The Last Wish (13 page)

'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 fist fight. 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 colour of the sea.

She was almost as tall as him. She wore her straw-coloured 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. He 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 spelt 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, honourable 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.'

'With you, witcher,' Renfri touched Geralt's shoulder, I'd still like a word.'

'Don't be late for supper,' the alderman threw over his shoulder, 'or Libushe will be furious.'

'I won't.'

Geralt leant against the counter. Fiddling with the wolf's head medallion hanging around his neck, he looked into the girl's blue-green eyes.

'I've heard about you,' she said. 'You're Geralt, the white-haired witcher from Rivia. Is Stregobor your friend?'

'No.'

'That makes things easier.'

'Not much. Don't expect me to look on peacefully.'

Renfri's eyes narrowed.

'Stregobor dies tomorrow,' she said quietly, brushing the unevenly cut hair off her forehead. 'It would be the lesser evil if he died alone.'

'If he did, yes. But in fact, before Stregobor dies several other people will die too. I don't see any other possibility.'

'Several, witcher, is putting it mildly.'

'You need more than words to frighten me, Shrike.'

'Don't call me Shrike. I don't like it. The point is, I see other possibilities. It would be worth talking it over . . . but Libushe is waiting. Is she pretty, this Libushe?'

'Is that all you had to say to me?'

'No. But you should go. Libushe's waiting.'

There was someone in his little attic room. Geralt knew it before he even reached the door, sensing it through the barely perceptible vibration of his medallion. He blew out the oil lamp which had lit his path up the stairs, pulled the dagger from his boot, slipped it into the back of his belt and pressed the door handle. The room was dark. But not for a witcher.

He was deliberately slow in crossing the threshold; he closed the door behind him carefully.

The next second he dived at the person sitting on his bed, crushed them into the linen, forced his forearm under their chin and reached for his dagger. He didn't pull it out. Something wasn't right.

'Not a bad start,' she said in a muffled voice, lying motionless beneath him. 'I expected something like this, but I didn't think

we'd both be in bed so quickly. Take your hand from my throat please.' it s you.

'It's me. Now there are two possibilities. The first: you get off me and we talk. The second: we stay in this position, in which case I'd like to take my boots off at least.'

The witcher released the girl, who sighed, sat up and adjusted her hair and skirt.

'Light the candle,' she said. 'I can't see in the dark, unlike you, and I like to see who I'm talking to.'

She approached the table - tall, slim, agile - and sat down, stretching out her long legs in their high boots. She wasn't carrying any visible weapons.

'Have you got anything to drink here?'

'No.'

'Then it's a good thing I brought something,' she laughed, placing a travelling wine-skin and two leather tumblers on the table.

'It's nearly midnight,' said Geralt, coldly. 'Shall we come to the point?'

'In a minute. Here, have a drink. Here's to you, Geralt.'

'Likewise, Shrike.'

'My name's Renfri, dammit.' She raised her head. 'I will permit you to omit my royal title, but stop calling me Shrike!'

'Be quiet or you'll wake the whole house. Am I finally going to learn why you crept in here through the window?'

'You're slow-witted, witcher. I want to save Blaviken from slaughter. I crawled over the rooftops like a she-cat in March in order to talk to you about it. Appreciate it.'

'I do,' said Geralt. 'Except that I don't know what talk can achieve. The situation's clear.

Stregobor is in his tower, and you'd have to lay siege to it in order to get to him. If you do that, your letter of safe-conduct won't help you. Audoen won't defend you if you openly break the law. The alderman, guards, the whole of Blaviken will stand against you.'

'The whole of Blaviken would regret standing up to me.' Renfri smiled, revealing a predator's white teeth. 'Did you take a look at my boys? They know their trade, I assure you. Can you imagine what would happen in a fight between them and those dimwit guards who keep tripping over their own halberds?'

'Do you imagine I would stand by and watch a fight like that? I'm staying at the alderman's, as you can see. If the need arises, I should stand at his side.'

'I have no doubt,' Renfri grew serious, 'that you will. But you'll probably be alone as the rest will cower in the cellars. No warrior in the world could match seven swordsmen. So, white-hair, let's stop threatening each other. As I said: slaughter and bloodshed can be avoided.

There are two people who can prevent it.'

'I'm all ears.'

'One,' said Renfri, 'is Stregobor himself. He leaves his tower voluntarily, I take him to a deserted spot, and Blaviken sinks back into blissful apathy and forgets the whole affair.'

'Stregobor may seem crazy, but he's not that crazy.'

'Who knows, witcher, who knows. Some arguments can't be denied, like the Tridam ultimatum. I plan to present it to the sorcerer.'

'What is it, this ultimatum?'

'That's my sweet secret.'

'As you wish. But I doubt it'll be effective. Stregobor's teeth chatter when he speaks of you.

An ultimatum which would persuade him to voluntarily surrender himself into your beautiful hands would have to be pretty good. So who's the other person? Let me guess.'

'I wonder how sharp you are, white-hair.'

'It's you, Renfri. You'll reveal a truly princely— what am I saying, royal magnanimity and renounce your revenge. Have I guessed?'

Renfri threw back her head and laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. Then she grew silent and fixed her shining eyes on the witcher.

'Geralt,' she said, 'I used to be a princess. I had everything 1 could dream of. Servants at my beck and call, dresses, shoes.

Cambric knickers. Jewels and trinkets, ponies, goldfish in a pond. Dolls, and a doll's house bigger than this room. That was my life until Stregobor and that whore Aridea ordered a huntsman to butcher me in the forest and bring back my heart and liver. Lovely, don't you think?'

'No. I'm pleased you evaded the huntsman, Renfri.'

'Like shit I did. He took pity on me and let me go. After the son-of-a-bitch raped me and robbed me.'

Geralt, fiddling with his medallion, looked her straight in the eyes. She didn't lower hers.

'That was the end of the princess,' she continued. 'The dress grew torn, the cambric grew grubby. And then there was dirt, hunger, stench, stink and abuse. Selling myself to any old bum for a bowl of soup or a roof over my head. Do you know what my hair was like? Silk.

And it reached a good foot below my hips. I had it cut right to the scalp with sheep-shears when I caught lice. It's never grown back properly.'