They went across a bridge. Just beyond it a man was lying, barely consciously, feeling his surroundings with his hands. His face was bloodied and so swollen, that his eyes were barely visible. His breathing was heavy, and each breath caused bloody bubbles to appear from his squished nose. The ruffian leading them showed no interest in him, so Geralt and Dandelion pretended that they don't see anything. They were in a place where one should not show excessive curiosity. It was not recommended to put your nose in the affairs of Ravelin. In Ravelin - gossip had it - the nose split with his owner and was left where it was put in.
The ruffian led them through the kitchen, where cooks worked frantically. Cauldrons gurgled, and in there - as Geralt noticed – were boiled crabs, lobsters and crayfish. In vats wriggled eels and morays, in pots, steamed mussels and clams. On great pans sizzled meats. Servants took ready meals on trays and brought them into corridors.
The next room for a change smelled of women's perfumes and cosmetics. In front of a row of mirrors several women in various state of undress including completely, were chatting incessantly were taking care of their beauty. Also here Geralt and Dandelion kept their eyes from wandering.
In the next room they were thoroughly searched. The persons doing the searching were looking seriously, acting professionally and firm in action. Geralt's dagger was confiscated. Dandelion, who never carried any arms had to give up his comb and corkscrew. But - after some consideration - he was allowed to keep his lute.
‘In front of His Reverence there are chairs,’ they were informed at last. ‘Sit on them. Sit and do not stand up until His Reverence says so. Do not interrupt, while His Reverence talks. Don't talk until His Reverence gives a sign that it's allowed. And now off you go. This door.’
‘His Reverence?’ murmured Geralt.
‘He was a priest once,’ answered the poet. ‘But don't be afraid - he did not fall into bad habits. His subordinates have to address him somehow though, and he dislikes being called boss. We don't have to address him in any special way.’
When they entered, something immediately stood in their way. Something that was big as a mountain and reeked of musk.
‘Howdy, Mikita,’ Dandelion greeted the mountain.
The giant called Mikita, obviously a bodyguard of the reverent boss, was a metis - a result of cross between dwarf and an ogre. The effect of this cross was a dwarf with a height of well above seven feet, completely lacking a neck, with a curly beard, tusks sticking out like in a boar, and arms reaching to his knees. Such cross was infrequently seen – the species were as it was believed, completely different genetically - so something like Mikita could not be a natural being. A very strong magic had to have been used. Magic that was, by the way, forbidden. There was gossip that quite a lot of wizards ignored the prohibition. Geralt had proof that this gossip was true in front of him.
They sat down in two wicker chairs, according to local rules. Geralt looked around. In the farthest corner of the room, on a great chaise longue two naked girls were playing with themselves. There were being watched by a short, inconspicuous, stoop-shouldered, nondescript man feeding a dog. The man was wearing a slack, embroidered robe and a fez with a tassel. Having fed the last piece of lobster to the dog, the man rubbed his hands and turned.
‘Greetings, Dandelion,’ he said, sitting himself in something that looked like a throne but was made of wicker. ‘My deep respect, Master Geralt of Rivia.’
Reverent Pyral Pratt, considered - and not without reason - to be the boss of organized crime for the whole region, looked like a retired silk merchant. In a picnic of retired silk merchants he would not stand out, and could not be identified by someone from outside the trade. At least at a distance. Observation at a closer range allowed one to see in Pyral Pratt things uncommon in a merchant. An old paled scar on his cheekbone - a trace of a knife cut. The ugly and ominous grimace of his narrow lips. Bright, yellowish eyes, immobile like in python.
He was silent for a long while. From somewhere beyond the wall, music and the buzz of voices could be heard.
‘I'm glad to see and meet both of you, gentlemen,’ Pyral Pratt said finally. In his voice one could easily spot the old and unrusting love for cheap and badly distilled beverages.
‘I'm particularly glad to see you, singer,’ The Reverent smiled at Dandelion. ‘We have not seen each other since the wedding of my grand-daughter, which you honored with your performance. And I was thinking of you, because another grand-daughter of mine hurries to be married for some reason. I dare guess that you will not refuse me, an old friend? Eh? Will you sing at her wedding? You will not make me ask you for as long as it took last time? Will I need to... convince you?’
‘I’ll sing, I'll sing,’ Dandelion hurried with confirmation, going slightly pale.
‘And now,’ continued Pratt, ‘you’ve dropped in to ask about my health? Well it's shitty, this health of mine.’
Dandelion and Geralt did not comment. The Ogre-dwarf stunk of musk. Pyral Pratt sighed heavily.
‘I’ve got,’ he announced, ‘ulcers of the stomach and anorexia, so the pleasures of the table are not for me anymore. I was diagnosed with a diseased liver, and forbidden to drink. I’ve got slipped discs in both lumbar and cervical and this eliminated from my entertainments hunting and other extreme sports. Medicines and healing take a lot of money, which I used to spend on hazards. My prick sometimes gets stiff, but how much work it takes! The thing will tire earlier than delight... So, what's left? Eh?’
‘Politics?’
Pyral Pratt laughed so hard that even the tassel on his fez shook.
‘Bravo, Dandelion. As usual - to the point. Politics - oh yes, that's something for me. I was not very favorable to the idea before. I thought to take up debauchery and invest in brothels. I mixed among politicians and I got to know a lot of them. And I came to know that it's better to be among whores, as whores at least have some honor and some rules. On the other hand, you cannot rule from a brothel as well as from the city hall. And one would want to rule, if not the world then at least the county as old saying says. As old saying goes - if you can't beat them - join them...’
He stopped. Looked at the chaise lounge, and stretching his neck.
‘Don’t feign it girls!’ he shouted. ‘Don't pretend, more eagerness! Where was I...’
‘Politics.’
‘Oh right. But politics is politics, and you’ve had your swords stolen, witcher. Isn't that why you are here.’
‘That's exactly the reason.’
‘Stolen swords,’ nodded Pratt. ‘A painful loss, I take it? Of course it's painful. And irreparable. Well I always said that in Kerack there is a thief for every thief. The locals will steal - that's a well-known fact - everything that is not nailed down. And for the case of nailed down things they always bring crowbars.’
‘An investigation - I hope - is under way?’ he continued after a while. ‘Ferrant de Lettenhove acts? Look the truth in the eyes gentlemen. You can't expect wonders from Ferrant. No offense Dandelion, but your cousin would be a better bookkeeper than he is an investigator. There is nothing for him but books, codices, paragraphs, rules and those proofs, proofs and proofs of his. Like the joke about the goat and cabbage. Once a goat was locked in a sty with a head of cabbage. In the morning there was no cabbage and goat crapped green. But there is no proof, and no witnesses, so the case was discontinued, causa finita. I would not want to be a bad prophet, but this may be the case with your swords.’
Geralt yet again did not comment.
‘The first sword,’ Pyral Pratt scraped his chin with a ringed finger, ‘is steel. Siderite steel, the ore came from a meteorite. Forged in Mahakam, in dwarven machine forges. Its full length forty and a half inches, the blade, twenty seven and a quarter. Exquisite balance, the weight of the blade is exactly equal to weight of handle. The weight of the whole sword surely below forty ounces. Workmanship simple, but elegant’.
‘And the second one, similar in
length and weight, silver. Partially of course. Steel core clad with silver, also the edges are steel, pure silver is too soft to sharpen it enough. On the cross guard and down the full length of the blade are runic signs, that my specialist found impossible to decipher, but surely magical.’
‘A Precise description,’ Geralt’s face looked like it was made of stone. ‘Like you’ve seen them.’
‘But I did. They were brought to me and offered for sale. The middleman representing the interests of the present owner, a person with a unscathed reputation and known to me personally, was guaranteeing that the swords were excavated in Fen Carn, an ancient necropolis in Sodden. A lot of treasures had been dug up at Fen Carn so there was no reason to disbelieve him. But I had my suspicions, and I didn't buy the swords. You listening to me, Witcher?’
‘Carefully. I’m waiting for the conclusion. And details.’
‘The conclusion is like this: Details cost. Information has a price tag.’
‘You know,’ snorted Dandelion, ‘I came to you as an old friend, with a friend in distress...’
‘Business is business,’ Pyral Pratt interrupted. ‘I said, the information that I have has its price. If you want to know something about the fate of your swords, witcher of Rivia you have to pay.’
‘What's the price on the tag?’
Pratt took a large golden coin from under his robe and gave it to the ogre-dwarf. And he without any visible effort broke it in his fingers like it was biscuit. Geralt shook his head.
‘A banality on a level of market theater,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘You will give me half of this coin, and sometime in the future, maybe in few years even, someone will find me and show me the other half. And will demand that I’m to fulfill his wish. A wish I will have to fulfill unconditionally. No way. If this is to be the price, then no deal. Causa finita. Let's go Dandelion.’
‘You don't want to get your swords back?’
‘Not that much.’
‘I suspected as much. But I had to try anyway. I will make another offer. An offer that can't be refused this time.’
‘Let's go, Dandelion.’
‘You will walk away,’ Pratt indicated with his head, ‘but through other door, this door, and without your clothes, except for your pants.’
Geralt thought that he had control of his face. He must have been mistaken as the ogre-dwarf roared cautionary and stepped toward him, lifting his hands and stinking doubly.
‘This is some kind of mockery,’ announced Dandelion loudly, being, as always when having the witcher at his side, brazen and mettlesome.
‘You are making fun of us Pyral. That's why we will say goodbye and leave. And through exactly the same door that we came in. Don't forget who I am. I'm leaving!’
‘I don't think so,’ Pyral Pratt shook his head. ‘That you are not especially wise we established earlier. But to try to walk away, you are stupid.’
To bolster the boss' speech the ogre-dwarf put his fist under his noses. A fist the size of a watermelon. Geralt was silent. He was inspecting the giant for a while looking for a place to place a kick. Because it seems that it would come to kicking.
‘Oh, well,’ Pratt with a gestured mitigated the giant. ‘I will yield a bit, I will show my good will and ability for compromise. The elite of trade, industry and finance, politicians, nobles, clergy, even a prince in incognito gathered here. I promised them a show, which they hadn't seen yet, and they surely had not seen a witcher in his underpants. But OK, I will yield a bit. You can go naked from the waist up. In return you will get your information, and instantly at that. Moreover, as a bonus...’
Pyral Pratt took a sheet of paper from the table.
‘As a bonus, two hundred novigradian crowns, for the witcher’s retirement fund. Here is a bearer’s cheque, from the Giancardi bank. You can collect it in any of their branches. What do you say?’
‘Why do you ask?’ said the Witcher half-closing his eyes. ‘You made it clear - as it seems - already that I can't refuse.’
‘You're right. As I said - you can't refuse this offer. But I suppose it's beneficial for both sides.’
‘Dandelion, take the cheque.’ Geralt undid and took off his jacket. ‘Now tell me, Pratt.’
‘As I already mentioned,’ the Reverent stretched on his throne, ‘I refuse to buy the swords from the middleman. But as it was, as I said, a trusted person, and well known to me, I suggested another way to sell the swords. I told him to put the swords on an auction at Borsody's in Novigrad. It's the largest and most esteemed collector's auction. Amateurs of rarities, antiques, rare pieces of art, unique works and all kind of curios come from all around the world. To come into possession of this or that phenomenon they bid like mad, so exotic weird stuff reaches astronomic prices at Borsody's. You can't sell any higher.’
‘Go on, Pratt,’ Witcher took off his shirt. ‘I’m listening.’
‘The auctions at Borsody's are held every quarter. The nearest will be held on the fifteenth of July. The thief will surely be there with your swords. With a bit of luck you will be able to get them back before auction.’
‘That's all?’
‘That's quite a lot.’
‘Who is the thief? Or the middleman?’
‘I don't know who the thief is,’ Pratt said. ‘And I will not reveal the middleman. This is business, there are laws, rules, and not the bit less important than customs. I would lose my face. I’ve revealed enough to you, considering what I demand of you. Mikita, Lead him away to the arena. And you, Dandelion, come with me, we will look too. What are you waiting for, witcher?’
‘Am I to go without a weapon? Not only naked from waist up, but also unarmed?’
‘I promised my guests,’ said Pyral slowly, like he was talking to a child, ‘something that they had not seen before. Witchers with weapons have been seen.’
‘Brilliant.’
He found himself in the arena, on the sand, in a circle that was defined by logs dug into the ground, washed by the twitching light of lampoons, hanging from iron bars. He heard shouts, claps and whistles. He saw above the arena, faces, open mouths, excited eyes.
In front of him, on the opposite side of the arena something moved. And jumped.
Geralt had barely succeeded in forming his arms into the Heliotrope Sign. The spell deflected and knocked back the attacking beast. The crowd shouted in unison.
It was a two-legged lizard resembled a wyvern, but smaller, the size of a large dog. It had however a much larger head than wyvern's. Many more teeth in its muzzle. And a much longer tail, with the end as thin as a whip. With this tail the lizard energetically waved, swiped the sand, and cut at the logs. Leaning its head the monster attacked again.
Geralt was ready, he hit it with the Aard Sign and threw it back. But the lizard succeeded in hitting him with the end of its tail. The spectators shouted again. The witcher felt a lump as thick as a sausage growing and swelling on his naked shoulder. He knew now why he was made to take of his clothes. He also recognized the enemy. It was vigilosaur. A specially bred, magically mutated lizard used to guard and protect. Thing were not good. The vigilosaur treated the arena as a place that he was supposed to protect. Geralt was the intruder that must be stopped. And eliminate if necessary.
The vigilosaur circled the arena, scraping the logs, hissing angrily. And attacked, quickly, not giving him any time to use a Sign. The witcher dexterously jumped out of the reach of the toothed muzzle, but failed to evade the tail. He felt another lump swelling next to the previous one.
Using the Sign of Heliotrope he blocked the attacking lizard. The lizard was lashing its tail with a whiz. Geralt heard a change in the whiz, hearing it a second ahead of tail hitting his back. Pain almost blinded him and blood flowed from his back. The spectators went mad.
His Signs were growing weaker. The vigilosaur was circling so fast that the witcher was barely able to keep up with it. He evaded two blows of the tail, but third hit him
again. Again in shoulder blade, again with the sharp edge. Blood was flowing in rivulets.
The audience was rumbling, the spectators were shouting at top of their lungs and jumping. One of them, to see better, leaned quite a bit through railing, supporting himself on a bar with a lampoon. The bar broke, and with the lampoon it fell down into the arena. The bar dug into the sand, while the lampoon hit the vigilosaur in the head and caught ablaze. The lizard threw it off, spilling cascades of sparks, hissed, and rubbed its head on the logs. Geralt instantly saw an opening. He took the bar out of sand, with a short run-up, jumped and impetuously thrust the bar into the lizard’s skull. The bar went through. The vigilosaur thrashed about, incoherently lashing with his front paws, trying to get rid of the iron poking into its brain. In uncoordinated jumps it hit the logs and bit into the wood. For some time it convulsed, clawed the sand and thrashed it with its tail. Then it finally went limped.
The walls shook with applause.
He left the arena using a dropped ladder. The enthusiastic crowd surrounded him from all sides. Someone patted him on his swollen shoulder, he stopped himself with great effort from hitting him. A young woman kissed him on cheek. Another still younger wiped the blood off of his back with a batiste handkerchief, which she instantly folded presenting it to her companions triumphantly. Another, much older took a necklace from her wrinkled neck, trying to give it to him. His expression made her retreat into the crowd.
It stunk of musk, through the crowd like a ship through the gulf-weed broke the ogre-dwarf, Mikita. He shielded the witcher and led him out.
They called a medic to dress Geralt wounds and stitched them. Dandelion was very pale. Pyral Pratt was calm. Like nothing had happened. But the witcher's face yet again must have told a lot, as he hurried with an explanation.