Over the roof of the court building gulls were circling, shrieking horribly. The wind forced the storm clouds to the south. The sun started shining.
‘I would like to warn beforehand,’ said Geralt, ‘that my swords are strongly enchanted. Only witchers can touch them, they cause a loss of vital forces. This manifests itself mainly by decay of man power. That is impotence. Complete and irreversible.’
‘We will keep this in mind,’ the instigator nodded his head. ‘But for now I will ask you to stay in town. I may turn a blind eye to a fight in the guardhouse, which is quite a regular occurrence. The guard ladies quite easily give in to emotions. And because Master Julian that is Master Dandelion vouches for you, I'm sure that the case in court will be solved to your advantage.’
‘My case,’ the witcher half-closed his eyes, ‘is nothing more than harassment. Persecution that arises from prejudice and dislike...’
‘The evidence will be investigated,’ the instigator cut him off. ‘And based on that we will act. That is what order and law wants. Exactly the same thanks to which you are free. Bailed out, so free on conditions. And you should, Master from Rivia respect those conditions.’
‘And who paid the fee?’
Ferrant de Lettenhove coldly refused to reveal the witcher's benefactor, said his goodbyes, and in the company of the guards he went in direction of the court entrance. Dandelion was waiting just on this. They had barely left the market square and entered a small street when Dandelion revealed all he knew.
‘A real band of misfortunes, my friend Geralt. And unlucky incidents. And when it comes to the fee - it was paid by a sorceress named Lytta Neyd, among her friends known as Coral because of the colour of lipstick she uses. She is the sorceress that serves local king, Belohun. Everyone is guessing as to why she did it. Because she was the one that put you behind bars.
‘What?’
‘I'm saying. Coral snitched on you. That didn't surprise anyone – it’s commonly known that sorcerers dislike you. And then sensationally – the sorceress all of sudden pays the fee and gets you out of prison, to which she herself sent you. The whole town...’
‘Commonly? Whole town? What are you saying, Dandelion?’
‘I use metaphors and periphrases. Don't pretend you don't know it - you know me. Of course not the whole town, just a narrow circle of well-informed people near to the rulers.’
‘And you are saying you are one being near?
‘That's right. Ferrant is my cousin, son of my father's brother. I came here to visit him. You know - family matters. And I came to know about your adventure. I stood by you immediately - you don't doubt that? Do you? I vouched for your honesty. I told them about Yennefer.’
‘Many thanks.’
‘Give up the sarcasm. I had to tell them about her to make my cousin aware of fact that the local sorceress denigrates you because of envy. That this whole accusation is false, that you never embezzled any funds. As a result of my mediation, Ferrant de Lettenhove, royal instigator, highest by rank executor of law is already convinced that you are innocent.’
‘I had other impressions,’ said Geralt. ‘Just the opposite. I felt that he doesn't believe me. Neither in the case of embezzlement nor the swords. Evidence is his fetish. Evidence of embezzlement will be reported. And the evidence of mystification with the theft of the swords will be from the signature of Gerland of Ryblia in register. And that expression on his face when he warned me about not leaving town.’
‘You judge him unfairly,’ said Dandelion. ‘I know him better than you. That I vouch for you means to him more than a dozen fake proofs. And he was right to warn you. Why do you think we both - him and me went to guardhouse? To stop you from doing stupid things! Someone is framing you producing false evidence? Don't give that someone solid proofs. And running away would be such proof.’
‘You may be right,’ Geralt agreed. ‘But instinct tells me otherwise. I should run before I'm completely overrun. First arrest, then bailment fee, immediately after my swords... What comes next? Dammit without my swords I feel like... Like a snail without its shell.’
‘You worry too much in my opinion. Besides - are there not enough stores here? Give up those swords and buy new ones.’
‘And if you had your lute stolen? A lute that you got in quite dramatic circumstances? Wouldn't you worry? Would you just give it up? And go and buy a new lute at the store around the corner?
Dandelion instinctively clasped his hands on his lute and looked around fearfully. None of the passersby looked like a potential thief of musical instruments and no one showed improper interest in his unique lute.
‘OK, yes,’ he relaxed. ‘I understand. Just like my lute, your swords are unique, and irreplaceable. And at that... how’d you said it? Enchanted? Causing magical impotence? Dammit Geralt! Now you tell me? I was frequently in your company, and I had your swords in arm's reach. And sometimes even nearer. Now it's clear, now I understand... I’ve had lately, dammit, some difficulties...’
‘Calm down. It's baloney with the impotence. I thought it up on the spot, counting that rumor will spread and thief would be scared.’
‘If he gets scared, he will most likely drown your swords in a latrine,’ the still slightly pale bard quite consciously pointed out.
‘And you will never get them back. Rather depend on my cousin, Ferrant He has been a local instigator for years, and has a whole army of constables, agent and spies. They will find the thief in no time, you will see.’
‘If he is still here,’ the witcher gnashed his teeth, ‘he could have run while I was in prison. What did you say this sorceress thanks to which I landed there is called?’
‘Lytta Neyd, nickname Coral. I think I know what you want to do. But I'm not sure that this is a good idea. She's a sorceress. A witch and woman in one person - that is – an alien species, escaping rational cognition, functioning according to incomprehensible, for normal men, principles and mechanisms. What I'm telling you - you know it all too good yourself. You are widely experience in this matter... What's that noise?’
Wandering aimlessly through the streets they reached a small square that sounded with incessant clapping of hammers. Great barrel-maker’s workshops were functioning. In the same street, under the same roof, boards were placed in straight prisms. From here they were carried by barefooted youths onto the table, where they were mounted in special trestles and worked upon with shaves. Readied staves were carried to other artisans. They finished them on long plane benches, standing ankle deep in shavings. The readied staves were put in the hands of coopers that put them together. Geralt looked for a while how under pressure of different mechanisms a shape of barrel was created immediately by putting on iron bands. And steam was gushing over the street from the great cauldrons were barrels were scalded. From the depth of a workshop came the smell of wood roasted on fire to harden it before farther treatment.
‘Every time I see barrels,’ said Dandelion, ‘I get the desire to drink beer. Let's go round the corner. I know quite nice pub there.
‘Go on alone, I wish to visit the sorceress. I think I know which one is she - I saw her. She is the source and origin of my troubles. I will not wait on the development of things. I will go to her and ask straight. I can't stay here, in this town. If only because I lack funds.’
‘That,’ said the bard proudly, ‘can be remedied. I will help you financially... Geralt? What is it?’
‘Go back to the coopers and bring me a stave.’
‘What?’
‘Bring me a stave. Quick.’
The street was blocked by three men with unshaven and unwashed gobs. One had shoulders so broad that he was almost square, and carried in his hand thick shod club. The second one in sheepskin, carried a cleaver, and had an axe placed behind his belt. The third, swarthy like a sailor was armed with a nasty looking long knife.
‘Hey, you there, Rivian stinker!’ shouted the square one. ‘How do you feel without your sword
s on your back? It's like being naked with your ass in the wind, isn't it?’
Geralt did not argue, he waited. He heard that dandelion was arguing about a stave with the coopers.
‘You have no fangs anymore, weirdo, venomous witchery reptile,’ continued the square one, it seemed he was the most adapt in oratory art of the three. ‘A reptile without fangs will not be fared by anyone. It's just a worm or another wormy lamprey. We will crush such vermin with our shoes. To stop it from coming into our cities, among good people. You won't contaminate our streets with your slime you slow worm. Guys - let's beat him!’
‘Geralt! Catch!’
He caught the stave thrown at him in flight, he avoided a blow from the cudgel, and hit the square thug on the side of his head, pirouetted, hit the guy in sheepskin in the elbow. Who shrieked and dropped the cleaver. The witcher hit him in the bend of the knee and tripped him, after that he moved to his side and banged him on the temple. Not waiting for the thug to fall down, and not stopping his movement he avoided the cudgel of the square man again, and hit the fingers clamped on the cudgel. Square guy roared in pain and dropped the cudgel and Geralt hit him in turn on the ear, the ribs and the other ear. And then kicked him in the groin with a swing. The square thug fell down and became spherical, curling, shrinking and touching the ground with his forehead.
Swarthy - the most agile and fastest of the three danced around the witcher. He tossed his knife from one hand to another and attacked with his knees bent, slashing diagonally. Geralt effortlessly avoided being cut, moving further away, and waited for his opponent to lengthen his stride. And when it happened, with a swinging blow he deflected the knife, pirouetted around his opponent and hit him on the back of the head. The cutthroat fell to his knees, and the witcher struck him on the right kidney. The man howled and flexed. Then the witcher hit him with the stave on a nerve below the ear. Known to medics as parotid plexus.
‘Oh,’ said the witcher standing over the guy choking with a shriek and falling to his knees, ‘that’s got to hurt.’
The bandit in sheepskin took axe from behind his belt, but he stayed on his knees unsure what to do. Geralt erased his uncertainty hitting him in the neck. From the end of street guards from the city watch were coming in running. Dandelion tried to mitigate them, he feverishly explained who was aggressor and who was acting in self-defense. The witcher hailed Dandelion
‘Make sure,’ he cautioned, ‘that the bandits are imprisoned. Influence your cousin the instigator, so that he will press them strongly. They are involved in the theft of my swords themselves or they were hired by someone. They knew that I am unarmed, that's why they dared to attack me. Give the stave back to coopers.’
‘I had to buy it,’ admitted Dandelion. ‘And probably well I did. You wield it quite nicely. You should always carry it.’
‘I’m going to the sorceress. To visit her. Am I to go with a stave?’
‘Against the sorceress,’ the bard frowned, ‘something heavier would be better. Let's say a stanchion. An acquaintance of mine - a philosopher said once: If you go to meet a woman don't forget to take with you...’
‘Dandelion!’
‘OK. OK. I will explain how to get to her house, but if I may advise first...’
‘Yeah?’
‘Visit a bath. And a barber.’
Beware of disappointments, as appearances deceive. Things are rarely like they seem to be. And women are never like they seem.
Dandelion, Half a century of poetry
Chapter Five
The water in the fountain basin whirled and boiled, spraying golden droplets. Lytta Neyd, also called Coral, a sorceress, stretched her hand and chanted a stabilizing spell. The water became smooth, like oil was poured over it and started to pulse with reflections. The image, at first fuzzy and foggy came into focus and stopped shivering. Although it was slightly distorted by the movement of the water it was clear and legible. Coral leaned forward. She saw in the water the Root Market, in the main street of the city. And a man with white hair walking it. The sorceress looked at him carefully. She observed. She looked for clues. Details that would enable her proper evaluation. And allowed to predict what would happen.
On what a proper man is, Lytta had formed an opinion, created by years of experience. She could find a true man in a flock of better or worse imitations. She didn't need at all to make physical contact, which she held as a method that is not only trivial, but also misleading, and leading completely astray. Direct tasting - as she knew after few tries - maybe was some check of taste, but it too often left disgust. Indigestion. And heartburn. And sometimes even nausea.
Lytta could recognize a true man, even from afar, on the basis of seemingly meaningless clues. A true man, she knew from practice, likes fishing, but only using an artificial fly. He collects military figurines, erotic drawings, and personally built models of sail ships, including the ones in bottles. And he never lacks empty bottles in his house. He can cook exceptionally well, he can create masterpieces of culinary art. And generally speaking his looks are enough to make you eager.
The witcher Geralt, about whom the sorceress had heard much, and whom she was observing at the moment fulfilled it seems just one of this conditions.
‘Mozaïk!’
‘I'm here, mistress.’
‘We will have guest. Make sure everything is ready and in proper order. But first bring me a dress.’
‘Tea-rose? Or sea water?’
‘White. He wears black clothes, let’s give him yin and yang. And shoes, choose something with a fitting colour, but heel should be at least four inches high. I can't let him look at me from above too much.’
‘Mistress... This white dress...’
‘Yes?’
‘It's so...’
‘Humble? Without decoration and finery? Oh, Mozaïk, Mozaïk. Will you never learn?’
***
He was met on the doorstep by a huge ruffian with big belly, a broken nose and eyes of a little pig. He inspected Geralt from heel to head and back. And then moved aside to signal that he was allowed to pass.
In the anteroom a girl with smoothly combed even slicked back hair met him. Without a word, only with gesture she invited him inside.
He entered, straight to a patio full of flowers, with a splashing fountain in the middle. In the center of fountain stood a statue of a naked dancing young woman, or rather a girl judging by her barely developed secondary sex attributes. Besides being created by a master of his craft one thing called attention in this statue - it was connected to the pedestal with a single point - a big toe. There was no way, judged the witcher, that it could be stabilized by means other than magic.
‘Geralt of Rivia. I greet you. And invite.’
To be thought about as classically beautiful, Lytta Neyd had too sharp features. Her rouge in the colour of warm peach, with which her chick bones were grazed lightly softened this sharpness, but it did not hide it. Her lips emphasized with coral lipstick had a shape so ideal, that it was too perfect. But that was not what mattered.
Lytta Neyd was a redhead. Naturally and classically red. Toned, lightly rusty redness of her hair brought forward associations with summer and the coat of a fox. If you - Geralt was absolutely sure of that - caught a red fox and put it next to Lytta, both would turn out to have the same colour, and indistinguishable. And when the sorceress moved her head, among the reds showed up lighter tones, yellowish - just like in the case of the fox. That type of redheadedness was accompanied in principle by freckles, and a lot of them, most often too much of them. There were no freckles to be seen on Lytta.
Geralt felt unrest, forgotten and dormant, waking up suddenly somewhere deep within. In his nature was a weird and difficult to explain inclination toward red-headed women. This particular colour caused him a few times to do stupid things. There was a need to be careful, and the witcher decided to do so strongly. Besides, his task was easy. It was exactly one year since doing such foolish th
ings ceased to tempt him.
The erotically stimulating redheadedness was not the only attractive attribute of the sorceress. The snow-white dress was simple and without adornments, and this was to achieve a goal. The goal that was right, and without doubt intended. Simplicity did not distract the attention of the observer, concentrating this attention on her attractive figure. And deep cleavage. In the "Good Book" of prophet Lebioda, in an illustrated edition of it, Lytta Neyd could with success, pose for a drawing preceding the chapter "On unclean lust".
Even shorter, Lytta Neyd was a woman with whom only complete idiot would want to join with for more than two days. Interesting was that women like these were chased by flocks of men wanting to form quite longer relationships.
She smelled of freesia and apricot.
Geralt leaned forward and pretended that he was not more interested in the figure and cleavage of sorceress than he was in the figure in fountain.
‘I invite you,’ Lytta repeated, pointing at a table with malachite table-top, and two wicker armchairs. She waited until he sat himself, and then sat too, showing off her shapely legs and shoes made of lizard skin.
The witcher pretended that his full attention was directed at the carafes and platter with fruit.
‘Wine? This is Nuragus of Toussaint, in my opinion better than the overrated Est Est. We also have Côte-de-Blessure if you prefer red. Pour for us, Mozaïk.’
‘Thank you,’ he accepted a goblet from the slicked back girl and smiled at her. ‘Mozaïk. Nice name.’
He saw horror in her eyes.
Lytta Neyd put her goblet down. With a thump to catch his attention.
‘What,’ she moved her head and her red hair locks swayed, ‘brings the famous Geralt of Rivia to my humble place? I'm dying of curiosity?’
‘You paid my fee,’ he said purposely dryly. ‘Bailment fee that is. Thanks to your generosity I'm out of prison. In which I was locked in also thanks to you. Is that true? It was you that put me in prison for a week?’