Time of Contempt

  ‘Yaevinn, forget it . . .’

  ‘Thaess aep, Toruviel.’

  The elf turned his hat around so the squirrel’s tail pinned to it wouldn’t get in the way, quickly and powerfully drew back his bowstring, right to his ear, and then aimed carefully and shot.

  Aplegatt did not hear the arrow. It was a ‘silent’ arrow, specially fledged with long, narrow grey feathers, its shaft fluted for increased stiffness and weight reduction. The three-edged, razor-sharp arrow hit the messenger in the back with great force, between his left shoulder blade and his spine. The blades were positioned at an angle – and as they entered his body, the arrow rotated and bored in like a screw, mutilating the tissue, cutting through blood vessels and shattering bone. Aplegatt lurched forward onto his horse’s neck and slid to the ground, limp as a sack of wool.

  The sand on the road was hot, heated up so much by the sun that it was painful to the touch. The messenger didn’t feel it. He died at once.

  CHAPTER TWO

  To say I knew her would be an exaggeration. I think that, apart from the Witcher and the enchantress, no one really knew her. When I saw her for the first time she did not make a great impression on me at all, even in spite of the quite extraordinary accompanying circumstances. I have known people who said that, right away, from the very first encounter, they sensed the foretaste of death striding behind the girl. To me she seemed utterly ordinary, though I knew that ordinary she was not; for which reason I tried to discern, discover – sense – the singularity in her. But I noticed nothing and sensed nothing. Nothing that could have been a signal, a presentiment or a harbinger of those subsequent, tragic events. Events caused by her very existence. And those she caused by her actions.

  Dandelion, Half a Century of Poetry

  Right by the crossroads, where the forest ended, nine posts were driven into the ground. Each was crowned by a cartwheel, mounted flat. Above the wheels teemed crows and ravens, pecking and tearing at the corpses bound to the rims and hubs. Owing to the height of the posts and the great number of birds, one could only imagine what the unidentifiable remains lying on top of the wheels might be. But they were bodies. They couldn’t have been anything else.

  Ciri turned her head away and wrinkled her nose in disgust. The wind blew from the posts and the sickening stench of rotting corpses drifted above the crossroads.

  ‘Wonderful scenery,’ said Yennefer, leaning out of the saddle and spitting on the ground, forgetting that a short time earlier she had fiercely scolded Ciri for doing the same thing. ‘Picturesque and fragrant. But why do this here, at the edge of the wilderness? They usually set things like that up right outside the city walls. Am I right, good people?’

  ‘They’re Squirrels, noble lady,’ came the hurried explanation from one of the wandering traders they had caught up with at the crossroads. He was guiding the piebald horse harnessed to his fully laden cart. ‘Elves. There, on those posts. And that’s why the posts are by the forest. As a warning to other Squirrels.’

  ‘Does that mean,’ said the enchantress, looking at him, ‘that captured Scoia’tael are brought here alive . . . ?’

  ‘Elves, m’lady, seldom let themselves be taken alive,’ interrupted the trader. ‘And even if the soldiers catch one they take them to the city, because civilised non-humans dwell there. When they’ve watched Squirrels being tortured in the town square, they quickly lose interest in joining them. But if any elves are killed in combat, their bodies are taken to a crossroads and hung on posts like this. Sometimes they’re brought from far away and by the time they get here they reek—’

  ‘To think,’ snapped Yennefer, ‘we have been forbidden from necromantic practices out of respect for the dignity of death and mortal remains; on the grounds that they deserve reverence, peace, and a ritual and ceremonial burial . . .’

  ‘What are you saying, m’lady?’

  ‘Nothing. We’re leaving, Ciri, let’s get away from this place. Ugh, I feel as though the stench were sticking to me.’

  ‘Yuck. Me too,’ said Ciri, trotting around the trader’s cart. ‘Let’s gallop, yes?’

  ‘Very well . . . Ciri! Gallop, but don’t break your neck!’

  They soon saw the city; surrounded by walls, bristling with towers with glistening, pointed roofs. And beyond the city was the sea; greygreen, sparkling in the morning sun, flecked here and there with the white dots of sails. Ciri reined in her horse at the edge of a sandy drop, stood up in her stirrups and greedily breathed in the wind and the scent.

  ‘Gors Velen,’ said Yennefer, riding up and stopping at her side. ‘We finally made it. Let’s get back on the road.’

  They rode off down the road at a canter, leaving several ox carts and people walking, laden down with faggots, behind them.

  Once they had overtaken them all and were alone, though, the enchantress slowed and gestured for Ciri to stop.

  ‘Come closer,’ she said. ‘Closer still. Take the reins and lead my horse. I need both hands.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I said take the reins, Ciri.’

  Yennefer took a small, silver looking glass from her saddlebags, wiped it and then whispered a spell. The looking glass floated out of her hand, rose up and remained suspended above her horse’s neck, right before the enchantress’s face.

  Ciri let out a sigh of awe and licked her lips.

  The enchantress removed a comb from her saddlebags, took off her beret and combed her hair vigorously for the next few minutes. Ciri remained silent. She knew she was forbidden to disturb or distract Yennefer while she combed her hair. The arresting and apparently careless disarray of her wavy, luxuriant locks was the result of long, hard work and demanded no little effort.

  The enchantress reached into her saddlebags once more. She attached some diamond earrings to her ears and fastened bracelets on both wrists. She took off her shawl and undid a few buttons on her blouse, revealing her neck and a black velvet ribbon decorated with an obsidian star.

  ‘Ha!’ said Ciri at last, unable to hold back. ‘I know why you’re doing that! You want to look nice because we’re going to the city! Am I right?’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I want to look nice, too! I’ll do my hair—’

  ‘Put your beret on,’ said Yennefer sharply, eyes still fixed on the looking glass floating above the horse’s ears, ‘right where it was before. And tuck your hair underneath it.’

  Ciri snorted angrily but obeyed at once. She had long ago learned to distinguish the timbre and shades of the enchantress’s voice. She had learned when she could get into a discussion and when it was wiser not to.

  Yennefer, having at last arranged the locks over her forehead, took a small, green, glass jar out of her saddlebags.

  ‘Ciri,’ she said more gently. ‘We’re travelling in secret. And the journey’s not over yet. Which is why you have to hide your hair under your beret. There are people at every gate who are paid for their accurate and reliable observation of travellers. Do you understand?’

  ‘No!’ retorted Ciri impudently, reining back the enchantress’s black stallion. ‘You’ve made yourself beautiful to make those gate watchmen’s eyes pop out! Very secretive, I must say!’

  ‘The city to whose gates we are heading,’ smiled Yennefer, ‘is Gors Velen. I don’t have to disguise myself in Gors Velen; quite the contrary, I’d say. With you it’s different. You ought not to be remembered by anyone.’

  ‘The people who’ll be staring at you will see me too!’

  The enchantress uncorked the jar, which gave off the scent of lilac and gooseberries. She stuck her index finger in and rubbed a little of it under her eyes.

  ‘I doubt,’ she said, still smiling mysteriously, ‘whether anyone will notice you.’

  A long column of riders and wagons stood before the bridge, and travellers crowded around the gatehouse, waiting for their turn to be searched. Ciri fumed and growled,
angry at the prospect of a long wait. Yennefer, however, sat up straight in the saddle and rode at a trot, looking high over the heads of the travellers – they parted swiftly for her and made room, bowing in respect. The guards in hauberks also noticed the enchantress at once and gave her free passage, liberally handing out blows with their spear shafts to the stubborn or the overly slow.

  ‘This way, this way, noble lady,’ called one of the guards, staring at Yennefer and flushing. ‘Come through here, I entreat you. Make way, make way, you churls!’

  The hastily summoned officer of the watch emerged from the guardhouse sullen and angry, but at the sight of Yennefer he blushed, opened his eyes and his mouth wide and made a low bow.

  ‘I humbly welcome you to Gors Velen, Your Ladyship,’ he mumbled, straightening up and staring. ‘I am at your command . . . May I be of any service to you? Perhaps an escort? A guide? Should I summon anyone?’

  ‘That will not be necessary,’ replied Yennefer, straightening up in her saddle and looking down at him. ‘My stay in the city shall be brief. I am riding to Thanedd.’

  ‘Of course, ma’am,’ said the soldier, shifting from foot to foot and unable to tear his eyes from the enchantress’s face. The other guards also stared. Ciri proudly pulled her shoulders back and raised her head, only to realise no one was looking at her. It was as if she didn’t exist.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ repeated the officer of the guard. ‘To Thanedd, yes . . . For the conclave. I understand, very well. Then I wish you—’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the enchantress, spurring her horse, clearly uninterested in whatever the officer wanted to wish her. Ciri followed her. The guardsmen bowed to Yennefer as she rode by, but none of them paid Ciri so much as a glance.

  ‘They didn’t even ask your name,’ she muttered, catching up with Yennefer and carefully guiding her horse between the ruts worn into the muddy road. ‘Did you put a spell on them?’

  ‘Not on them. On myself.’

  The enchantress turned back and Ciri sighed. Yennefer’s eyes burnt with a violet light and her face radiated with beauty. Dazzling beauty. Provocative. Dangerous. And unnatural.

  ‘The little green jar,’ Ciri realised. ‘What was in it?’

  ‘Glamarye. An elixir. Or rather a cream for special occasions. Ciri, must you ride into every puddle in the road?’

  ‘I’m trying to clean my horse’s fetlocks.’

  ‘It hasn’t rained for a month. That’s slops and horse piss, not water.’

  ‘Aha . . . Tell me, why did you use that elixir? Did it matter so much to you to—’

  ‘This is Gors Velen,’ interrupted Yennefer. ‘A city that owes much of its prosperity to sorcerers and enchantresses. Actually, if I’m honest, chiefly to enchantresses. You saw for yourself how enchantresses are treated here. And I had no desire to introduce myself or prove who I am. I preferred to make it obvious at first glance. We turn left after that red house. We’ll walk, Ciri. Slow your horse down or you’ll trample a child.’

  ‘But why did we come here then?’

  ‘I just told you.’

  Ciri snorted, thinking hard, then pursed her lips and dug her heels hard into her horse. Her mare skittered, almost colliding with a passing horse and cart. The carter got up from his seat, ready to unleash a stream of professional abuse at her, but on seeing Yennefer sat down quickly and began a thorough analysis of the state of his clogs.

  ‘Try to bolt like that once more,’ enunciated Yennefer, ‘and we’ll get cross. You’re behaving like an adolescent goat. You’re embarrassing me.’

  ‘I figured it out. You want to put me in some school or orphanage, don’t you? I don’t want to go!’

  ‘Be quiet. People are staring.’

  ‘They’re staring at you, not at me! I don’t want to go to school! You promised me you’d always be with me, and now you’re planning to leave me all by myself! I don’t want to be alone!’

  ‘You won’t be alone. There are plenty of girls your age at the school. You’ll have lots of friends.’

  ‘I don’t want any friends. I want to be with you and . . . I thought we’d—’

  Yennefer suddenly turned to face her.

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘I thought we were going to see Geralt,’ said Ciri, tossing her head provocatively. ‘I know perfectly well what you’ve been thinking about the entire journey. And why you were sighing at night—’

  ‘Enough,’ hissed the enchantress, and the sight of her glaring eyes made Ciri bury her face in her horse’s mane. ‘You’ve overstepped the mark. May I remind you that the moment when you could defy me has passed for ever? You only have yourself to blame and now you have to be obedient. You’ll do as I say. Understood?’

  Ciri nodded.

  ‘Whatever I say will be the best for you. Always. Which is why you will obey me and carry out my instructions. Is that clear? Rein in your horse. We’re here.’

  ‘That’s the school?’ grunted Ciri, looking up at the magnificent facade of a building. ‘Is that—?’

  ‘Not another word. Dismount. And mind your manners. This isn’t the school. It’s in Aretuza, not in Gors Velen. This is a bank.’

  ‘Why do we need a bank?’

  ‘Think about it. And dismount, as I said. Not in a puddle! Leave your horse; that’s the servant’s job. Take off your gloves. You don’t go into a bank wearing riding gloves. Look at me, Ciri. Straighten your beret. And your collar. Stand up straight. And if you don’t know what to do with your hands then don’t do anything with them!’

  Ciri sighed.

  The servants who poured out of the entrance and assisted them – falling over each other as they bowed – were dwarves. Ciri looked at them with interest. Although they were all short, sturdy and bearded, in no way did they resemble her companion Yarpen Zigrin or his ‘lads’. These servants looked grey: identically uniformed and unremarkable. They were subservient, too, which could never be said about Yarpen and his lads.

  They went inside. The magic elixir was still working, so Yennefer’s appearance immediately caused a great commotion. More dwarves bustled and bowed, and there were further obsequious welcomes and declarations of readiness to serve, which only subsided on the appearance of a fat, opulently attired and white-bearded dwarf.

  ‘My dear Yennefer!’ boomed the dwarf, jingling a golden chain which dangled from a powerful neck and fell to considerably below his white beard. ‘What a surprise! And what an honour! Please, please come to my office. And you lot; don’t stand there staring. To work, to your abacuses. Wilfli, bring a bottle of Castel de Neuf to my office. Which vintage . . . ? You know what vintage. Be quick, jump to it! This way, this way, Yennefer. It’s an unalloyed joy to see you. You look . . . Oh, dammit, you look drop-dead gorgeous!’

  ‘As do you,’ the enchantress smiled. ‘You’re keeping well, Giancardi.’

  ‘Naturally. Please, come through to my office. But no, no, you go first. You know the way after all, Yennefer.’

  It was a little dark but pleasantly cool in the office, and the air held a scent Ciri remembered from Jarre the scribe’s tower: the smell of ink and parchment and dust covering the oak furniture, tapestries and old books.

  ‘Sit down, please,’ said the banker, pulling a heavy armchair away from the table for Yennefer, and throwing Ciri a curious glance.

  ‘Hmm . . .’

  ‘Give her a book, Molnar,’ said the enchantress carelessly, noticing his look. ‘She adores books. She’ll sit at the end of the table and won’t disturb us. Will you, Ciri?’

  Ciri did not deign to reply.

  ‘A book, hmm, hmm,’ said the dwarf solicitously, going over to a chest of drawers. ‘What have we here? Oh, a ledger . . . No, not that. Duties and port charges . . . Not that either. Credit and reimbursement? No. Oh, how did that get here? God only knows . . . But this will probably be just the thing. There you go, miss.’

  The book bore the title Physiologus and was very old and very tattered. Ciri carefully op
ened the cover and turned several pages. The book immediately caught her interest, since it concerned mysterious monsters and beasts and was full of illustrations. For the next few moments, she tried to divide her interest between the book and the conversation between the enchantress and the dwarf.

  ‘Do you have any letters for me, Molnar?’

  ‘No,’ said the banker, pouring wine for Yennefer and himself. ‘No new ones have arrived. I delivered the last ones a month ago, using our usual method.’

  ‘I received them, thank you. Did anyone show interest in those letters, by any chance?’

  ‘No one here,’ smiled Molnar Giancardi. ‘But your suspicions are not unwarranted, my dear. The Vivaldi Bank informed me, confidentially, that several attempts were made to track the letters. Their branch in Vengerberg also uncovered an attempt to track all transactions of your private account. A member of the staff proved to be disloyal.’

  The dwarf broke off and looked at the enchantress from beneath his bushy eyebrows. Ciri listened intently. Yennefer said nothing and toyed with her obsidian star.

  ‘Vivaldi,’ said the banker, lowering his voice, ‘couldn’t or didn’t want to conduct an investigation into the case. The corrupt, disloyal clerk fell, drunk, into a ditch and drowned. An unfortunate accident. Pity. Too quick, too hasty . . .’

  ‘No use crying over spilt milk,’ the enchantress pouted. ‘I know who was interested in my letters and account; the investigation at Vivaldi’s wouldn’t have produced any revelations.’

  ‘If you say so . . .’ Giancardi ruffled his beard. ‘Are you going to Thanedd, Yennefer? To the General Mages’ Conclave?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘To determine the fate of the world?’

  ‘Let’s not exaggerate.’

  ‘Various rumours are doing the rounds,’ said the dwarf coldly. ‘And various things are happening.’

  ‘What might they be, if it’s not a secret?’

  ‘Since last year,’ said Giancardi, stroking his beard, ‘strange fluctuations in taxation policy have been observed . . . I know it doesn’t interest you . . .’