you are lecturing me about predictions, which any old storyteller at the marketplace would be ashamed of.” “You can have your reservations about Eltibald’s theories, about how the predictions were interpreted. But you can’t challenge the fact that there have been horrendous mutations among girls born just after the eclipse.” “And why not? I’ve heard quite the opposite.”

“I was present when they did an autopsy on one of them,” said the wizard. “Geralt, what we found inside the skull and marrow could not be described. Some sort of red sponge. The internal organs were all mixed up, some were missing completely. Everything was covered in moving cilia, bluish-pink shreds. The heart was six-chambered, with two chambers practically atrophied. What do you say to that?” “I’ve seen people with eagles’ talons instead of hands, people with a wolf’s fangs. People with additional joints, additional organs and additional senses. All of which were the effects of your messing about with magic.” “You’ve seen all sorts of mutations, you say.” The magician raised his head. “And how many of them have you slaughtered for money, in keeping with your witcher’s calling? Well? Because one can have a wolf’s fangs and go no further than baring them at the trollops in taverns, or one can have a wolf’s nature, too, and attack children. And that’s just how it was with the girls who were born after the eclipse. Their outright insane tendency to cruelty, aggression, sudden bursts of anger and an unbridled temperament were noted.” “You can say that about any woman,” sneered Geralt. “What are you driveling on about? You’re asking me how many mutants I’ve killed. Why aren’t you interested in how many I’ve extricated from spells, freed from curses? I, a witcher despised by you. And what have you done, you mighty magicians?” “A higher magic was used. Ours and that of the priests, in various temples. All attempts ended in the girls’ deaths.” “That speaks badly of you, not the girls. And so we’ve now got the first corpses. I take it the only autopsies were done on them?” “No. Don’t look at me like that; you know very well that there were more corpses, too. It was initially decided to eliminate all of them. We got rid of a few…autopsies were done on all of them. One of them was even vivisectioned.” “And you sons of bitches have the nerve to criticize witchers? Oh, Stregobor, the day will come when people will learn, and get the better of you.” “I don’t think a day like that will come soon,” said the wizard caustically. “Don’t forget that we were acting in the people’s defense. The mutant girls would have drowned entire countries in blood.” “So say you magicians, turning your noses up, so high and mighty with your auras of infallibility. While we’re on the subject, surely you’re not going to tell me that in your hunt for these so-called mutants you haven’t once made a mistake?” “All right,” said Stregobor after a long silence. “I’ll be honest, although for my own sake I shouldn’t. We did make a mistake—more than one. Picking them out was extremely difficult. And that’s why we stopped…getting rid of them, and started isolating them instead.” “Your famous towers,” snorted the witcher.

“Our towers. But that was another mistake. We underestimated them. Many escaped. Then some mad fashion to free imprisoned beauties took hold of princes, especaily the younger ones, who didn’t have much to do and still less to lose. Most of them, fortunately, twisted their necks—” “As far as I know, those imprisoned in the towers died quickly. It’s been said you must have helped them somewhat.” “That’s a lie. But it is true that they quickly fell into apathy, refused to eat…What is interesting is that shortly before they died, they showed signs of the gift of clairvoyance. Further proof of mutation.” “Your proofs are becoming ever less convincing. Do you have any more?” “I do. Silvena, the lady of Narok, whom we never managed to get close to because she gained power so quickly. Terrible things are happening in Narok now. Fialka, Evermir’s daughter, escaped her tower using a homemade rope and is now terrorizing North Velhad. Bernika of Talgar was freed by an idiot prince. Now he’s sitting in a dungeon, blinded, and the most common feature of the Talgar landscape is a set of gallows. There are other examples, too.” “Of course there are,” said the witcher. “In Yamurlak, for instance, old man Abrad reigns. He’s got scrofula, not a single tooth in his head, was probably born some hundred years before this eclipse, and can’t fall asleep unless someone’s being tortured to death in his presence. He’s wiped out all his relatives and emptied half of the country in crazy—how did you put it?—attacks of anger. There are also traces of a rampant temperament. Apparently he was nicknamed Abrad Jack-up-the-Skirt in his youth. Oh, Stregobor, it would be great if the cruelty of rulers could be explained away by mutations or curses.” “Listen, Geralt—”

“No. You won’t win me over with your reasons nor convince me that Eltibad wasn’t a murdering madman, so let’s get back to the monster threatening you. You’d better understand that, after the introduction you’ve given me, I don’t like the story. But I’ll hear you out.” “Without interrupting with spiteful comments?”

“That I can’t promise.”

“Oh well”—Stregobor slipped his hands into the sleeves of his robe—“then it’ll only take longer. Well, the story begins in Creyden, a small principality in the north. The wife of Fredefalk, the Prince of Creyden, was Aridea, a wise, educated woman. She had many exceptional adepts of the magical arts in her family and—through inheritance, no doubt—she came into possession of a rare and powerful artifact. One of Nehalenia’s Mirrors. They’re chiefly used by prophets and oracles because they predict the future accurately, albeit intricately. Aridea quite often turned to the Mirror—” “With the usual question, I take it,” interrupted Geralt. “’Who is the fairest of them all?’ I know; all Nehalenia’s Mirrors are either polite or broken.” “You’re wrong. Aridea was more interested in her country’s fate. And the Mirror answered her questions by predicting a horrible death for her and for a great number of others by the hand, or fault, of Fredefalk’s daughter from his first marriage. Aridea ensured this news reached the Council, and the Council sent me to Creyden. I don’t have to add that Fredefalk’s firstborn daughter was born shortly after the eclipse. I was quite discreet for a little while. She managed to torture a canary and two puppies during that time, and also gouged out a servant’s eye with the handle of a comb. I carried out a few tests using curses, and most of them confirmed that the little one was a mutant. I went to Aridea with the news because Fredefalk’s daughter meant the world to him. Aridea, as I said, wasn’t stupid—” “Of course,” Geralt interrupted again, “and no doubt she wasn’t head-over-heels in love with her stepdaughter. She preferred her own children to inherit the throne. I can guess what followed. How come nobody throttled her? And you, too, while they were at it.” Stregobor sighed, raised his eyes to heaven, where the rainbow was still shimmering colorfully and picturesquely.

“I wanted to isolate her, but Aridea decided otherwise. She sent the little one out into the forest with a hired thug, a trapper. We found him later in the undergrowth…without any trousers, so it wasn’t hard to recreate the turn of events. She had dug a brooch-pin into his brain, through his ear, no doubt while his attention was on entirely different matters.” “If you think I feel sorry for him,” muttered Geralt, “then you’re wrong.” “We organized a manhunt,” continued Stregobor, “but all traces of the little one had disappeared. I had to leave Creyden in a hurry because Fredefalk was beginning to suspect something. Then, four years later I received news from Aridea. She’d tracked down the little one, who was living in Mahakam with seven gnomes whom she’d managed to convince it was more profitable to rob merchants on the roads than to pollute their lungs with dust from the mines. She was known as Shrike because she liked to impale the people she caught on a sharp pole while they were still alive. Several times Aridea hired assassins, but none of them returned. Well, then it became hard to find anyone to try—Shrike had already become quite famous. She’d learned to use a sword so well there was hardly a man who could defy her. I was summoned, and arrived in Creyden secretly, only to learn that someone had poisoned Aridea. It was generally believed that it was the work of Fredefalk, who had found himself a younger, more robust mistress—but I think it was Renfri.” “Renfri?”

“That’s what she was called. I said she’d poisoned Aridea. Shortly afterward, Prince Fredefalk died in a strange hunting accident, and Aridea’s eldest son disappeared without a word. That must have been the little one’s doing, too. I say ‘little’ but she was seventeen by then. And she was pretty well-developed.

“Meanwhile,” the wizard picked up after a moment’s break, “she and her gnomes had become the terror of the whole of Mahakam. Until, one day, they argued about something. I don’t know what—sharing out the loot, or whose turn it was to spend the night with her—anyway, they slaughtered each other with knives. Only Shrike survived. Only her. And I was in the neighborhood at the time. We met face-to-face: she recognized me in a flash and knew the part I’d played in Creyden. I tell you, Geralt, I had barely managed to utter a curse—and my hands were shaking like anything—when that wildcat flew at me with a sword. I turned her into a neat slab of mountain crystal, six ells by nine. When she fell into a lethargy, I threw the slab into the gnomes’ mine and brought the tunnels down on it.” “Shabby work,” commented Geralt. “That spell could have been reversed. Couldn’t you have burnt her to cinders? You know so many nice spells, after all.” “No. It’s not my speciality. But you’re right. I did make a hash of it. Some idiot prince found her, spent a fortune on a counter-curse, reversed the spell and triumphantly took her home to some out-of-the-way kingdom in the east. His father, an old brigand, proved to have more sense. He gave his son a hiding, and questioned Shrike about the treasures which she and the gnomes had seized and which she’d hidden. His mistake was to allow his elder son to assist him when he had her stretched out, naked, on the executioner’s bench. Somehow, the following day, that same eldest son—now an orphan bereft of siblings—was ruling the kingdom, and Shrike had taken over the office of first favorite.” “Meaning she can’t be ugly.”

“That’s a matter of taste. She wasn’t a favorite for long. Up until the first coup d’état at the palace, to give it a grand name—it was more like a barn. It soon became clear that she hadn’t forgotten about me. She tried to assassinate me three times in Kovir. I decided not to risk a fourth attempt and to wait her out in Pontar. Again, she found me. This time I escaped to Angren, but she found me there too. I don’t know how she does it. I cover my traces well. It must be a feature of her mutation.” “What stopped you from casting another spell to turn her into crystal? Scruples?” “No. I don’t have any of those. She had become resistant to magic.” “That’s impossible.”

“It’s not. It’s enough to have the right artifact or aura. Or this could also be associated with her mutation, which is progressing. I escaped from Angren and hid here, in Arcsea, in Blaviken. I’ve lived in peace for a year, but she’s tracked me down again.” “How do you know? Is she already in town?”

“Yes. I saw her in the crystal ball.” The wizard raised his wand. “She’s not alone. She’s leading a gang, which shows that she’s brewing something serious. Geralt, I don’t have anywhere else to run. I don’t know where I could hide. The fact that you’ve arrived here exactly at this time can’t be a coincidence. It’s fate.” The witcher raised his eyebrows. “What’s on your mind?”

“Surely it’s obvious. You’re going to kill her.”

“I’m not a hired thug, Stregobor.”

“You’re not a thug, agreed.”

“I kill monsters for money. Beasts which endanger people. Horrors conjured up by spells and sorceries cast by the likes of you. Not people.” “She’s not human. She’s exactly a monster: a mutant, a cursed mutant. You brought a kikimora here. Shrike’s worse than a kikimora. A kikimora kills because it’s hungry, but Shrike does it for pleasure. Kill her and I’ll pay you whatever sum you ask. Within reason, of course.” “I’ve already told you. I consider the story about mutations and Lilit’s curse to be nonsense. The girl has her reasons for settling her account with you, and I’m not going to get mixed up in it. Turn to the alderman, to the town guards. You’re the town wizard; you’re protected by municipal law.” “I spit on the law, the alderman and his help!” exploded Stregobor. “I don’t need defense. I need you to kill her! Nobody’s going to get into this tower—I’m completely safe here. But what’s that to me? I don’t intend to spend the rest of my days here, and Shrike’s not going to give up while I’m alive. Am I to sit here, in this tower, and wait for death?” “They did. Do you know what, magician? You should have left that hunt for the girls to other, more powerful, wizards. You should have foreseen the consequences.” “Please, Geralt.”

“No, Stregobor.”

The sorcerer was silent. The unreal sun in its unreal sky hadn’t moved toward the zenith but the witcher knew it was already dusk in Blaviken. He felt hungry.

“Geralt,” said Stregobor, “when we were listening to Eltibald, many of us had doubts. But we decided to accept the lesser evil. Now I ask you to make a similar choice.” “Evil is evil, Stregobor,” said the witcher seriously as he got up. “Lesser, greater, middling, it’s all the same. Proportions are negotiated, boundaries blurred. I’m not a pious hermit. I haven’t done only good in my life. But if I’m to choose between one evil and another, then I prefer not to choose at all. Time for me to go. We’ll see each other tomorrow.” “Maybe,” said the wizard. “If you get here in time.”

III

The Golden Court, the country town’s elegant inn, was crowded and noisy. The guests, locals and visitors, were mostly engaged in activities typical for their nation or profession. Serious merchants argued with dwarves over the price of goods and credit interest. Less serious merchants pinched the backsides of the girls carrying beer, cabbage and beans. Local nitwits pretended to be well-informed. Harlots were trying to please those who had money while discouraging those who had none. Carters and fishermen drank as if there were no tomorrow. Some seamen were singing a song which celebrated the ocean waves, the courage of captains and the graces of mermaids, the latter graphically and in considerable detail.

“Exert your memory, friend,” Caldemeyn said to the innkeeper, leaning across the counter in order to be heard over the din. “Six men and a wench, all dressed in black leather studded with silver in the Novigradian style. I saw them at the turnpike. Are they staying here or at The Tuna Fish?” The innkeeper wrinkled his bulging forehead and wiped a tankard on his striped apron.

“Here, Alderman,” he finally said. “They say they’ve come for the market but they all carry swords, even the woman. Dressed, as you said, in black.” “Well.” The alderman nodded. “Where are they now? I don’t see them here.” “In the lesser alcove. They paid in gold.”

“I’ll go in alone,” said Geralt. “There’s no point in making this an official affair in front of them all, at least for the time being. I’ll bring her here.” “Maybe that’s best. But be careful, I don’t want any trouble.”

“I’ll be careful.”

The seamen’s song, judging by the growing intensity of obscene words, was reaching its grand finale. Geralt drew aside the curtain—stiff and sticky with dirt—which hid the entrance to the alcove.

Six men were seated at the table. Shrike wasn’t with them.

“What’d’you want?” yelled the man who noticed him first. He was balding and his face was disfigured by a scar which ran across his left eyebrow, the bridge of his nose and his right cheek.

“I want to see Shrike.”

Two identical figures stood up—identical motionless faces and fair, disheveled, shoulder-length hair, identical tight-fitting black outfits glistening with silver ornaments. And with identical movements, the twins took identical swords from the bench.

“Keep calm, Vyr. Sit down, Nimir,” said the man with the scar, leaning his elbows on the table. “Who d’you say you want to see, brother? Who’s Shrike?” “You know very well who I mean.”

“Who’s this, then?” asked a half-naked athlete, sweaty, girded crosswise with belts, and wearing spiked pads on his forearms. “D’you know him, Nohorn?” “No,” said the man with the scar.

“It’s some albino,” giggled a slim, dark-haired man sitting next to Nohorn. Delicate features, enormous black eyes and pointed ears betrayed him to be a half-blood elf. “Albino, mutant, freak of nature. And this sort of thing is allowed to enter pubs among decent people.” “I’ve seen him somewhere before,” said a stocky, weather-beaten man with a plait, measuring Geralt with an evil look in his narrowed eyes.

“Doesn’t matter where you’ve seen him, Tavik,” said Nohorn. “Listen here. Civril insulted you terribly a moment ago. Aren’t you going to challenge him? It’s such a boring evening.” “No,” said the witcher calmly.

“And me, if I pour this fish soup over your head, are you going to challenge me?” cackled the man sitting naked to the waist.

“Keep calm, Fifteen,” said Nohorn. “He said no, that means no. For the time being. Well, brother, say what you have to say and clear out. You’ve got one chance to clear out on your own. You don’t take it, the attendants will carry you out.” “I don’t have anything to say to you. I want to see Shrike. Renfri.” “Do you hear that, boys?” Nohorn looked around at his companions. “He wants to see Renfri. And may I know why?” “No.”

Nohorn raised his head and looked at the twins as they took a step forward, the silver clasps on their high boots jangling.

“I know,” the man with the plait said suddenly. “I know where I’ve seen him now!” “What’s that you’re mumbling, Tavik?”

“In front of the alderman’s house. He brought some sort of dragon in to trade, a cross between a spider and a crocodile. People were saying he’s a witcher.” “And what’s a witcher?” Fifteen asked. “Eh? Civril?”

“A hired magician,” said the half-elf. “A conjurer for a fistful of silver. I told you, a freak of nature. An insult to human and divine laws. They ought to be burned, the likes of him.” “We don’t like magicians,” screeched Tavik, not taking his narrowed eyes off Geralt. “It seems to me, Civril, that we’re going to have more work in this hole than we thought. There’s more than one of them here and everyone knows they stick together.” “Birds of a feather.” The half-breed smiled maliciously. “To think the likes of you walk the earth. Who spawns you freaks?” “A bit more tolerance, if you please,” said Geralt calmly, “as I see your mother must have wandered off through the forest alone often enough to give you good reason to wonder where you come from yourself.” “Possibly,” answered the half-elf, the smile not leaving his face. “But at least I knew my mother. You witchers can’t say that much about yourselves.” Geralt grew a little pale and tightened his lips. Nohorn, noticing it, laughed out loud.

“Well, brother, you can’t let an insult like that go by. That thing that you have on your back looks like a sword. So? Are you going outside with Civril? The evening’s so boring.” The witcher didn’t react.

“Shitty coward,” snorted Tavik.

“What did he say about Civril’s mother?” Nohorn continued monotonously, resting his chin on his clasped hands. “Something extremely nasty, as I understood it. That she was an easy lay, or something. Hey, Fifteen, is it right to listen to some straggler insulting a companion’s mother? A mother, you son of a bitch, is sacred!” Fifteen got up willingly, undid his sword and threw it on the table. He stuck his chest out, adjusted the pads spiked with silver studs on his shoulders, spat and took a step forward.

“If you’ve got any doubts,” said Nohorn, “then Fifteen is challenging you to a fistfight. I told you they’d carry you out of here. Make room.” Fifteen moved closer and raised his fists. Geralt put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Careful,” he said. “One more step and you’ll be looking for your hand on the floor.” Nohorn and Tavik leapt up, grabbing their swords. The silent twins drew theirs with identical movements. Fifteen stepped back. Only Civril didn’t move.

“What’s going on here, dammit? Can’t I leave you alone for a minute?” Geralt turned round very slowly and looked into eyes the color of the sea.

She was almost as tall as him. She wore her straw-colored hair unevenly cut, just below the ears. She stood with one hand on the door, wearing a tight, velvet jacket clasped with a decorated belt. Her skirt was uneven, asymmetrical—reaching down to her calf on the left side and, on the right, revealing a strong thigh above a boot made of elk’s leather. On her left side, she carried a sword; on her right, a dagger with a huge ruby set in its pommel.

“Lost your voices?”

“He’s a witcher,” mumbled Nohorn.

“So what?”

“He wanted to talk to you.”

“So what?”

“He’s a sorcerer!” Fifteen roared.

“We don’t like sorcerers,” snarled Tavik.

“Take it easy, boys,” said the girl. “He wants to talk to me; that’s no crime. You carry on having a good time. And no trouble. Tomorrow’s market day. Surely you don’t want your pranks to disrupt the market, such an important event in the life of this pleasant town?” A quiet, nasty giggle reverberated in the silence which fell. Civril, still sprawled out carelessly on the bench, was laughing.

“Come on, Renfri,” chuckled the half-blood. “Important…event!”

“Shut up, Civril. Immediately.”

Civril stopped laughing. Immediately. Geralt wasn’t surprised. There was something very strange in Renfri’s voice—something associated with the red reflection of fire on blades, the wailing of people being murdered, the whinnying of horses and the smell of blood. Others must also have had similar associations—even Tavik’s weather-beaten face grew pale.

“Well, white-hair,” Renfri broke the silence. “Let’s go into the larger room. Let’s join the alderman you came with. He wants to talk to me too, no doubt.” At the sight of them, Caldemeyn, who was waiting at the counter, broke off his quiet conversation with the innkeeper, straightened himself and folded his arms across his chest.

“Listen, young lady,” he said severely, not wasting time with banal niceties, “I know from this witcher of Rivia here what brings you to Blaviken. Apparently you bear a grudge against our wizard.” “Maybe. What of it?” asked Renfri quietly, in an equally brusque tone.

“Only that there are tribunals to deal with grudges like that. He who wants to revenge a grudge using steel—here in Arcsea—is considered a common bandit. And also, that either you get out of Blaviken early in the morning with your black companions, or I throw you into prison, pre—How do you say it, Geralt?” “Preventively.”

“Exactly. Understood, young lady?”

Renfri reached into the purse on her belt and pulled out a parchment which had been folded several times.

“Read this, Alderman. If you’re literate. And don’t call me ‘young lady.’” Caldemeyn took the parchment, spent a long time reading it, then, without a word, gave it to Geralt.

“’To my regents, vassals and freemen subjects,’” the witcher read out loud. “’To all and sundry. I proclaim that Renfri, the Princess of Creyden, remains in our service and is well seen by us; whosoever dares maltreet her will incur our wrath. Audoen, King—’Maltreat is not spelled like that. But the seal appears authentic.” “Because it is authentic,” said Renfri, snatching the parchment from him. “It was affixed by Audoen, your merciful lord. That’s why I don’t advise you to maltreat me. Irrespective of how you spell it, the consequences for you would be lamentable. You are not, honorable Alderman, going to put me in prison. Or call me ‘young lady.’ I haven’t infringed any law. For the time being.” “If you infringe by even an inch”—Caldemeyn looked as if he wanted to spit—“I’ll throw you in the dungeon together with this piece of paper. I swear on all the gods, young lady. Come on, Geralt.” “With you, witcher.” Renfri touched Geralt’s shoulder. “I’d still like a word.” “Don’t be late for supper,” the alderman threw over his shoulder, “or Libushe will be furious.” “I won’t.”

Geralt leaned against the counter. Fiddling with the wolf’s head medallion hanging around his neck, he looked into the girl’s blue-green eyes.

“I’ve heard about you,” she said. “You’re Geralt, the white-haired witcher from Rivia. Is Stregobor your friend?” “No.”

“That makes things easier.”

“Not much. Don’t expect me to look on peacefully.”

Renfri’s eyes narrowed.

“Stregobor dies tomorrow,” she said quietly, brushing the unevenly cut hair off her forehead. “It would be the lesser evil if he died alone.” “If he did, yes. But in fact, before Stregobor dies, several other people will die too. I don’t see any other possibility.” “Several, witcher, is putting it mildly.”

“You need more than words to frighten me, Shrike.”

“Don’t call me Shrike. I don’t like it. The point is, I see other possibilities. It would be worth talking it over…but Libushe is waiting. Is she pretty, this Libushe?” “Is that all you had to say to me?”

“No. But you should go. Libushe’s waiting.”

IV

There was someone in his little attic room. Geralt knew it before he even reached the door, sensing it through the barely perceptible vibration of his medallion. He blew out the oil lamp which had lit his path up the stairs, pulled the dagger from his boot, slipped it into the back of his belt and pressed the door handle. The room was dark. But not for a witcher.

He was deliberately slow in crossing the threshold; he closed the door behind him carefully. The next second he dived at the person sitting on his bed, crushed them into the linen, forced his forearm under their chin and reached for his dagger. He didn’t pull it out. Something wasn’t right.

“Not a bad start,” she said in a muffled voice, lying motionless beneath him. “I expected something like this, but I didn’t think we’d both be in bed so quickly. Take your hand from my throat please.” “It’s you.”

“It’s me. Now there are two possibilities. The first: you get off me and we talk. The second: we stay in this position, in which case I’d like to take my boots off at least.” The witcher released the girl, who sighed, sat up and adjusted her hair and skirt.

“Light the candle,” she said. “I can’t see in the dark, unlike you, and I like to see who I’m talking to.” She approached the table—tall, slim, agile—and sat down, stretching out her long legs in their high boots. She wasn’t carrying any visible weapons.

“Have you got anything to drink here?”

“No.”

“Then it’s a good thing I brought something,” she laughed, placing a traveling wineskin and two leather tumblers on the table.

“It’s nearly midnight,” said Geralt coldly. “Shall we come to the point?” “In a minute. Here, have a drink. Here’s to you, Geralt.”

“Likewise, Shrike.”

“My name’s Renfri, dammit.” She raised her head. “I will permit you to omit my royal title, but stop calling me Shrike!” “Be quiet or you’ll wake the whole house. Am I finally going to learn why you crept in here through the window?” “You’re slow-witted, witcher. I want to save Blaviken from slaughter. I crawled over the rooftops like a she-cat in March in order to talk to you about it. Appreciate it.” “I do,” said Geralt. “Except that I don’t know what talk can achieve. The situation’s clear. Stregobor is in his tower, and you’d have to lay siege to it in order to get to him. If you do that, your letter of safe conduct won’t help you. Audoen won’t defend you if you openly break the law. The alderman, guards, the whole of Blaviken will stand against you.” “The whole of Blaviken would regret standing up to me.” Renfri smiled, revealing a predator’s white teeth. “Did you take a look at my boys? They know their trade, I assure you. Can you imagine what would happen in a fight between them and those dimwit guards who keep tripping over their own halberds?” “Do you imagine I would stand by and watch a fight like that? I’m staying at the alderman’s, as you can see. If the need arises, I should stand at his side.” “I have no doubt”—Renfri grew serious—“that you will. But you’ll probably be alone, as the rest will cower in the cellars. No warrior in the world could match seven swordsmen. So, white-hair, let’s stop threatening each other. As I said: slaughter and bloodshed can be avoided. There are two people who can prevent it.” “I’m all ears.”

“One,” said Renfri, “is Stregobor himself. He leaves his tower voluntarily, I take him to a deserted spot, and Blaviken sinks back into blissful apathy and forgets the whole affair.” “Stregobor may seem crazy, but he’s not that crazy.”

“Who knows, witcher, who knows. Some arguments can’t be denied, like the Tridam ultimatum. I plan to present it to the sorcerer.” “What is it, this ultimatum?”

“That’s my sweet secret.”

“As you wish. But I doubt it’ll be effective. Stregobor’s teeth chatter when he speaks of you. An ultimatum which would persuade him to voluntarily surrender himself into your beautiful hands would have to be pretty good. So who’s the other person? Let me guess.” “I wonder how sharp you are, white-hair.”

“It’s you, Renfri. You’ll reveal a truly princely—what am I saying, royal magnanimity and renounce your revenge. Have I guessed?” Renfri threw back her head and laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. Then she grew silent and fixed her shining eyes on the witcher.

“Geralt,” she said, “I used to be a princess. I had everything I could dream of. Servants at my beck and call, dresses, shoes. Cambric knickers. Jewels and trinkets, ponies, goldfish in a pond. Dolls, and a doll’s house bigger than this room. That was my life until Stregobor and that whore Aridea ordered a huntsman to butcher me in the forest and bring back my heart and liver. Lovely, don’t you think?” “No. I’m pleased you evaded the huntsman, Renfri.”

“Like shit I did. He took pity on me and let me go. After the son of a bitch raped me and robbed me.” Geralt, fiddling with his medallion, looked her straight in the eyes. She didn’t lower hers.

“That was the end of the princess,” she continued. “The dress grew torn, the cambric grew grubby. And then there was dirt, hunger, stench, stink and abuse. Selling myself to any old bum for a bowl of soup or a roof over my head. Do you know what my hair was like? Silk. And it reached a good foot below my hips. I had it cut right to the scalp with sheep-shears when I caught lice. It’s never grown back properly.” She was silent for a moment, idly brushing the uneven strands of hair from her forehead.

“I stole rather than starve to death. I killed to avoid being killed myself. I was locked in prisons which stank of urine, never knowing if they would hang me in the morning, or just flog me and release me. And through it all, my stepmother and your sorcerer were hard on my heels, with their poisons and assassins and spells. And you want me to reveal my magnanimity? To forgive him royally? I’ll tear his head off, royally, first.” “Aridea and Stregobor tried to poison you?”

“With an apple seasoned with nightshade. I was saved by a gnome, and an emetic I thought would turn my insides out. But I survived.” “Was that one of the seven gnomes?” Renfri, pouring wine, froze holding the wineskin over the tumbler.

“Ah,” she said. “You do know a lot about me. Yes? Do you have something against gnomes? Or humanoids? They were better to me than most people, not that it’s your business.

“Stregobor and Aridea hunted me like a wild animal as long as they could. Until I became the hunter. Aridea died in her own bed. She was lucky I didn’t get to her earlier—I had a special plan for her, and now I’ve got one for the sorcerer. Do you think he deserves to die?” “I’m no judge. I’m a witcher.”

“You are. I said that there were two people who could prevent bloodshed in Blaviken. The second is you. The sorcerer will let you into the tower. You could kill him.” “Renfri,” said Geralt calmly, “did you fall from the roof onto your head on the way to my room?” “Are you a witcher or aren’t you, dammit? They say you killed a kikimora and brought it here on a donkey to get a price for it. Stregobor is worse than the kikimora. It’s just a mindless beast which kills because that’s how the gods made it. Stregobor is a brute, a true monster. Bring him to me on a donkey and I won’t begrudge you any sum you care to mention.” “I’m not a hired thug, Shrike.”

“You’re not,” she agreed with a smile. She leaned back on the stool and crossed her legs on the table without the slightest effort to cover her thighs with her skirt. “You’re a witcher, a defender of people from evil. And evil is the steel and fire which will cause devastation here if we fight each other. Don’t you think I’m proposing a lesser evil, a better solution? Even for that son of a bitch Stregobor. You can kill him mercifully, with one thrust. He’ll die without knowing it. And I guarantee him quite the reverse.” Geralt remained silent.

Renfri stretched, raising her arms.

“I understand your hesitation,” she said. “But I need an answer now.” “Do you know why Stregobor and the king’s wife wanted to kill you?” Renfri straightened abruptly and took her legs off the table.

“It’s obvious,” she snarled. “I am heir to the throne. Aridea’s children were born out of wedlock and don’t have any right to—” “No.”

Renfri lowered her head, but only for a moment. Her eyes flashed. “Fine. I’m supposed to be cursed. Contaminated in my mother’s womb. I’m supposed to be…” “Yes?”

“A monster.”

“And are you?”

For a fleeting moment she looked helpless, shattered. And very sad.

“I don’t know, Geralt,” she whispered, and then her features hardened again. “Because how am I to know, dammit? When I cut my finger, I bleed. I bleed every month, too. I get bellyache when I overeat, and a hangover when I get drunk. When I’m happy I sing and I swear when I’m sad. When I hate someone I kill them and when—But enough of this! Your answer, witcher.” “My answer is no.”

“You remember what I said?” she asked after a moment’s silence. “There are offers you can’t refuse, the consequences are so terrible, and this is one of them. Think it over.” “I have thought carefully. And my suggestion was as serious.”

Renfri was silent for some time, fiddling with a string of pearls wound three times around her shapely neck before falling teasingly between her breasts, their curves just visible through the slit of her jacket.

“Geralt,” she said, “did Stregobor ask you to kill me?”

“Yes. He believed it was the lesser evil.”

“Can I believe you refused him, as you have me?”

“You can.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t believe in a lesser evil.”

Renfri smiled faintly, an ugly grimace in the yellow candlelight.

“You don’t believe in it, you say. Well you’re right, in a way. Only Evil and Greater Evil exist and beyond them, in the shadows, lurks True Evil. True Evil, Geralt, is something you can barely imagine, even if you believe nothing can still surprise you. And sometimes True Evil seizes you by the throat and demands that you choose between it and another, slightly lesser, Evil.” “What’s your goal here, Renfri?”

“Nothing. I’ve had a bit to drink and I’m philosophising. I’m looking for general truths. And I’ve found one: lesser evils exist, but we can’t choose them. Only True Evil can force us to such a choice. Whether we like it or not.” “Maybe I’ve not had enough to drink.” The witcher smiled sourly. “And in the meantime midnight’s passed, the way it does. Let’s speak plainly. You’re not going to kill Stregobor in Blaviken because I’m not going to let you. I’m not going to let it come to a slaughter here. So, for the second time, renounce your revenge. Prove to him, to everyone, that you’re not an inhuman and bloodthirsty monster. Prove he has done you great harm through his mistake.” For a moment Renfri watched the witcher’s medallion spinning as he twisted the chain.

“And if I tell you, witcher, that I can neither forgive Stregobor nor renounce my revenge then I admit that he is right, is that it? I’d be proving that I am a monster cursed by the gods? You know, when I was still new to this life, a freeman took me in. He took a fancy to me, even though I found him repellent. So every time he wanted to fuck me, he had to beat me so hard I could barely move, even the following day. One morning I rose while it was still dark and slashed his throat with a scythe. I wasn’t yet as skilled as I am now, and a knife seemed too small. And as I listened to him gurgle and choke, watched him kicking and flailing, I felt the marks left by his feet and fists fade, and I felt, oh, so great, so great that…I left him, whistling, sprightly, feeling so joyful, so happy. And it’s the same each time. If it wasn’t, who’d waste time on revenge?” “Renfri,” said Geralt. “Whatever your motives, you’re not going to leave here joyful and happy. But you’ll leave here alive, early tomorrow morning, as the alderman ordered. You’re not going to kill Stregobor in Blaviken.” Renfri’s eyes glistened in the candlelight, reflecting the flame; the pearls glowed in the slit of her jacket; the wolf medallion spinning round on its chain sparkled.

“I pity you,” she said slowly, gazing at the medallion. “You claim a lesser evil doesn’t exist. You’re standing on a flagstone running with blood, alone and so very lonely because you can’t choose, but you had to. And you’ll never know, you’ll never be sure, if you were right…And your reward will be a stoning, and a bad word. I pity you…” “And you?” asked the witcher quietly, almost in a whisper.

“I can’t choose, either.”

“What are you?”

“I am what I am.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m…cold…”

“Renfri!” Geralt squeezed the medallion tightly in his hand.

She tossed her head as if waking up, and blinked several times, surprised. For a very brief moment she looked frightened.

“You’ve won,” she said sharply. “You win, witcher. Tomorrow morning I’ll leave Blaviken and never return to this rotten town. Never. Now pass me the wineskin.” Her usual derisive smile returned as she put her empty tumbler back on the table. “Geralt?” “I’m here.”

“That bloody roof is steep. I’d prefer to leave at dawn than fall and hurt myself in the dark. I’m a princess and my body’s delicate. I can feel a pea under a mattress—as long as it’s not well-stuffed with straw, obviously. How about it?” “Renfri”—Geralt smiled despite himself—“is that really befitting of a princess?” “What do you know about princesses, dammit? I’ve lived as one and the joy of it is being able to do what you like. Do I have to tell you straight out what I want?” Geralt, still smiling, didn’t reply.

“I can’t believe you don’t find me attractive.” Renfri grimaced. “Are you afraid you’ll meet the freeman’s sticky fate? Eh, white-hair, I haven’t got anything sharp on me. Have a look for yourself.” She put her legs on his knees. “Pull my boots off. A high boot is the best place to hide a knife.” Barefoot, she got up, tore at the buckle of her belt. “I’m not hiding anything here, either. Or here, as you can see. Put that bloody candle out.” Outside, in the darkness, a cat yawled.

“Renfri?”

“What?”

“Is this cambric?”

“Of course it is, dammit. Am I a princess or not?”

V

“Daddy,” Marilka nagged monotonously, “when are we going to the market? To the market, Daddy!” “Quiet, Marilka,” grunted Caldemeyn, wiping his plate with his bread. “So what were you saying, Geralt? They’re leaving?” “Yes.”

“I never thought it would end so peacefully. They had me by the throat with that letter from Audoen. I put on a brave face but, to tell you the truth, I couldn’t do a thing to them.” “Even if they openly broke the law? Started a fight?”

“Even if they did. Audoen’s a very touchy king. He sends people to the scaffold on a whim. I’ve got a wife, a daughter, and I’m happy with my office. I don’t have to worry where the bacon will come from tomorrow. It’s good news that they’re leaving. But how, and why, did it happen?” “Daddy, I want to go to the market!”

“Libushe! Take Marilka away! Geralt, I asked Centurion, the Golden Court’s innkeeper, about that Novigradian company. They’re quite a gang. Some of them were recognized.” “Yes?”

“The one with the gash across his face is Nohorn, Abergard’s old adjutant from the so-called Free Angren Company—you’ll have heard of them. That hulk they call Fifteen was one of theirs too and I don’t think his nickname comes from fifteen good deeds. The half-elf is Civril, a brigand and professional murderer. Apparently, he had something to do with the massacre at Tridam.” “Where?”

“Tridam. Didn’t you hear of it? Everyone was talking about it three…Yes, three years ago. The Baron of Tridam was holding some brigands in the dungeons. Their comrades—one of whom was that half-blood Civril—seized a river ferry full of pilgrims during the Feast of Nis. They demanded the baron set those others free. The baron refused, so they began murdering pilgrims, one after another. By the time the baron released his prisoners they’d thrown a dozen pilgrims overboard to drift with the current—and following the deaths the baron was in danger of exile, or even of execution. Some blamed him for waiting so long to give in, and others claimed he’d committed a great evil in releasing the men, in setting a pre—precedent or something. The gang should have been shot from the banks, together with the hostages, or attacked on the boats; he shouldn’t have given an inch. At the tribunal the baron argued he’d had no choice, he’d chosen the lesser evil to save more than twenty-five people—women and children—on the ferry.” “The Tridam ultimatum,” whispered the witcher. “Renfri—”

“What?”

“Caldemeyn, the marketplace.”

“What?”

“She’s deceived us. They’re not leaving. They’ll force Stregobor out of his tower as they forced the Baron of Tridam’s hand. Or they’ll force me to…They’re going to start murdering people at the market; it’s a real trap!” “By all the gods—Where are you going? Sit down!”

Marilka, terrified by the shouting, huddled, keening, in the corner of the kitchen.

“I told you!” Libushe shouted, pointing to the witcher. “I said he only brings trouble!” “Silence, woman! Geralt? Sit down!”

“We have to stop them. Right now, before people go to the market. And call the guards. As the gang leaves the inn, seize them and hold them.” “Be reasonable. We can’t. We can’t touch a hair of their heads if they’ve done nothing wrong. They’ll defend themselves and there’ll be bloodshed. They’re professionals; they’ll slaughter my people, and it’ll be my head for it if word gets to Audoen. I’ll gather the guards, go to the market and keep an eye on them there—” “That won’t achieve anything, Caldemeyn. If the crowd’s already in the square, you can’t prevent panic and slaughter. Renfri has to be stopped right now, while the marketplace is empty.” “It’s illegal. I can’t permit it. It’s only a rumor the half-elf was at Tridam. You could be wrong, and Audoen would flay me alive.” “We have to take the lesser evil!”

“Geralt, I forbid it! As Alderman, I forbid it! Leave your sword! Stop!” Marilka was screaming, her hands pressed over her mouth.

VI

Shading his eyes with his hand, Civril watched the sun emerge from behind the trees. The marketplace was coming to life. Wagons and carts rumbled past and the first vendors were already filling their stalls. A hammer was banging, a cock crowing and seagulls screeched loudly overhead.

“Looks like a lovely day,” Fifteen said pensively.

Civril looked at him askance but didn’t say anything.

“The horses all right, Tavik?” asked Nohorn, pulling on his gloves.

“Saddled and ready. But, there’s still not many of them in the marketplace.” “There’ll be more.”

“We should eat.”

“Later.”

“Dead right. You’ll have time later. And an appetite.”

“Look,” said Fifteen suddenly.

The witcher was approaching from the main street, walking between stalls, coming straight toward them.

“Renfri was right,” Civril said. “Give me the crossbow, Nohorn.” He hunched over and, holding the strap down with his foot, pulled the string back. He placed the bolt carefully in the groove as the witcher continued to approach. Civril raised the crossbow.

“Not one step closer, witcher!”

Geralt stopped about forty paces from the group.

“Where’s Renfri?”

The half-blood’s pretty face contorted. “At the tower. She’s making the sorcerer an offer he can’t refuse. But she knew you would come. She left a message for you.” “Speak.”

“I am what I am. Choose. Either me, or a lesser.’ You’re supposed to know what it means.” The witcher nodded, raised his hand above his right shoulder, and drew his sword. The blade traced a glistening arc above his head. Walking slowly, he made his way toward the group.

Civril laughed nastily, ominously.

“Renfri said this would happen, witcher, and left us something special to give you. Right between the eyes.” The witcher kept walking, and the half-elf raised the crossbow to his cheek. It grew very quiet.

The bowstring hummed, the witcher’s sword flashed and the bolt flew upward with a metallic whine, spinning in the air until it clattered against the roof and rumbled into the gutter.

“He deflected it…” groaned Fifteen. “Deflected it in flight—”

“As one,” ordered Civril. Blades hissed as they were drawn from sheaths, the group pressed shoulder to shoulder, bristling with blades.

The witcher came on faster; his fluid walk became a run—not straight at the group quivering with swords, but circling it in a tightening spiral.

As Geralt circled the group, Tavik’s nerve failed. He rushed the witcher, the twins following him.

“Don’t disperse!” Civril roared, shaking his head and losing sight of the witcher. He swore and jumped aside, seeing the group fall apart, scattering around the market stalls.

Tavik went first. He was chasing the witcher when he saw Geralt running in the opposite direction, toward him. He skidded, trying to stop, but the witcher shot past before he could raise his sword. Tavik felt a hard blow just above his hip, fell to his knees and, when he saw his hip, started screaming.

The twins simultaneously attacked the black, blurred shape rushing toward them, mistimed their attack and collided with each other as Geralt slashed Vyr across the chest and Nimir in the temple, leaving one twin to stagger, head down, into a vegetable stall, and the other to spin in place and fall limply into the gutter.

The marketplace boiled with vendors running away, stalls clattering to the ground and screams rising in the dusty air. Tavik tried to stumble to his trembling legs and fell painfully to the ground.

“From the left, Fifteen!” Nohorn roared, running in a semi-circle to approach the witcher from behind.

Fifteen spun. But not quickly enough. He bore a thrust through the stomach, prepared to strike and was struck again in the neck, just below his ear. He took four unsteady steps and collapsed into a fish cart, which rolled away beneath him. Sliding over the slippery cargo, Fifteen fell onto the flagstones, silver with scales.

Civril and Nohorn struck simultaneously from both sides, the elf with a high sweeping cut, Nohorn from a kneeling position, low and flat. The witcher caught both, two metallic clangs merging into one. Civril leapt aside and tripped, catching himself against a stall as Nohorn warded off a blow so powerful it threw him backward to his knees. Leaping up, he parried too slowly, taking a gash in the face parallel to his old scar.

Civril bounced off the stall, jumping over Nohorn as he fell, missed the witcher and jumped away. The thrust was so sharp, so precise, he didn’t feel it; his legs only gave way when he tried to attack again. The sword fell from his hand, the tendons severed above the elbow. Civril fell to his knees and shook his head, trying and failing to rise. His head dropped, and among the shattered stalls and market wares, the scattered fish and cabbages, his body stilled in the center of a growing red puddle.

Renfri entered the marketplace.

She approached slowly with a soft, feline step, avoiding the carts and stalls. The crowd in the streets and by the houses, which had been humming like a hornet’s nest, grew silent. Geralt stood motionless, his sword in his lowered hand. Renfri came to within ten paces and stopped, close enough to see that, under her jacket, she wore a short coat of chain mail, barely covering her hips.

“You’ve made your choice,” she said slowly. “Are you sure it’s the right one?” “This won’t be another Tridam,” Geralt said with an effort.

“It wouldn’t have been. Stregobor laughed in my face. He said I could butcher Blaviken and the neighboring villages and he wouldn’t leave his tower. And he won’t let anyone in, not even you. Why are you looking at me like that? Yes, I deceived you. I’ll deceive anyone if I have to; why should you be special?” “Get out of here, Renfri.”

She laughed. “No, Geralt.” She drew her sword, quickly and nimbly.

“Renfri.”

“No. You made a choice. Now it’s my turn.” With one sharp move, she tore the skirt from her hips and spun it in the air, wrapping the material around her forearm. Geralt retreated and raised his hand, arranging his fingers in the Sign.

Renfri laughed hoarsely. “It doesn’t affect me. Only the sword will.” “Renfri,” he repeated. “Go. If we cross blades, I—I won’t be able—” “I know,” she said. “But I, I can’t do anything else. I just can’t. We are what we are, you and I.” She moved toward him with a light, swaying step, her sword glinting in her right hand, her skirt dragging along the ground from her left.

She leapt, the skirt fluttered in the air and, veiled in its tracks, the sword flashed in a short, sparing cut. Geralt jumped away; the cloth didn’t even brush him, and Renfri’s blade slid over his diagonal parry. He attacked instinctively, spinning their blades, trying to knock her weapon aside. It was a mistake. She deflected his blade and slashed, aiming for his face. He barely parried and pirouetted away, dodging her dancing blade and jumping aside again. She fell on him, threw the skirt into his eyes and slashed flatly from short range, spinning. Spinning with her, he avoided the blow. She knew the trick and turned with him, their bodies so close he could feel the touch of her breath as she ran the edge across his chest. He felt a twinge of pain, ignored it. He turned again, in the opposite direction, deflected the blade flying toward his temple, made a swift feint and attacked. Renfri sprang away as if to strike from above as Geralt lunged and swiftly slashed her exposed thigh and groin from below with the very tip of his sword.

She didn’t cry out. Falling to her side, she dropped her sword and clutched her thigh. Blood poured through her fingers in a bright stream over her decorated belt, elk-leather boots, and onto the dirty flagstones. The clamor of the swaying crowd, crammed in the streets, grew as they saw blood.

Geralt put up his sword.

“Don’t go…” she moaned, curling up in a ball.

He didn’t reply.

“I’m…cold…”

He said nothing. Renfri moaned again, curling up tighter as her blood flowed into the cracks between the stones.

“Geralt…Hold me…”

The witcher remained silent.

She turned her head, resting her cheek on the flagstones and was still. A fine dagger, hidden beneath her body until now, slipped from her numb fingers.

After a long moment, the witcher raised his head, hearing Stregobor’s staff tapping against the flagstones. The wizard was approaching quickly, avoiding the corpses.

“What slaughter,” he panted. “I saw it, Geralt. I saw it all in my crystal ball…” He came closer, bent over. In his trailing black robe, supported by his staff, he looked old.

“It’s incredible.” He shook his head. “Shrike’s dead.”

Geralt didn’t reply.

“Well, Geralt.” The wizard straightened himself. “Fetch a cart and we’ll take her to the tower for an autopsy.” He looked at the witcher and, not getting any answer, leaned over the body.

Someone the witcher didn’t know found the hilt of his sword and drew it. “Touch a single hair of her head,” said the person the witcher didn’t know, “touch her head and yours will go flying to the flagstones.” “Have you gone mad? You’re wounded, in shock! An autopsy’s the only way we can confirm—” “Don’t touch her!”

Stregobor, seeing the raised blade, jumped aside and waved his staff. “All right!” he shouted. “As you wish! But you’ll never know! You’ll never be sure! Never, do you hear, witcher?” “Be gone.”

“As you wish.” The wizard turned away, his staff hitting the flagstones. “I’m returning to Kovir. I’m not staying in this hole another day. Come with me rather than rot here. These people don’t know anything, they’ve only seen you killing. And you kill nastily, Geralt. Well, are you coming?” Geralt didn’t reply; he wasn’t looking at him. He put his sword away. Stregobor shrugged and walked away, his staff tapping rhythmically against the ground.

A stone came flying from the crowd and clattered against the flagstones. A second followed, whizzing past just above Geralt’s shoulder. The witcher, holding himself straight, raised both hands and made a swift gesture with them. The crowd heaved; the stones came flying more thickly but the Sign, protecting him behind an invisible oval shield, pushed them aside.

“Enough!” yelled Caldemeyn. “Bloody hell, enough of that!”

The crowd roared like a surge of breakers but the stones stopped flying. The witcher stood, motionless.

The alderman approached him.

“Is this,” he said, with a broad gesture indicating the motionless bodies strewn across the square, “how your lesser evil looks? Is this what you believed necessary?” “Yes,” replied Geralt slowly, with an effort.

“Is your wound serious?”

“No.”

“In that case, get out of here.”

“Yes,” said the witcher. He stood a moment longer, avoiding the alderman’s eyes. Then he turned away slowly, very slowly.

“Geralt.”

The witcher looked round.

“Don’t come back,” said Caldemeyn. “Never come back.”