‘I bid you welcome, Master, welcome.’ Drouhard, dressed in his finest clothes, seized them and led them to the center of the warehouse. ‘And welcome to you, Sir Gerard… It is a great honor… Yes… Allow me… Venerable ladies and gentlemen! Here is our honorable host, who does us the honor of honoring us… Master Dandelion, the famous singer and writer of verse… and poet! who honors us with this very great honor… Honors us so…’
The cries of joy and applause drowned out Drouhard's stammered speech before he could choke. Dandelion, proud as a peacock, adopted a manner equal to the occasion and bowed deeply before gesturing with his hand to the young girls sitting in a row, like chickens on their perch, and were monitored, from the second row, by a squad of old matrons. The girls didn't flinch, giving the impression that they had been affixed to the bench with carpenter's glue or something equally effective. Without exception, they held their hands flat on their knees and kept their mouths open.
‘Well then!’ Drouhard called, ‘come, drink beer, my friends! And eat! Over here, over here! By the grace of…’
The girl dressed in blue fought her way through the crowd that rushed, like a wave against the reefs, toward the tables laden with food.
‘Hi, Dandelion,’ she said.
Especially since he began traveling with Dandelion, Geralt considered expressions such as ‘eyes like the stars,’ which the bard used to indiscriminately compliment the girls, to be banal and trite. In the case of Essi Daven, even someone as deaf to poetry as Geralt must concede that the expression was nonetheless fitting. In a cute and friendly little face distinguished by nothing in particular, there burned and shone a dark blue eye, beautiful, huge, hypnotic. The second eye of Essi Daven was mostly covered by a golden circlet that fell across her cheek, which she habitually adjusted by shaking her head or puffing at it: thus the second eye of Small-Eye was unveiled, revealing a perfect similarity with the first.
‘Hi, Little-Eye,’ Dandelion replied with a grin. ‘You sang a beautiful ballad earlier. You have significantly improved your repertoire. I've always said that when one can't write one's own verse, one must borrow it from others. Is that common practice for you?’
‘Not really,’ Essi Daven replied, tit for tat, with a smile that revealed small white teeth. ‘It's been known to happen. Not as often as I would like, but I usually don't have the option: the lyrics are poorly written and the melodies, while certainly enjoyable and unpretentious in their simplicity – if not downright simplistic – don't measure up to my listeners' expectations. You've written something new, Dandelion? I hadn't heard.’
‘Not surprisingly,’ the bard replied with a sigh. ‘I sing my ballads in places where only the most gifted and famous artists are invited: just the kind of place where I never see you.’
Essi flushed crimson and blew on her circlet.
‘It is a fact,’ she said, ‘that I am not in the habit of frequenting brothels. I find their atmosphere depressing. It saddens me that you have to perform in such places, but so it goes. When you have no talent, you don't have the luxury of choosing your audience.’
This time, it was Dandelion who blushed hotly. Little-Eye smiled happily and immediately fell upon his neck, kissing him noisily on the cheek. The witcher was surprised, but only a little. A colleague of Dandelion could hardly be expected to be less unpredictable than Dandelion himself.
‘Dandelion, you dear old fool!’ Essi said, continuing the hug. ‘I'm so glad to see you in good health, physical and mental.’
‘Hey, Doll.’ Dandelion lifted the tiny girl and whirled her around until the ruffles of her dress twirled. ‘You were wonderful, by the gods. I haven't heard such lovely wickedness in a long time. Your quarrels are even better than your singing. And you are beautiful too!’
‘How many times have I told you,’ Essi said, puffing on her circlet and then looking to Geralt, ‘not to call me 'Doll,' Dandelion? Besides, it's about time that you introduced your companion, who I see is not a colleague of ours.’
‘Thank the gods for that,’ cried the bard, laughing. ‘He has neither voice nor ear for poetry, Doll – at best, he knows how to combine booze and syphilis. This is a representative of the witcher trade: Geralt of Rivia. Come here, Geralt, and kiss Little-Eye's hand.’
The witcher approached without knowing how to react. The kissing of hands was generally practiced on the rings of duchesses, before whom it was necessary to kneel. In regards to women of less exalted rank, here in the South the gesture was considered a mark of eroticism and remained reserved only for established couples.
Little-Eye, however, dispelled Geralt's doubts by energetically extending a hand with the fingers pointed down. The witcher took her hand clumsily and kissed it. The cheeks of Essi, who had kept one eye fixed on him, colored.
‘Geralt of Rivia!’ she said. ‘You don't keep company with just anyone, Dandelion.’
‘It's my honor,’ murmured the witcher, aware that he sounded no more eloquent than Drouhard. ‘Madam…’
‘To hell with all that,’ growled Dandelion. ‘Stop making Little-Eye uncomfortable with your titles and your stuttering. Her name is Essi and Essi, his name is Geralt. Introductions are over. Time to get serious, Doll.’
‘If you call me 'Doll' again, I'll smack your ear. What are these serious matters we need to discuss?’
‘We need to decide the order of our program. I propose that we take turns performing our ballads. This will have the best effect. Of course, everyone will sing his own ballads.’
‘Maybe.’
‘How much is Drouhard paying you?’
‘That's none of your business. Who's going to start?’
‘Me.’
‘Agreed. Hey! Look who's decided to honor us with his presence! That's Duke Agloval. He just came in, look.’
‘Hey, hey! The quality of the audience rises,’ Dandelion said joyfully. ‘But there is no room for complacency either: Agloval is a miser. Geralt can attest to that. The duke loathes giving up his coin. He hires people, it's true, but as for settling the accounts afterward…’
‘I heard about that.’ Essi pushed back her circlet and looked at Geralt. ‘It was being discussed at the port and on the docks. This is about the famous Sh'eenaz, is it not?’
Agloval answered the deep reverence of the honor guard at the door with a curt nod and walked directly toward Drouhard, whom he drew into a corner, which prevented him from drawing the attention of the guests at the center of the room. Geralt watched them out of the corner of his eye. The conversation took place in low tones, but the two speakers seemed extremely agitated. Drouhard could not stop wiping his forehead with his sleeve, turning his head, and scratching his neck. At his questions the duke, his expression stiff and dour, responded by shrugging his shoulders.
‘The duke,’ Essi said in a low voice, pressing against Geralt, ‘seems preoccupied. Could it still be a matter of the heart? This morning's misunderstanding with the famous little mermaid? What do you think, witcher?’
‘Could be.’ Geralt, strangely surprised and irritated by the question, afforded the poet a furtive glance. ‘Everyone has his own problems. Not all of us can get by singing at fairs.’
Little-Eye paled slightly. She puffed at her circlet, eying him with an air of challenge.
‘By saying that, did you hope to hurt me or simply offend me?’
‘Neither. I only intended to stave off the other questions about the problems of Agloval and his mermaid that I don't feel able to answer.’
‘I understand.’ The pretty eye of Essi Daven narrowed slightly. ‘I will not present you with any more such dilemmas. I will not ask the questions I would like to ask and that I was considering, to be honest, to be an invitation to a friendly conversation. Thus there will be no discussion between us. Have no fear; it will not become the subject of a song at a fair. The pleasure was all mine.’
She turned her back quickly to move to a respectable distance toward the tables. Dandelion shifted his stance and mutter
ed:
‘You can't say that you were friendly to her, Geralt.’
‘I admit, it's stupid,’ responded the witcher. ‘I hurt her for no reason. Maybe I'd better go and offer her an apology…’
‘Stop,’ said the bard, adding solemnly, ‘It's difficult to correct the first impression. Come, let's pour the beer instead.’
They didn't have time to drink their beer because Drouhard, extracting himself from conversation with a group of citizens, accosted them:
‘Lord Gerard,’ he said, ‘excuse me. His Lordship the Duke wants to speak with you.’
‘I'm coming.’
Dandelion took the witcher's sleeve.
‘Geralt, don't forget.’
‘What?’
‘You made a promise to accept whatever missions you are proposed without sulking. I have your word. How did you put it? A little dedication?’
‘I know, Dandelion. But how do you know that Agloval…’
‘I have a nose for it, remember, Geralt.’
‘Sure, Dandelion.’
He went with Drouhard to a corner of the room, far from the guests. Agloval was sitting on a low stool. At his side was a swarthy man in colorful clothing and a short black beard. Geralt had not noticed him earlier.
‘We meet again, witcher,’ the duke began, ‘in spite of my oath this morning never to see you again. But I have no other witcher at hand. You will have to do. Meet Zelest, my steward in charge of pearl diving.’
‘This morning,’ the swarthy man intoned quietly, ‘I wanted to extend our fishing area. A boat went adrift farther west, behind the cape, in the direction of the Dragon's Teeth.’
‘The Dragon's Teeth,’ put in Agloval, ‘are two grand volcanic reefs that emerge from the tip of the cape. They are visible from the shore.’
‘Yes,’ Zelest confirmed. ‘In general, we don't sail there because there are many whirlpools and rocks. Diving is dangerous. But on the shore, there are fewer and fewer pearls. Therefore a boat was sent there with a seven-man crew: two sailors and five divers. That night, when they did not return, we grew worried, even though the sea was as flat as oil. I sent two fast skiffs which found the boat adrift. Not a soul was aboard. Vanished without a trace. It's impossible to know what happened. But there was a fight. Massacre. Signs…’
The witcher blinked.
‘What signs?’
‘Deck covered with blood.’
Drouhard whistled and glanced anxiously around. Zelest lowered his voice:
‘It is just as I say,’ he repeated, clenching his teeth. ‘Boat covered in blood. Butchery. Something has murdered people. One might say a sea monster. Yes, undoubtedly a sea monster.’
‘No pirates?’ Geralt asked quietly. ‘No competing pearl divers? You have ruled out the possibility that they were boarded and attacked with ordinary knives?’
‘We have ruled it out,’ replied the duke. ‘There are neither pirates nor competition in the area. Piracy does not end with the disappearance of all crew members without exception. No, Geralt, Zelest is right. It's the work of a sea monster, nothing else. Listen, no-one dares go out to sea, even in the corners that are well-marked and familiar. People are paralyzed by fear. The port is at a standstill. Even the ships and galleys do not leave the dock. You see, witcher?’
‘I understand,’ said Geralt with a nod of his head. ‘Who will show me the place?’
‘Ah!’ Agloval rested his hand on the table and drummed his fingers. ‘I like that. Finally a reaction from the witcher. Let's not quibble over the details. You see, Drouhard: a good witcher is a hungry witcher. Isn't that so, Geralt? Without your musician friend, you would still go to sleep tonight without a bite to eat! This is good news for you, isn't it?’
Drouhard bowed his head. Zelest looked blankly at him.
‘Who will show me the place?’ Geralt repeated, staring coldly at Agloval.
‘Zelest,’ said the duke, his smile fading. ‘When will you get to work?’
‘Tomorrow morning. Be on the pier, sir Zelest.’
‘Yes, master witcher.’
‘Great.’ The duke rubbed his hands with a new and mocking smile. ‘Geralt, I hope the adventure with this monster ends better than the one with Sh'eenaz. I'm counting on it. Ah, one more thing. I forbid you to discuss this matter. I don't want to cause panic over anything more important than what I already have on my back. Is that understood, Drouhard? I will have your tongue ripped out if it appears that you have loose lips.’
‘I understand, Duke.’
‘Good.’ Agloval rose. ‘I'll go before I spoil your fun and feed the rumor. Farewell, Drouhard, I want you to give all my best wishes to the couple.’
‘Thank you, Duke.’
Essi Daven, sitting on a stool and surrounded by a dense ring of listeners, was singing a melodious and nostalgic ballad about the misfortunes of a woman betrayed. Leaning against a pole, Dandelion mumbled something under his breath, counting the time and the syllables on his fingers.
‘So,’ he asked, ‘you've found some work?’
‘Yes.’
The witcher did not go into details, about which the bard cared little.
‘I told you. I have a flair for money. Good, very good. I earn a little coin and so do you. We're going to treat ourselves. Then we'll go to Cidaris for the harvest festival. But excuse me a moment: I've spotted something interesting on the bench.’
Geralt followed the poet's gaze, but apart from the dozen girls with their lips parted, he noticed nothing of interest. Dandelion straightened his jacket, tipped his hat at a jaunty angle and went, fully immersed in his role, toward the bench. Dodging the attending matrons with a sidelong maneuver, he began his ritual with a charming smile.
Essi Daven ended her ballad. The audience gave her its applause, a small purse, and a large bouquet of chrysanthemums, admittedly a little faded.
The witcher strolled into the crowd of guests in search of an opportunity to find a place at the table of food. With dismay, he saw the rapid disappearance of pickled herring, stuffed cabbage, boiled codfish heads, mutton chops, slices of salami, slices of smoked salmon and ham; the problem was that there were no places free.
The young girls and the matrons surrounded Dandelion with some excitement and asked him to sing a song. He replied with an insincere smile and gave a refusal out of false modesty.
Having conquered his politeness, Geralt finally managed to seat himself at the table: an elderly man, smelling strongly of vinegar, helpfully and forcefully cleared a space by almost toppling the bench along with all his neighbors. Geralt did not wait to start eating. In the blink of an eye he emptied the only dish he could reach. The man who reeked of vinegar slid him another. To thank him, Geralt was forced to listen patiently to a long tirade on youth and modern times. The man equated social liberties with flatulence. Geralt had trouble keeping a straight face.
Essi stood against the wall, alone amid the branches of mistletoe, in the process of tuning her lute. The witcher saw a young man dressed in a brocade doublet bend close to her and say something with a faint smile. Essi looked at him and pursed her pretty lips, responding with a few quick words. The young man stiffened and turned sharply on his heel. His ears, red as rubies, glowed for a long time in the semi-darkness of the room.
‘… horror, shame and humiliation,’ continued the man who smelled of vinegar. ‘An enormous flatulence, sir.’
‘I'm sure you're right,’ Geralt replied without conviction, wiping his plate with a piece of bread.
‘Venerable lords and excellencies, we humbly ask for silence,’ cried Drouhard at the center of the room. ‘The famous Master Dandelion will sing for us, despite his fatigue and mild illness, the famous ballad of Queen Marienn and the black crow! He performs at the personal request of Miss Veverka, our beloved miller's daughter whom, I quote Master Dandelion, he cannot refuse!’
Miss Veverka, one of the less pretty girls on the bench, was transformed in the twinkling of an eye. A tumult of applause cover
ed the recurring flatulence of the man who smelled of vinegar. Dandelion waited for complete silence before entering into a dramatic introduction and began to sing without taking his eyes from Miss Veverka. The young girl grew more attractive from couplet to couplet. A little flirtation is more effective than all the creams and magic essences that Yennefer sells in her boutique in Vengerberg, thought Geralt.
He noticed Essi sneak behind the semicircle of Dandelion's listeners and discreetly vanish out to the terrace. Driven by a strange impulse, he politely left the table and followed after her.
Leaning against the railing, Essi leaned on her elbows, her head held between her slender arms. Her gaze was lost in the waves of the sea that were highlighted by the light of the moon and the lamps of the port. The wood creaked under Geralt's feet. Essi straightened.