“I said, no!” The knight thumped his fist on the rickety table and stood up straight, adjusting the gorget across his chest. “Until the patrols return, you’re not going anywhere! You are not going to roam the highways!”
“I’s to be in Daevon in two days!” the greeve yelled, shoving a short notched stick with a symbol branded into it under the knight’s nose. “I have a transport to lead! The bailiff’s going to have me head if it be late! I’ll complain to the voivode!”
“Go ahead and complain,” sneered the knight. “But I advise you to line your breeches with straw before you do because the voivode can do a mean bit of arse-kicking. But for the time being I give the orders here – the voivode is far away and your bailiff means no more to me than a heap of dung. Hey, Unist! Who are you bringing here, sergeant? Another merchant?”
“No,” answered the sergeant reluctantly. “A witcher, sir. He goes by the name Geralt of Rivia.”
To Geralt’s astonishment, the knight gave a broad smile, approached and held a hand out in greeting.
“Geralt of Rivia,” he repeated, still smiling. “I have heard about you, and not just from gossip and hearsay. What brings you here?”
Geralt explained what brought him there. The knight’s smile faded.
“You have not come at a good time. Or to a good place. We are at war here, witcher. A band of Scoia’tael is doing the rounds and there was a skirmish yesterday. I am waiting here for relief forces and then we’ll start a counterattack.”
“You’re fighting elves?”
“Not just elves! Is it possible? Have you, a witcher, not heard of the Squirrels?”
“No. I haven’t.”
“Where have you been these past two years? Beyond the seas? Here, in Kaedwen, the Scoia’tael have made sure everybody’s talking about them, they’ve seen to it only too well. The first bands appeared just after the war with Nilfgaard broke out. The cursed non-humans took advantage of our difficulties. We were fighting in the south and they began a guerrilla campaign at our rear. They counted on the Nilfgaardians defeating us, started declaring it was the end of human rule and there would be a return to the old order. ‘Humans to the sea!’ That’s their battle cry, as they murder, burn and plunder!”
“It’s your own fault and your own problem,” the greeve commented glumly, tapping his thigh with the notched stick, a mark of his position. “Yours, and all the other noblemen and knights. You’re the ones who oppressed the non-humans, would not allow them their way of life, so now you pay for it. While we’ve always moved goods this way and no one stopped us. We didn’t need an army.”
“What’s true is true,” said one of the merchants who had been sitting silently on a bench. “The Squirrels are no fiercer than the bandits who used to roam these ways. And who did the elves take in hand first? The bandits!”
“What do I care if it’s a bandit or an elf who runs me through with an arrow from behind some bushes?” the toll-collector with the bandaged head said suddenly. “The thatch, if it’s set on fire above my head in the night, burns just the same. What difference does it make who lit the fire-brand? You say, sir, that the Scoia’tael are no worse than the bandits? You lie. The bandits wanted loot, but the elves are after human blood. Not everyone has ducats, but we all have blood running through our veins. You say it’s the nobility’s problem, greeve? That’s an even greater folly. What about the lumberjacks shot in the clearing, the tar-makers hacked to pieces at the Beeches, the refugee peasants from the burned down hamlets, did they hurt the non-humans? They lived and worked together, as neighbours, and suddenly they got an arrow in the back… And me? Never in my life have I harmed a non-human and look, my head is broken open by a dwarf’s cutlass. And if it were not for the soldiers you’re snapping at, I would be lying beneath an ell of turf—”
“Exactly!” The knight in the yellow surcoat thumped his fist against the table once again. “We are protecting your mangy skin, greeve, from those, as you call them, oppressed elves, who, according to you, we did not let live. But I will say something different – we have emboldened them too much. We tolerated them, treated them as humans, as equals, and now they are stabbing us in the back. Nilfgaard is paying them for it, I’d stake my life, and the savage elves from the mountains are furnishing them with arms. But their real support comes from those who always lived amongst us – from the elves, half-elves, dwarves, gnomes and halflings. They are the ones who are hiding them, feeding them, supplying them with volunteers—”
“Not all of them,” said another merchant, slim, with a delicate and noble face – in no way a typical merchant’s features. “The majority of non-humans condemn the Squirrels, sir, and want nothing to do with them. The majority of them are loyal, and sometimes pay a high price for that loyalty. Remember the burgomaster from Ban Ard. He was a half-elf who urged peace and co-operation. He was killed by an assassin’s arrow.”
“Aimed, no doubt, by a neighbour, some halfling or dwarf who also feigned loyalty,” scoffed the knight. “If you ask me, none of them are loyal! Every one of them— Hey there! Who are you?”
Geralt looked around. Ciri stood right behind him casting her huge emerald eyes over everyone. As far as the ability to move noiselessly was concerned, she had clearly made enormous progress.
“She’s with me,” he explained.
“Hmmm…” The knight measured Ciri with his eyes then turned back to the merchant with the noble face, evidently considering him the most serious partner in the discussion. “Yes, sir, do not talk to me about loyal non-humans. They are all our enemies, it’s just that some are better than others at pretending otherwise. Halflings, dwarves and gnomes have lived amongst us for centuries – in some sort of harmony, it would seem. But it sufficed for the elves to lift their heads, and all the others grabbed their weapons and took to the woods too. I tell you, it was a mistake to tolerate the free elves and dryads, with their forests and their mountain enclaves. It wasn’t enough for them, and now they’re yelling: ‘It’s our world! Begone, strangers!’. By the gods, we’ll show them who will be gone, and of which race even the slightest traces will be wiped away. We beat the hides off the Nilfgaardians and now we will do something about these rogue bands.”
“It’s not easy to catch an elf in the woods,” said the witcher. “Nor would I go after a gnome or dwarf in the mountains. How large are these units?”
“Bands,” corrected the knight. “They’re bands, witcher. They can count up to a hundred heads, sometimes more. They call each pack a ‘commando’. It’s a word borrowed from the gnomes. And in saying they are hard to catch you speak truly. Evidently you are a professional. Chasing them through the woods and thickets is senseless. The only way is to cut them off from their supplies, isolate them, starve them out. Seize the non-humans who are helping them firmly by the scruff of their necks. Those from the towns and settlements, villages and farms—”
“The problem is,” said the merchant with noble features, “that we still don’t know which of the non-humans are helping them and which aren’t.”
“Then we have to seize them all!”
“Ah.” The merchant smiled. “I understand. I’ve heard that somewhere before. Take everyone by the scruff of their neck and throw them down the mines, into enclosed camps, into quarries. Everyone. The innocent, too. Women and children. Is that right?”
The knight raised his head and slammed his hand down on his sword hilt.
“Just so, and no other way!” he said sharply. “You pity the children, yet you’re like a child yourself in this world, dear sir. A truce with Nilfgaard is a very fragile thing, like an egg-shell. If not today then the war might start anew tomorrow, and anything can happen in war. If they defeated us, what do you think would happen? I’ll tell you what – elven commandos would emerge from the forests, they’d emerge strong and numerous and these ‘loyal elements’ would instantly join them. Those loyal dwarves of yours, your friendly halflings, do you think they are going to talk of peace, of reconc
iliation then? No, sir. They’ll be tearing our guts out. Nilfgaard is going to deal with us through their hands. And they’ll drown us in the sea, just as they promise. No, sir, we must not pussyfoot around them. It’s either them or us. There’s no third way!”
The door of the hut squeaked and a soldier in a bloodied apron stood in the doorway.
“Forgive me for disturbing you,” he hawked. “Which of you, noble sirs, be the one who brought this sick woman here?”
“I did,” said the witcher. “What’s happened?”
“Come with me, please.”
They went out into the courtyard.
“It bodes not well with her, sir,” said the soldier, indicating Triss. “Firewater with pepper and saltpetre I gave her – but it be no good. I don’t really…”
Geralt made no comment because there was nothing to say. The magician, doubled over, was clear evidence of the fact that firewater with pepper and saltpetre was not something her stomach could tolerate.
“It could be some plague.” The soldier frowned. “Or that, what’s it called… Zintery. If it were to spread to our men—”
“She is a wizard,” protested the witcher. “Wizards don’t fall sick…”
“Just so,” the knight who had followed them out threw in cynically. “Yours, as I see, is just emanating good health. Geralt, listen to me. The woman needs help and we cannot offer such. Nor can I risk an epidemic amongst my troops. You understand.”
“I understand. I will leave immediately. I have no choice – I have to turn back towards Daevon or Ard Carraigh.”
“You won’t get far. The patrols have orders to stop everyone. Besides, it is dangerous. The Scoia’tael have gone in exactly that direction.”
“I’ll manage.”
“From what I’ve heard about you” – the knight’s lips twisted – “I have no doubt you would. But bear in mind you are not alone. You have a gravely sick woman on your shoulders and this brat…”
Ciri, who was trying to clean her dung-smeared boot on a ladder rung, raised her head. The knight cleared his throat and looked down. Geralt smiled faintly. Over the last two years Ciri had almost forgotten her origins and had almost entirely lost her royal manners and airs, but her glare, when she wanted, was very much like that of her grandmother. So much so that Queen Calanthe would no doubt have been very proud of her granddaughter.
“Yeeessss, what was I…” the knight stammered, tugging at his belt with embarrassment. “Geralt, sir, I know what you need to do. Cross beyond the river, south. You will catch up with a caravan which is following the trail. Night is just around the corner and the caravan is certain to stop for a rest. You will reach it by dawn.”
“What kind of caravan?”
“I don’t know.” The knight shrugged. “But it is not a merchant or an ordinary convoy. It’s too orderly, the wagons are all the same, all covered… A royal bailiff’s, no doubt. I allowed them to cross the bridge because they are following the Trail south, probably towards the fords on the Lixela.”
“Hmmm…” The witcher considered this, looking at Triss. “That would be on my way. But will I find help there?”
“Maybe yes,” the knight said coldly. “Maybe no. But you won’t find it here, that’s for sure.”
They did not hear or see him as he approached, engrossed as they were in conversation, sitting around a campfire which, with its yellow light, cadaverously illuminated the canvas of the wagons arranged in a circle. Geralt gently pulled up his mare and forced her to neigh loudly. He wanted to warn the caravan, which had set up camp for the night, wanted to temper the surprise of having visitors and avoid a nervous reaction. He knew from experience that the release mechanisms on crossbows did not like nervous moves.
The campers leaped up and, despite his warning, performed numerous agitated movements. Most of them, he saw at once, were dwarves. This reassured him somewhat – dwarves, although extremely irascible, usually asked questions first in situations such as these and only then aimed their crossbows.
“Who’s that?” shouted one of the dwarves hoarsely and with a swift, energetic move, prised an axe from a stump by the campfire. “Who goes there?”
“A friend.” The witcher dismounted.
“I wonder whose,” growled the dwarf. “Come closer. Hold your hands out so we can see them.”
Geralt approached, holding his hands out so they could be seen even by someone afflicted with conjunctivitis or night blindness.
“Closer.”
He obeyed. The dwarf lowered his axe and tilted his head a little.
“Either my eyes deceive me,” he said, “or it’s the witcher Geralt of Rivia. Or someone who looks damn like him.”
The fire suddenly shot up into flames, bursting into a golden brightness which drew faces and figures from the dark.
“Yarpen Zigrin,” declared Geralt, astonished. “None other than Yarpen Zigrin in person, complete with beard!”
“Ha!” The dwarf waved his axe as if it were an osier twig. The blade whirred in the air and cut into a stump with a dull thud. “Call the alarm off! This truly is a friend!”
The rest of the gathering visibly relaxed and Geralt thought he heard deep sighs of relief. The dwarf walked up to him, holding out his hand. His grip could easily rival a pair of iron pincers.
“Welcome, you warlock,” he said. “Wherever you’ve come from and wherever you’re going, welcome. Boys! Over here! You remember my boys, witcher? This is Yannick Brass, this one’s Xavier Moran and here’s Paulie Dahlberg and his brother Regan.”
Geralt didn’t remember any of them, and besides they all looked alike, bearded, stocky, practically square in their thick quilted jerkins.
“There were six of you,” one by one he squeezed the hard, gnarled hands offered him, “if I remember correctly.”
“You’ve a good memory,” laughed Yarpen Zigrin. “There were six of us, indeed. But Lucas Corto got married, settled down in Mahakam and dropped out of the company, the stupid oaf. Somehow we haven’t managed to find anybody worthy of his place yet. Pity, six is just right, not too many, not too few. To eat a calf, knock back a barrel, there’s nothing like six—”
“As I see,” with a nod Geralt indicated the rest of the group standing undecided by the wagons, “there are enough of you here to manage three calves, not to mention a quantity of poultry. What’s this gang of fellows you’re commanding, Yarpen?”
“I’m not the one in command. Allow me to introduce you. Forgive me, Wenck, for not doing so straight away but me and my boys have known Geralt of Rivia for a long time – we’ve a fair number of shared memories behind us. Geralt, this is Commissar Vilfrid Wenck, in the service of King Henselt of Ard Carraigh, the merciful ruler of Kaedwen.”
Vilfrid Wenck was tall, taller than Geralt and near twice the dwarf’s height. He wore an ordinary, simple outfit like that worn by greeves, bailiffs or mounted messengers, but there was a sharpness in his movements, a stiffness and sureness which the witcher knew and could faultlessly recognise, even at night, even in the meagre light of the campfire. That was how men accustomed to wearing hauberks and belts weighed down with weapons moved. Wenck was a professional soldier. Geralt was prepared to wager any sum on it. He shook the proffered hand and gave a little bow.
“Let’s sit down.” Yarpen indicated the stump where his mighty axe was still embedded. “Tell us what you’re doing in this neighbourhood, Geralt.”
“Looking for help. I’m journeying in a threesome with a woman and youngster. The woman is sick. Seriously sick. I caught up with you to ask for help.”
“Damn it, we don’t have a medic here.” The dwarf spat at the flaming logs. “Where have you left them?”
“Half a furlong from here, by the roadside.”
“You lead the way. Hey, you there! Three to the horses, saddle the spare mounts! Geralt, will your sick woman hold up in the saddle?”
“Not really. That’s why I had to leave her there.”
“Get the sh
eepskin, canvas sheet and two poles from the wagon! Quick!”
Vilfrid Wenck, crossing his arms, hawked loudly.
“We’re on the trail,” Yarpen Zigrin said sharply, without looking at him. “You don’t refuse help on the Trail.”
“Damn it.” Yarpen removed his palm from Triss’s forehead. “She’s as hot as a furnace. I don’t like it. What if it’s typhoid or dysentery?”
“It can’t be typhoid or dysentery,” Geralt lied with conviction, wrapping the horse blankets around the sick woman. “Wizards are immune to those diseases. It’s food poisoning, nothing contagious.”
“Hmm… Well, all right. I’ll rummage through the bags. I used to have some good medicine for the runs, maybe there’s still a little left.”
“Ciri,” muttered the witcher, passing her a sheepskin unstrapped from the horse, “go to sleep, you’re barely on your feet. No, not in the wagon. We’ll put Triss in the wagon. You lie down next to the fire.”
“No,” she protested quietly, watching the dwarf walk away. “I’m going to lie down next to her. When they see you keeping me away from her, they won’t believe you. They’ll think it’s contagious and chase us away, like the soldiers in the fort.”
“Geralt?” the enchantress moaned suddenly. “Where… are we?”
“Amongst friends.”
“I’m here,” said Ciri, stroking her chestnut hair. “I’m at your side. Don’t be afraid. You feel how warm it is here? A campfire’s burning and a dwarf is just going to bring some medicine for… For your stomach.”
“Geralt,” sobbed Triss, trying to disentangle herself from the blankets. “No… no magic elixirs, remember…”
“I remember. Lie peacefully.”
“I’ve got to… Oooh…”
The witcher leaned over without a word, picked up the enchantress together with her cocoon of caparisons and blankets, and marched to the woods, into the darkness. Ciri sighed.
She turned, hearing heavy panting. Behind the wagon appeared the dwarf, hefting a considerable bundle under his arm. The campfire flame gleamed on the blade of the axe behind his belt; the rivets on his heavy leather jerkin also glistened.