Time of Contempt

  The half-elf picked up several documents from the lectern, tucking them away in his coat, along with the miniature. He then took a handful of quills from the inkwell and set light to them with one of the candlesticks. He turned them around slowly, allowing the fire take good hold and then threw them onto the lectern among the scrolls of parchment, which immediately burst into flames.

  Fenn screamed.

  The tall half-elf took a bottle of ink remover from the burning table, stood over the midget thrashing around on the floor and emptied the contents over him. Fenn gave a tormented howl. The other thug swept an armful of scrolls from a bookshelf and threw them over the cripple.

  The fire on the lectern had just reached the ceiling. A second, smaller bottle of solvent exploded with a roar, the flames licking the bookshelves. The scrolls, rolls and files began to blacken, curl up and catch fire. Fenn wailed. The tall half-elf stepped back from the burning pulpit, twisted up a second piece of paper and lit it. The second thug threw another armful of vellum scrolls on the cripple.

  Fenn screamed.

  The half-elf stood over him, holding the burning brand.

  Codringher’s black and white cat alighted on a nearby wall. In its yellow eyes danced the reflection of the fire, which had transformed the pleasant night into this horrific parody of day. People were screaming. Fire! Fire! Water! People ran towards the building. The cat froze, watching them with astonishment and contempt. Those idiots were clearly heading towards the fiery abyss, from which it had only just managed to extricate itself.

  Turning away, unconcerned, Codringher’s cat went back to licking its bloodstained paws.

  Ciri awoke covered in sweat, with her hands painfully gripping the sheets. Everything was quiet, and the soft darkness was pierced by a dagger-like shaft of moonlight.

  A fire. An inferno. Blood. A nightmare . . . I don’t remember, I don’t remember anything . . .

  She took a deep breath of the crisp night air. The sense of stuffiness had vanished. She knew why.

  The protective charms had stopped working.

  Something’s happened, thought Ciri. She jumped out of bed and quickly dressed. She belted on her dagger. She didn’t have a sword any more; Yennefer had taken it from her, giving it to Dandelion for safekeeping. The poet must have gone to sleep, and it was silent in Loxia. Ciri was already wondering whether to go and wake him when she felt a strong pulse and a rush of blood in her ears.

  The shaft of moonlight coming through the window became a road. At the end of the road, far away, was a door. The door opened and Yennefer stood there.

  ‘Come with me.’

  Other doors opened behind the sorceress’s back. One after the other. An endless succession. The black shapes of columns crystallised from the darkness. Not columns – perhaps they’re statues . . . I’m dreaming, thought Ciri, I don’t believe my eyes. I’m dreaming. That isn’t a road. It’s light, a shaft of light. I can’t go along that . . .

  ‘Come with me.’

  She obeyed.

  Had it not been for the foolish scruples of the Witcher, and his impractical principles, many subsequent events would have run their course quite differently. Many events would probably have not taken place at all. And the history of the world would have unfolded in an alternative way.

  But the history of the world unfolded as it unfolded, the sole cause of which was that the Witcher had scruples. When he awoke in the morning with the need to relieve himself, he didn’t do what any other man would have done; he didn’t go out onto the balcony and piss into a flowerpot of nasturtiums. He had scruples. He dressed quietly without waking Yennefer, who was sleeping deeply, motion less and barely breathing. He left the chamber and went out to the garden.

  The banquet was still in progress but, as the sounds indicated, only in a fragmentary form. The lights were still burning in the ball room windows, illuminating the atrium and beds of peonies. The Witcher went a little further in, among some dense bushes, where he stared at the lightening sky. The horizon was already burning with the purple streaks of dawn.

  As he slowly returned, pondering important matters, his medallion vibrated powerfully. He held it in his hand, feeling the vibrations penetrate his entire body. There was no doubt; someone in Aretuza had cast a spell. Geralt listened carefully and heard some muffled shouts, and a clattering and pounding coming from the cloister in the palace’s left wing.

  Anyone else would have turned on their heels at once and walked briskly back to where they’d come from, pretending they hadn’t heard anything. And then perhaps the history of the world would have unfolded differently. But the Witcher had scruples and was accustomed to acting according to foolish, impractical principles.

  When he ran into the cloister and the corridor, he saw that a fight was in progress. Several tough-looking men in grey jerkins were in the act of overpowering a short sorcerer who had been thrown to the ground. The fight was being directed by Dijkstra, chief of Vizimir, King of Redania’s intelligence service. Before Geralt was able to take any action he was overpowered himself; two other heavies in grey pinned him to a wall, and a third held the three-pronged blade of a partisan against his chest.

  All the heavies had breastplates emblazoned with the Redanian eagle.

  ‘That’s called “being in the shit”,’ explained Dijkstra quietly, approaching him. ‘And you, Witcher, seem to have an inborn talent for falling into it. Stand there nice and peacefully and try not to attract anyone’s attention.’

  The Redanians finally overpowered the short sorcerer and lifted him up, holding him by his arms. It was Artaud Terranova, a member of the Chapter.

  The light which made the details visible emanated from an orb suspended above Keira Metz’s head – a sorceress with whom Geralt had been chatting at the banquet the previous evening. He barely recognised her; she had exchanged her flowing tulle for severe male clothing, and she had a dagger at her side.

  ‘Handcuff him,’ she ordered curtly. A set of handcuffs made of a bluish metal clinked in her hand.

  ‘Don’t you dare put those on me!’ yelled Terranova. ‘Don’t you dare, Metz! I am a member of the Chapter!’

  ‘You were. Now you’re a common traitor. And you will be treated as such.’

  ‘And you’re a lousy whore, who—’

  Keira took a step back, swayed her hips and punched him in the face with all her strength. The sorcerer’s head jerked backwards so hard that for a moment Geralt thought it would be torn from his trunk. Terranova lolled in the arms of the men holding him, blood streaming from his nose and mouth. The sorceress didn’t strike him a second time, though her fist was raised. The Witcher saw the flash of brass knuckles on her fingers. He wasn’t surprised. Keira was very lightly built, and a blow like that couldn’t have been dealt with a bare fist.

  He didn’t move. The thugs were holding him tightly, and the point of the partisan was pressing against his chest. Geralt wasn’t sure if he would have moved, had he been free, or whether he would have known what to do.

  The Redanians snapped the handcuffs around the sorcerer’s wrists, which were twisted behind his back. Terranova cried out, struggled, bent over and retched and Geralt realised what the handcuffs were made of. It was an alloy of iron and dimeritium, a rare metal characterised by its inhibition of magical powers. The inhibition was accompanied by a set of rather unpleasant side effects for sorcerers.

  Keira Metz raised her head, pulling her hair back from her forehead. And then she saw him.

  ‘What the bloody hell is he doing here? How did he get here?’

  ‘He just stepped in,’ answered Dijkstra unemotionally. ‘He’s got a talent for putting his foot in it. What shall I do with him?’

  Keira’s face darkened and she stamped several times with the high heel of her boot.

  ‘Guard him. I don’t have time now.’

  She walked quickly away, followed by the Redanians who were dragging Terranova behind them. The shining orb floated behind the sorceress, alth
ough it was already dawn and quickly becoming light. On a signal from Dijkstra, the thugs released Geralt. The spy came closer and looked the Witcher in the eyes.

  ‘Don’t try anything.’

  ‘What’s happening here? What—?’

  ‘And don’t utter a word.’

  Keira Metz returned a short time later; but not alone. She was accompanied by a flaxen-haired sorcerer, introduced to Geralt on the previous day as Detmold of Ban Ard. At the sight of the Witcher, he cursed and smacked his fist into his palm.

  ‘Shit! Is he the one Yennefer’s taken a liking to?’

  ‘Yes, that’s him,’ said Keira. ‘Geralt of Rivia. The problem is, I don’t know about Yennefer . . .’

  ‘I don’t know either,’ said Detmold, shrugging his shoulders. ‘In any case, he’s mixed up in this now. He’s seen too much. Take him to Philippa; she’ll decide. Put him in handcuffs.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ said Dijkstra with a languid air. ‘I’ll answer for him. I’ll take him to where he ought to be.’

  ‘Excellent,’ nodded Detmold, ‘because we have no time for him. Come on, Keira, it’s a mess up there . . .’

  ‘Oh, but aren’t they anxious?’ muttered the Redanian spy, watching them walk away. ‘It’s lack of experience, nothing more. And coups d’état and putsches are like green beet soup. They’re best served cold. Let’s go, Geralt. And remember: peacefully and with dignity. Don’t make a scene. And don’t make me regret not having you handcuffed or tied up.’

  ‘What’s happening, Dijkstra?’

  ‘Haven’t you guessed yet?’ said the spy, walking beside him, with the three Redanian heavies bringing up the rear. ‘Tell me straight, Witcher. How did you wind up here?’

  ‘I was worried about the nasturtiums wilting.’

  ‘Geralt,’ said Dijkstra, frowning at him. ‘You’ve fallen head first into the shit. You’ve swum upwards, and you’re holding your head above the surface, but your feet still aren’t touching the bottom. Someone’s offering you a helping hand, at the risk of falling in and getting covered in it himself. So drop the foolish jokes. Yennefer made you come here, did she?’

  ‘No. Yennefer’s still asleep in a warm bed. Does that reassure you?’

  The huge spy turned suddenly, seized the Witcher by the arms and shoved him against the wall of the corridor.

  ‘No, it doesn’t reassure me, you bloody fool,’ he hissed. ‘Haven’t you got it yet, you idiot, that decent sorcerers who are faithful to kings aren’t asleep tonight? That they didn’t go to bed at all? Only traitors who have sold out to Nilfgaard are asleep in their warm beds. Traitors, who were preparing a putsch of their own, but for a later date. They didn’t know their plans had been rumbled and their intentions second-guessed. And as you can see, they’re being dragged out of those warm beds, getting smacked in the teeth with knuckledusters, and having dimeritium bracelets wrapped around their wrists. The traitors are finished. Get it? If you don’t want to go down with them, stop playing the fool! Did Vilgefortz manage to recruit you yesterday evening? Or perhaps Yennefer already did. Talk! And fast, before your mouth is flooded with shit!’

  ‘Green beet soup, Dijkstra,’ reminded Geralt. ‘Take me to Philippa. Peacefully and with dignity. And without causing a scene.’

  The spy released him and took a step back.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said coldly. ‘Up these stairs. But this conversation isn’t over yet. I promise you.’

  It was bright from the light of lanterns and magical orbs floating beneath the column which supported the vaulting, at the point where four corridors joined. The place was heaving with Redanians and sorcerers. Among the latter were two members of the Council: Radcliffe and Sabrina Glevissig. Sabrina, like Keira Metz, was dressed in grey men’s apparel. Geralt realised it was possible to identify the different factions within the putsch by their uniforms.

  Triss Merigold crouched on the floor, hunched over a body which was lying in a pool of blood. Geralt recognised the body as that of Lydia van Bredevoort. He knew her by her hair and silk dress. He couldn’t have recognised her by her face because it was no longer a face. It was a horrifying, macabre skull, with shining teeth exposed halfway up the cheeks, and a distorted, sunken jaw, the bones badly knitted together.2

  ‘Cover her up,’ said Sabrina Glevissig softly. ‘When she died, the illusion vanished . . . I said bloody cover her up with something!’

  ‘How did it happen, Radcliffe?’ asked Triss, withdrawing her hand from the gilded haft of the dagger which was embedded beneath Lydia’s sternum. ‘How could it have happened? This was supposed to be bloodless!’

  ‘She attacked us,’ muttered the sorcerer and lowered his head. ‘She attacked us as Vilgefortz was being escorted out. There was a scuffle . . . I have no idea . . . It’s her own dagger.’

  ‘Cover her face!’ said Sabrina, suddenly turning away. She saw Geralt, and her predatory eyes shone like anthracite.

  ‘How did he get here?’

  Triss leapt to her feet and sprang towards the Witcher. Geralt saw her hand right in front of his face. Then he saw a flash, and everything faded into darkness. He couldn’t see. He felt a hand on his collar and a sharp tug.

  ‘Hold him up or he’ll fall,’ said Triss, her voice unnatural, feigning anger. She jerked him again, pulling him towards her for a moment.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she whispered hurriedly. ‘I had to do that.’

  Dijkstra’s men held him fast.

  He moved his head around, activating his other senses. There were movements in the corridors and the air rippled, carrying scents with it. And voices. Sabrina Glevissig swore; Triss mollified her. The Redanians, reeking of an army barracks, dragged the limp body across the floor, rustling the silk of the dress. Blood. The smell of blood. And the smell of ozone; the scent of magic. Raised voices. Footsteps. The nervous clattering of heels.

  ‘Hurry up! It’s all taking too long! We ought to be in Garstang by now!’

  That was Philippa Eilhart. Sounding anxious.

  ‘Sabrina, find Marti Södergren quickly. Drag her out of bed, if necessary. Gedymdeith’s in a bad way. I think it’s a heart attack. Have Marti see to him but don’t say anything to her or to whoever she’s sleeping with. Triss, find Dorregaray, Drithelm and Carduin and bring them to Garstang.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘They represent the kings. Ethain and Esterad are to be informed about our operation and its consequences. You’ll be taking them . . . Triss, you have blood on your hand! Whose is it?’

  ‘Lydia’s.’

  ‘Damn it. When? How?’

  ‘Is it important how?’ said a cold, calm voice. The voice of Tissaia de Vries. The rustle of a dress. Tissaia was in a ball gown, not a rebel uniform. Geralt listened carefully but could not hear the jingling of dimeritium handcuffs.

  ‘Are you pretending to be worried?’ repeated Tissaia. ‘Concerned? When revolts are organised, when armed thugs are deployed at night, you have to expect casualties. Lydia is dead. Hen Gedymdeith is dying. A moment ago I saw Artaud with his face carved up. How many more casualties will there be, Philippa Eilhart?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ answered Philippa resolutely. ‘But I’m not backing down.’

  ‘Of course not. You don’t back down from anything.’

  The air vibrated, and heels thudded on the floor in a familiar rhythm. Philippa walked towards him. He remembered the nervous rhythm of her footsteps when they were walking through the hall at Aretuza together, to feast on caviar. He recalled the scent of cinnamon and muskroot. Now, that scent was mixed with the smell of baking soda. Geralt had no intention of participating in any kind of coup or putsch, but wondered whether – had he decided to – he would have thought about cleaning his teeth beforehand.

  ‘He can’t see you, Phil,’ said Dijkstra nonchalantly. ‘He can’t see anything and didn’t see anything. The one with the beautiful hair blinded him.’

  He heard Philippa’s breath and sensed every one of her movements
but moved his head around awkwardly, simulating helplessness. The enchantress was not to be fooled.

  ‘Don’t bother pretending, Geralt. Triss may have darkened your eyes but she didn’t take away your mind. How the hell did you end up here?’

  ‘I dropped in. Where’s Yennefer?’

  ‘Blessed are they who do not know,’ said Philippa, in a voice devoid of mockery. ‘For they will live longer. Be grateful to Triss. It was a soft spell; the blindness will soon pass. And you didn’t see anything you weren’t meant to. Guard him, Dijkstra. I’ll be right back.’

  There was a disturbance again. And voices. Keira Metz’s resonant soprano, Radcliffe’s nasal bass. The clatter of heavy Redanian boots. And Tissaia de Vries’s raised voice.

  ‘Let her go! How could you? How could you do that to her?’

  ‘She’s a traitress!’ responded Radcliffe’s nasal voice.

  ‘I will never believe that!’

  ‘Blood’s thicker than water,’ said Philippa Eilhart, coldly. ‘And Emperor Emhyr has promised the elves freedom. As well as their own, independent state. Here, in these lands. After the humans have been slaughtered, naturally. And that was sufficient for her to betray us without a second thought.’

  ‘Answer!’ said Tissaia de Vries forcefully. ‘Answer her, Enid!’

  ‘Answer, Francesca.’

  The clinking of dimeritium handcuffs. The singsong, elven lilt of Francesca Findabair, the Daisy of the Valleys, the most beautiful woman in the world.

  ‘Va vort a me, Dh’oine. N’aen te a dice’n.’

  ‘Will that suffice, Tissaia?’ barked Philippa. ‘Will you believe me now? You, me, all of us, are – and always were – Dh’oine, humans, to her. And she, Aen Seidhe, has nothing to say to humans. And you, Fercart? What did Vilgefortz and Emhyr promise you, that made you choose treachery?’

  ‘Go to hell, you debauched slut.’

  Geralt held his breath, but this time didn’t hear the sound of brass knuckles hitting bone. Philippa was more composed than Keira. Or she didn’t have any brass knuckles.