Time of Contempt

  ‘Radcliffe, take the traitors to Garstang! Detmold, give your arm to Arch-Mistress de Vries. Go. I’ll join you soon.’

  Footsteps. The scent of cinnamon and muskroot.

  ‘Dijkstra.’

  ‘I’m here, Phil.’

  ‘Your men are no longer needed here. They may return to Loxia.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure—’

  ‘To Loxia, Dijkstra!’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace.’ There was scorn in the spy’s voice. ‘The lackeys can leave. They’ve done their bidding. Now it is a private matter for the mages. And thus I, without further ado, will leave Your Grace’s beautiful presence. I didn’t expect gratitude for my help or my contribution to your putsch, but I am certain that Your Grace will keep me in her gracious memory.’

  ‘Forgive me, Sigismund. Thank you for your help.’

  ‘Not at all. It was my pleasure. Hey, Voymir, get your men. I want five to stay with me. Take the others downstairs and board The Spada. But do it quietly, on tiptoe, without any fuss, commotion or fireworks. Use side corridors. Don’t breathe a word of this in Loxia or in the harbour. That’s an order!’

  ‘You didn’t see anything, Geralt,’ said Philippa Eilhart in a whisper, wafting cinnamon, muskroot and baking soda onto the Witcher. ‘You didn’t hear anything. You never spoke to Vilgefortz. Dijkstra will take you to Loxia now. I’ll try to find you when . . . when it’s all over. I promised you as much yesterday and I’ll keep my word.’

  ‘What about Yennefer?’

  ‘I’d say he’s obsessed,’ said Dijkstra, returning and shuffling his feet. ‘Yennefer, Yennefer . . . It’s getting tedious. Don’t bother yourself with him, Phil. There are more important things to do. Was the expected item found on Vilgefortz?’

  ‘Indeed. Here, this is for you.’

  ‘Oh!’ The rustle of paper being unwrapped. ‘Oh my, oh my! Excellent! Duke Nitert. Splendid! Baron—’

  ‘Discreetly; no names. And please don’t start the executions immediately after your return to Tretogor. Don’t incite a premature scandal.’

  ‘Don’t worry. The lads on this list – so greedy for Nilfgaardian gold – are safe. At least for the moment. They’ll become my sweet little puppets. I’ll be able to pull their strings, and later we’ll put those strings around their sweet little necks . . . Just out of curiosity, were there any other lists? Any traitors from Kaedwen, from Temeria, from Aedirn? I’d be delighted to take a look. Just a glimpse . . .’

  ‘I know you would. But it’s not your business. Radcliffe and Sabrina Glevissig were given those lists, and they’ll know what to do with them. And now I must go. I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘Phil?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Restore the Witcher’s sight so he doesn’t trip on the stairs.’

  The banquet in the Aretuza ballroom was still in progress, but it had become more traditional and relaxed. The tables had been pushed aside, and the sorcerers and enchantresses had brought in armchairs, chairs and stools they’d found in other rooms and were lounging in them and amusing themselves in various ways. Most of their amusements were vulgar. A large group, crowded around a bulky cask of rotgut, were carousing, talking and erupting into laughter from time to time. Those who not long before had been delicately spearing exquisite morsels with little silver forks were now unceremoniously chewing mutton ribs held in both hands. Several of them were playing cards, ignoring the rest. Others were asleep. A couple were kissing passionately in the corner, and the ardour they were displaying indicated it wouldn’t stop there.

  ‘Just look at them, Witcher,’ said Dijkstra, leaning over the banisters of the cloister and looking down at the sorcerers. ‘How merrily they play. Just like children. And meanwhile, their Council has just nicked almost their entire Chapter and are trying them for treason, for cuddling up to Nilfgaard. Look at that couple. They’ll be soon looking for a secluded corner, and before they’ve finish bonking, Vilgefortz will have hanged. Oh, what a strange world it is . . .’

  ‘Be quiet, Dijkstra.’

  The path leading to Loxia was cut into the slopes of the mountain in a zigzag of steps. The steps connected terraces, which were decorated with neglected hedges, flowerbeds and yellowing agaves in flowerpots. Dijkstra stopped at one of the terraces they passed and walked over to a wall with a row of stone chimeras’ heads. Water was trickling from their jaws. The spy leaned over and took a long drink.

  The Witcher approached the balustrade. The sea glimmered gold, and the sky was even more kitsch in colour than it was in the paintings filling the Gallery of Glory. Below, he could see the squad of Redanians who had been ordered to leave Aretuza. They were heading for the harbour in well-ordered formation, just crossing a bridge linking the two sides of a rocky cleft.

  His attention was suddenly caught by a colourful, lone figure, conspicuous because it was moving quickly. And moving in the opposite direction to the Redanians. Uphill, towards Aretuza.

  ‘Right,’ said Dijkstra, urging him on with a cough. ‘It’s time we were going.’

  ‘Go yourself, if you’re in such a hurry.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ scowled the spy. ‘And you’ll go back up there to rescue your beloved Yennefer. And stir up trouble like a tipsy gnome. We’re heading for Loxia, Witcher. Are you kidding yourself or something? Do you think I got you out of Aretuza because of some long-hidden love for you? Well I didn’t. I got you out of there because I need you.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Are you having me on? Twelve young ladies from Redania’s finest families are pupils at Aretuza. I can’t risk a conflict with the honourable rectoress, Margarita Laux-Antille. But the rectoress won’t give me Cirilla, the Princess of Cintra, the girl Yennefer brought to Thanedd. She’ll give her to you, however. When you ask her.’

  ‘What gave you the ridiculous idea that I’ll ask for her?’

  ‘The ridiculous assumption that you want to make sure Cirilla will be safe. She’ll be safe in my care, in King Vizimir’s care. In Tretogor. She isn’t safe on Thanedd. Refrain from making any sarcastic comments. Yes, I know the kings didn’t have the most wonderful plans for her at the beginning. But that has changed. Now it’s become clear that Cirilla – alive, safe and in good health – may be worth more in the coming war than ten regiments of heavy horse. Dead, she’s not worth a brass farthing.’

  ‘Does Philippa Eilhart know what you’re planning?’

  ‘No, she doesn’t. She doesn’t even know I know the girl’s in Loxia. My erstwhile beloved Phil may put on airs and graces, but Vizimir is still the King of Redania. I carry out his orders, and I don’t give a shit what the sorcerers are plotting. Cirilla will board The Spada and sail to Novigrad, from where she’ll travel to Tretogor. And she’ll be safe. Do you believe me?’

  The Witcher leaned over towards one of the chimera heads and drank some of the water trickling from its monstrous maw.

  ‘Do you believe me?’ repeated Dijkstra, standing over him.

  Geralt stood up, wiped his mouth, and punched him in the jaw with all his strength. The spy staggered but didn’t go down. The nearest Redanian leapt forward, intending to seize the Witcher, but grabbed thin air, and immediately sat down, spitting blood and one of his teeth. Then all the others jumped him. There was a chaotic confusion and crush, which was exactly what the Witcher had been hoping for.

  One of the Redanians slammed head first into the gargoyle, and the water trickling from its jaws turned red. Another caught the heel of the Witcher’s fist in the windpipe and doubled up as though his genitals had been ripped out. A third, smacked in the eye, fell back with a groan. Dijkstra seized the Witcher in a bearlike grip, and Geralt kicked him hard in the ankle with his heel. The spy howled and cavorted hilariously on one leg.

  Another heavy tried to strike the Witcher with his short sword but slashed only the air. Geralt caught hold of his elbow in one hand and his wrist in the other. He spun him around, knocking over two others who were trying to get up. The thug he was ho
lding was strong and had no intention of releasing his sword. So Geralt tightened his grip and the man’s arm broke with a crack.

  Dijkstra, still hopping on one leg, seized a partisan from the ground, hoping to pin the Witcher to the wall with its three-pronged blade. Geralt dodged, seized the shaft in both hands and used the principle – well known to scholars – of the lever. The spy, seeing the bricks and mortar of the wall looming, dropped the partisan but was too late to prevent his crotch slamming into the chimera’s head.

  Geralt used the partisan to knock another thug off his feet and then held the shaft against the ground and broke it with a kick, shortening it to the length of a sword. He tried out the makeshift club, first by hitting Dijkstra – who was sitting astride the chimera – and then by quietening the moans of the bruiser with the broken arm. The seams of his doublet had burst under both arms some time before, and the Witcher was feeling considerably better.

  The last brute on his feet also attacked with a partisan, expecting its length to offer him an advantage. Geralt hit him between the eyebrows, and the bruiser sat down hard on the pot holding the agave. Another of the Redanians – who was unusually stubborn – clung to the Witcher’s thigh and bit him painfully. This angered the Witcher, who deprived the rodent of his ability to bite with a powerful kick.

  Dandelion arrived on the steps out of breath, saw what was happening and went as white as a ghost.

  ‘Geralt!’ he yelled a moment later. ‘Ciri’s disappeared! She isn’t here!’

  ‘I expected as much,’ answered the Witcher, bashing the next Redanian, who was refusing to lie down quietly, with his club. ‘But you really make a body wait, Dandelion. I told you yesterday that you were to leg it to Aretuza if anything happened! Have you brought my sword?’

  ‘Both of them!’

  ‘The other one is Ciri’s, you idiot.’ Geralt whacked the heavy trying to get up from the agave pot.

  ‘I don’t know much about swords,’ panted the poet. ‘Stop hitting them, by the gods! Can’t you see the Redanian eagle? They’re King Vizimir’s men! This is treachery and rebellion. You could end up in a dungeon for that . . .’

  ‘On the scaffold,’ mumbled Dijkstra, drawing a dagger and staggering closer. ‘You’ll both be for the scaffold . . .’

  He wasn’t able to say anything else because he collapsed on all fours, struck on the side of the head with the stump of the partisan’s shaft.

  ‘Broken on the wheel,’ pictured Dandelion gloomily. ‘After being rent with red-hot pincers . . .’

  The Witcher kicked the spy in the ribs. Dijkstra flopped over on one side like a felled elk.

  ‘. . . then our bodies quartered,’ continued the poet.

  ‘Stop that, Dandelion. Give me both swords and get away from here as quickly as possible. Flee from the island. As far away as you can!’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m going back up. I have to save Ciri . . . And Yennefer. Dijkstra, lie there nicely and get your hands off that dagger!’

  ‘You won’t get away with this,’ panted the spy. ‘I’ll send my men after you . . . I’ll get you . . .’

  ‘No you won’t.’

  ‘Oh, I will. I’ve got fifty men on The Spada . . .’

  ‘And is there a barber surgeon among them?’

  ‘Eh?’

  Geralt came up behind the spy, bent down, seized him by the foot and jerked it, twisting the foot quickly and very powerfully. There was a cracking sound. Dijkstra howled and fainted. Dandelion screamed as if it had been his own ankle.

  ‘I don’t much care what they do to me after I’ve been quartered,’ muttered the Witcher.

  It was quiet in Aretuza. Only a few diehards remained in the ballroom, but now they had too little energy to make a racket. Geralt avoided it, not wanting to be noticed.

  He had some difficulty finding the chamber where he’d spent the night with Yennefer. The palace corridors were a veritable labyrinth and all looked alike.

  The ragdoll looked at him with its button eyes.

  He sat down on the bed, clutching his head. There was no blood on the chamber floor. But a black dress was draped over the back of a chair. Yennefer had changed. Into men’s clothes, the uniform of the conspirators?

  Or they’d dragged her out in her underwear. In dimeritium handcuffs.

  Marti Södergren, the healer, was sitting in the window alcove. Hearing his footsteps, she raised her head. Her cheeks were wet with tears.

  ‘Hen Gedymdeith is dead,’ she said in a faltering voice. ‘It was his heart. I couldn’t do a thing . . . Why did they call me so late? Sabrina hit me. She hit me in the face. Why? What has happened?’

  ‘Have you seen Yennefer?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. Leave me. I want to be alone.’

  ‘Show me the shortest way to Garstang. Please.’

  Above Aretuza were three terraces covered with shrubs. Beyond them, the mountain slopes became sheer and inaccessible. Garstang loomed up above the precipice. At its foot the palace was a dark, uniformly smooth block of stone growing out of the rocks. Only the marble and stained-glass windows of its upper storey sparkled and the metal roofs of its domes shone like gold in the sun.

  The paved road leading to Garstang and on to the summit wound around the mountain like a snake. There was another, shorter, route: a stairway linking the terraces, which vanished into the black maw of a tunnel just beneath Garstang. It was this stairway that Marti Södergren pointed out to the Witcher.

  Immediately beyond the tunnel was a bridge joining the two sides of the precipice. Beyond the bridge, the stairway climbed steeply upwards and curved, vanishing around a bend. The Witcher quickened his pace.

  The balustrade was decorated with small statues of fauns and nymphs which gave the impression of being alive. They were moving. The Witcher’s medallion began to vibrate intensively.

  He rubbed his eyes. The statues were not in fact moving but metamorphosing, transforming from smooth-surfaced carvings to porous, shapeless masses of stone, eroded by strong winds and salt. And an instant later they renewed themselves once more.

  He knew what that meant. The illusion disguising Thanedd was becoming unstable and weakening. The bridge was also partly illusory. A chasm with a waterfall roaring at its foot was visible through the hole-riddled camouflage.

  There were no dark slabs to indicate a safe way across. He crossed the bridge tentatively, careful of every step, cursing to himself at the time he was wasting. When he reached the far side of the chasm, he heard running footsteps.

  He knew who it was at once. Running down the steps towards him was Dorregaray, the sorcerer in the service of King Ethain of Cidaris. He recalled the words of Philippa Eilhart. The sorcerers who represented neutral kings had been invited to Garstang as observers. But Dorregaray was hurtling down the steps at such a speed that it appeared his invitation had suddenly been revoked.

  ‘Dorregaray!’

  ‘Geralt?’ panted the sorcerer. ‘What are you doing here? Don’t stay here. Run away! Get down to Aretuza quickly!’

  ‘What has happened?’

  ‘Treachery!’

  ‘What?’

  Dorregaray suddenly shuddered and coughed strangely, then toppled forwards and fell onto the Witcher. Before Geralt could catch hold of him he spotted the grey fletching of an arrow sticking out of his back. He and the sorcerer swayed in an embrace. That movement saved the Witcher’s life as a second, identical, arrow, rather than piercing his throat, slammed into the grotesquely grinning face of a stone faun, knocking off its nose and part of its cheek. The Witcher released Dorregaray and ducked down behind the balustrade. The sorcerer collapsed onto him.

  There were two archers, and both had squirrels’ tails in their hats. One remained at the top of the staircase, pulling his bowstring back, while the other drew his sword and hurtled down the stairway, several steps at a time. Geralt pushed Dorregaray aside and leapt to his feet, drawing his sword. An arrow sang, but the Witcher interrupte
d the song, deflecting the arrowhead with a quick blow of his sword. The other elf, already close, hesitated for a moment on seeing the arrow deflected. But only for a moment. He came at the Witcher, swinging his blade and ready to strike. Geralt made a short parry, obliquely, so that the elf’s sword slid across his. The elf lost his balance, the Witcher spun around smoothly and slashed him across the side of the neck below his ear. Just once. Once was enough.

  The archer at the top of the stairway bent his bow again but did not have time to release the string. Geralt saw a flash. The elf screamed, spread out his arms and fell forwards, tumbling down the steps. The back of his jerkin was on fire.

  Another sorcerer ran down the steps. On seeing the Witcher, he stopped and raised a hand. Geralt didn’t waste time with explanations but flattened himself on the ground as a fiery lightning bolt flew over him with a hiss, pulverising a statue of a faun.

  ‘Stop!’ he yelled. ‘It’s me, the Witcher!’

  ‘Damn it,’ the sorcerer panted, running over to Geralt, who could not remember him from the banquet. ‘I took you for one of those elven thugs . . . How is Dorregaray? Is he still alive?’

  ‘I think so . . .’

  ‘Quickly, to the other side of the bridge!’

  They dragged Dorregaray across. And luck was on their side, because in their haste they paid no attention to the wavering and vanishing illusion. No one was pursuing them, but the sorcerer nonetheless extended a hand, chanting a spell, and sent a lightning bolt to destroy the bridge. The stones crashed down the walls of the abyss.

  ‘That ought to hold them back,’ he said.

  The Witcher wiped away the blood pouring from Dorregaray’s mouth.

  ‘He has a punctured lung. Can you help him?’

  ‘I can,’ said Marti Södergren, hauling herself up the steps from the tunnel leading from Aretuza. ‘What’s happening, Carduin? Who shot him?’

  ‘Scoia’tael,’ said the sorcerer, wiping his forehead with a sleeve. ‘There’s a battle raging in Garstang. Bloody rabble. They’re all as bad as each other! Philippa handcuffed Vilgefortz during the night, and Vilgefortz and Francesca Findabair brought Squirrels to the island! And Tissaia de Vries . . . She’s stirred everything up!’