“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. H
e 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.”