They had no trouble making their way through the mining camp. Some of the miners looked at them and then quickly looked away; others remained frozen with their mouths open. Anyone that was in their way quickly moved aside. Geralt could imagine why. His face still shone and Cahir’s was still covered in stains, bruises, scratches and scrapes – the scenic remnants of the fight and the beating Milva had given them. So they looked like individuals who enjoyed cutting each other in the face, and who would also not take long to polish the face of a third person.
The dwarf, Angouleme’s friend, stood beside a carpentry building, painting an inscription on something like a blackboard, which was cobbled together from two planed boards. He noticed the three and put away his brush, set his paint bucket aside, and looked at them from under lowered brows. His physiognomy, ornamented by a speckled beard, was suddenly painted in utter amazement. ‘Angouleme?’
‘Hello, Drozdeck.’
‘Is that you?’ The dwarf opened his bearded mouth. ‘Is that really you?’
‘No. It’s not me. It’s the newly resurrected prophet Marjoram. Don’t ask silly questions, Golan. For a change, you could act a little wiser.’
‘Don’t joke, Bright. I never expected to see you again. Mauleslin was here five days ago and he told me that they caught you and put you to the stake in Riedbrune. He swore it was the truth!’
‘Well, that’s a good thing.’ The girl shrugged her shoulders. ‘Now, if Mauleslin ever wants to borrow money from you and swears that he will give it back, then you’ll know what his oath is worth.’
‘I already knew that,’ the dwarf replied, then blinked rapidly and twitched his nose just like a rabbit. ‘I wouldn’t lend him a penny if they were falling from the sky. But the fact that you're alive and safe makes me happy, ha, that makes me glad! Maybe you will even pay your debt to me?’
‘Perhaps. Who knows?’
‘And who do you have here with you, Bright?’
‘Good friends.’
‘Well you look good, but…where are the gods leading you?’
‘As usual, I’m going astray.’ Ignoring the threatening eyes of the witcher, she drew a pinch of Fisstech, sniffed it through her nose, and rubbed the rest into her gums. ‘You sniff, Golan?’
‘Well.’ The dwarf held out his hand and pulled a pinch of the narcotic into his nose.
‘In truth,’ the girl continued, ‘I'll probably go into Belhaven. Do you know where Nightingale and the Hanse are?’
Golan Drozdeck cocked his head. ‘You, Bright, should stay out of Nightingale’s way. They say he’s as mad at you as a wolverine when woken in the winter.’
‘Whoa! Even after he heard that two horses pulled me onto a sharpened stake? Didn’t he feel sorry? Hasn't he shed any tears?’
‘Absolutely not. He supposedly said: Now Angouleme got what we knew all along she must – a pole in the ass.’
‘Well, what a boar. A vulgar bastard. The governor Fulko would say ‘dregs of society’. But I say, ‘dregs of the cloaca’!’
‘Something you should rather say behind his back, Bright. And do not loiter in the area of Belhaven, make a detour around the city. And if you must to go into town, go in disguise...’
‘Don’t teach a grandfather to cough, Golan.’
‘I wouldn’t dare.’
‘Look, dwarf.’ Angouleme braced her boot against one of the steps to carpentry. ‘I’m going to ask you a question. Do not hurry to respond – think twice before you answer.’
‘Ask.’
‘Have you, by chance, recently come across a certain half-elf? A stranger, not from here?’
Golan Drozdeck inhaled air, sneezed vigorously, and wiped his nose on his wrist. ‘A half-elf, you say? What a half-elf?’
‘Don't be stupid, Drozdeck. The one Nightingale hired for the special job. To get rid of someone. A certain witcher...’
‘A witcher?’ Golan Drozdeck smiled and lifted his board up off the floor. ‘Imagine that! Fact is, we are looking for a witcher – that's why we've been painting these signs and hanging them in the area. Look, here: Looking for Witcher, good pay, plus room and board, Inquire for details with the management of the mine ‘LITTLE BABETTE'. How do you spell ‘Details’? With an ‘ai’ or ‘ei’?’
‘Write: ‘Particulars’. And why do you need a witcher in the mine?’
‘What a question. What else, if not for monsters?’
‘Like what?’
‘Knockers and Barbegazi. They are all over the place on the lower levels of the mine.’
Angouleme threw a glance at Geralt, who confirmed with a nod that he knew what they were. Then he gave her a meaningful cough, letting her know that he wanted to get back to business.
‘So, back to business.’ The girl had understood instantly. ‘What do you know of that half-elf?’
‘I do not know of any half-elf.’
‘I told you to think twice.’
‘I've done just that.’ Golan Drozdeck gave her a sly look. ‘And I think that it is not worth it for me to know something on this matter.’
‘What does...?’
‘It means that it is restless. The terrain is restless and the days are restless. Gangs, Nilfgaardians, the freedom fighters of the ‘Free North Case’... and various foreign elements, half-elves. Each one is eager to cause trouble...’
‘What does...?’ Angouleme wrinkled her nose.
‘It means that you owe me money, Bright. Instead of returning it, you want to add new debt. Significant debt – because what you ask can get a person a blow to the head, and not with bare fists, but with a pickaxe. What do I get? Does it pay for me to know something about this half-elf, eh? Do I get anything for it? It seems there are only risks and no reward...’
Geralt had heard enough. The conversation bored him and neither the jargon nor manner appealed to him. With a swift movement he seized the dwarf's beard, pulled it towards him, and then shoved him back. Golan Drozdeck tripped over the bucket of paint and fell. The witcher leaped on him, put a knee to his chest, and shoved a knife in front of his sparkling eyes. ‘Your reward,’ he growled, ‘will be that you'll get away from here with your life. Start talking.’
Golan's eyes darted all around, from the caves to the walkways.
‘Talk,’ repeated Geralt. ‘Tell me what you know. Otherwise I'll cut your throat so that you’ll drown before you bleed to death...’
‘RIALTO’...’ groaned the dwarf. ‘In the mine named ‘RIALTO’...’
Only minor details distinguished the mine ‘RIALTO’ from ‘LITTLE BABETTE’, as well as the other mines and surface-mines that Angouleme, Geralt, and Cahir passed by – ‘THE SPRING MANIFESTO’, ‘ALTERZ’, ‘NEUERZ’, ‘APRIL FOOLS’, ‘DULCINELLA’, ‘COMMON CAUSE’ and ‘HAPPY HOLE’. Work was in full swing in all of them – muddy earth was brought out of tunnels or shafts, poured into troughs, and washed in sieves. All of them had plenty of the characteristic red mud.
‘RIALTO’ was a large ore mine near the summit of the hill. The summit was cut off and formed an open pit. The filtration camp was actually on a terrace cut into the mountainside. Next to the tunnel mouths, which gaped in the vertical mountainside, were troughs, sieves, gutters and other accessories of mining. It was a true settlement of wooden huts, bark-covered huts, shacks, and sheds.
‘I don't know anyone,’ the girl said as she firmly tied her reins to a fence. ‘But we will try to talk to the manager. Geralt, if you can help it, do not immediately grab him by the throat and threaten him with a knife. Let's talk first...’
‘Don’t teach a grandfather to cough, Angouleme.’
They did not talk. They did not even have to go to the building that they suspected was the manager's office. In a small square where ore was loaded on wagons, they met five riders.
‘Oh damn,’ said Angouleme. ‘Oh damn. Look, what the wind just blew in.’
‘What is it?’
‘Those are Nightingale’s people. They’ve come to collect the protection m
oney. They've already seen and recognized me... fucking shit! Now we're sitting in the soup...’
‘Can you deceive them?’ murmured Cahir.
‘I don't think so.’
‘Because?’
‘I robbed Nightingale when I fled from the Hanse. They do not forgive... But I'll try. You stay silent. Keep your eyes open and be ready. For anything.’
The mounted riders came closer. Two rode in the lead – a graying, long-haired man wearing a wolf fur and a young, lanky man with a beard, which he had apparently grown to conceal pimple scars. Geralt noticed the flash of concealed hatred in their eyes when they looked at Angouleme.
‘Bright.’
‘Novosad. Yirrel. Greetings. Beautiful day today. Just a pity that it's raining.’
The Greyhair dismounted, or more precisely, jumped from the saddle, throwing his right leg over his horse's neck with a flourish. The others also dismounted. As he walked closer, the Greyhair handed his reins to Yirrel – the beanpole with the beard.
‘So,’ he said. ‘Our talkative goose. As it turns out, you're alive and healthy?’
‘And still kicking.’
‘Reckless brat! Rumor has it that you kicked, but while on the pole. Rumor has it that One-Eyed Fulko caught you. Rumor has it that you sang like a lark on the rack and betrayed us all when they asked!’
‘Rumor has it,’ snapped Angouleme, ‘that your mother, Novosad, demands that her customers pay her four pennies, but still no one will give her more than two.’
The robber spat contemptuously at her feet.
Again Angouleme snapped, just like a cat. ‘Novosad,’ she said boldly, putting her hands on her hips. ‘I have business to discuss with Nightingale.’
‘Interesting. He has business to discuss with you as well.’
‘Shut up and listen for as long as I feel like talking. Two days ago, a mile away from Riedbrune, these two friends of mine and I made cold the witcher, the one Nightingale had the job for. Do you understand?’
Novosad looked at his mates meaningfully, then straightened his gloves and looked at Geralt and Cahir appraisingly. ‘Your new friends,’ he repeated slowly. ‘Ha, I can see by their visages that they are not priests. They killed the witcher, you say? How? With a stab in the back? Or while he was asleep?’
‘That's a minor detail.’ Angouleme made a wry face like a monkey. ‘An important detail, however, is that said witcher has bitten the dust. I don't want to mess with Nightingale, don't want to drive his parade. But business is business. The half-elf gave you an advance – which I don't care about – that's your money, for expenses and effort. But the second installment, which the half-elf promised after work was done, is mine by rights.’
‘By rights?’
‘Yes!’ Angouleme ignored his sarcastic tone. ‘Because we have fulfilled the contract and killed the witcher, and we can prove it to the half-elf. I'll take what's mine and disappear into the blue and misty distance. With Nightingale, as I said, I do not want to compete. There is not enough room on the North Case for the two of us. Convey this to him, Novosad.’
‘Is that all?’ he asked with venomous sarcasm.
‘And kisses,’ growled Angouleme. ‘You can kiss my ass in his place, by proxy.’
‘I think,’ Novosad announced, as he glanced at his companions. ‘That I should bring your ass to him in person, Angouleme. I, Angouleme, am going to bring you to him in chains, so he can talk to you and clarify everything. And settle. Everything. The question of who is entitled to the money from the contract with the half-elf Schirrú. The payment for what you stole. And also, that there is not enough space on the Northern Case for the both of you. In this way, everything is settled. Every detail.’
‘There's one little problem.’ Angouleme dropped her hands. ‘How do you plan to take me to Nightingale, Novosad?’
‘Oops!’ The bandit stretched out his hand. ‘By the throat!’
With a lightning-fast movement, Geralt moved his Sihil under Novosad's nose. ‘I would not advise that,’ he growled.
Novosad jumped back and drew his sword. With a hiss, Yirrel tore a scimitar from the sheath on his back. The others followed their example.
‘I would not advise that,’ repeated the witcher.
Novosad cursed. He looked at his companions. He was weak in arithmetic, but he still came to the conclusion that five was much more than three. ‘At them!’ he screamed and threw himself at Geralt. ‘Kill them!’
The witcher dodged the blow with a half spin and hit him just below the temple. Even before Novosad fell, Angouleme made a throwing motion – a knife whizzed through the air and the attacking the Yirrel staggered, a bone handle jutting out from under his chin. The bandit dropped his sword and tore the knife out with both hands. Blood poured from his throat as Angouleme jumped up and kicked him in the chest, knocking him to the ground. Meanwhile, Geralt had cut down another bandit. Cahir gave one mighty blow with his Nilfgaardian sword and the head of a bandit fell, somewhat in the shape of a portion of melon. The last bandit retreated and jumped on his horse. Cahir heaved up his sword, grabbed it by the blade and threw it like a spear. It hit the robber right between the shoulder blades. The horse whinnied, tossed its head, and fell to its knees, then began to stomp and drag the corpse, whose hands were still clutching the bridle strap, through the red mud.
Everything had happened in no more than five heartbeats.
‘Peeeople!’ someone screamed between the buildings. ‘Peeooplee! Heeelp! Murder, murder, they murdered them!’
‘Army! Get the military!’ shouted another mountain man, while he drove back the children who had appeared – in accordance with the ancient custom of all children from the beginning of time – to gape and stand in people's way.
‘Someone should run, get the Military!’
Angouleme picked up her knife, wiped it and put it in her boot. ‘Leave off, please!’ she shouted back while she looked around. ‘Are you blind, you mountain miner, or what? That was self-defense! The crooks attacked us! Didn't you notice? Plus, didn't you notice they were evil? Haven't they extorted protection money from some of you?’
She sneezed violently. She pulled the bag from the still-twitching Novosad's belt, and then bent over Yirrel.
‘Angouleme.’
‘What?’
‘Stop it’
‘Why? This is loot! Do you have too much money?’
‘Angouleme...’
‘Hey, you,’ a sonorous voice suddenly said. ‘Come here a moment.’
There were three men in the open door of a building that served as a tool shed. Two were musclemen with low cut hair, low foreheads, and certainly lower intelligence. The third – the one that had called them – was an unusually tall, dark haired, handsome man
‘I couldn't help but hear the discussion that preceded the commotion,’ the man said, ‘I didn't believe that you had killed the witcher, I thought it was an empty boast. But I do not think that anymore. Come in here, into the building.’
Angouleme gave an audible gasp. She looked at the witcher and nodded almost imperceptibly.
The man was a half-elf.
The half-elf Schirrú was tall. He measured over six feet. He wore his long, dark hair in a pony tail, which fell down his back. His eyes betrayed his mixed blood – large, almond-shaped, and greenish-yellow like a cat's.
‘So you have killed the witcher,’ he repeated with a dirty smile. ‘And you did it sooner than Homer Straggen, called Nightingale? Interesting, interesting. In short, I should pay you fifty florens. The second installment. So Straggen got his fifty for free. Because I doubt that you could get him to hand it over to you.’
‘How I deal with Nightingale is my business,’ said Angouleme, who was sitting on a crate, letting her legs dangle. ‘The contract regarding the witcher is your business. And we have done this thing. We, not Nightingale. The witcher is dead. His cronies, all three, are dead. So the contract is fulfilled.’
‘At least, you claim he is dead?
’
Angouleme kept dangling her legs. ‘When I'm old,’ she said in her usual brash tone, ‘I'll write the story of my life. In it, I'll describe what transpired, with all the details. Until then you'll have to wait, Mr. Schirrú.’
‘So you are embarrassed,’ coldly observed the half-breed. ‘because you killed him insidiously and deviously.’
‘Does that bother you?’ Geralt said. Schirrú looked at him cautiously.
‘No,’ he said after a moment. ‘The witcher Geralt of Rivia deserved no better fate. He was a naive fool and an idiot. If he'd had a better, more decent, honorable death there would have been legends made about him. But he deserves no legends.’
‘One death is the same as any other.’
‘Not always.’ The half-elf shook his head, trying all the time to look into Geralt's eyes, which were hidden in the shadow of his hood. ‘I assure you, not always. I guess you were the one that dealt the fatal blow.’
Geralt did not answer. He felt an overwhelming desire to grab the half-breed by the ponytail, throw him to the ground, extract everything he knew from him, and then kick him until every tooth had been knocked out of his head. He restrained himself. The voice of reason told him that the mystification invented by Angouleme could produce better results.
‘As you will,’ said Schirrú, as he waited in vain for a reply. ‘I will not insist on receiving a detailed report of the event. Clearly you do not want to talk about it, so it’s obvious that nothing happened that one could boast of. Unless, of course, your silence is for an entirely different reason... for example – that nothing has happened. Do you perhaps have any evidence of the truth of your words?’
‘We cut off the dead witcher's right hand,’ Angouleme replied calmly. ‘But it was later stolen and eaten a raccoon.’
‘That was not the only thing we took’ Geralt slowly fumbled under his shirt and pulled out his wolf's head medallion. ‘The witcher wore this around his neck.’
‘Please.’
Geralt did not hesitate long.
The half-elf weighed the medallion in his hand. ‘Now I believe it,’ he said slowly. ‘This trinket emanates strong magic. Only a witcher could have such a thing.’