The Sword of Destiny (22 page)

When the spring comes along with the rain

the sun will warm us both.

That's the way it must be, for we burn

with fire eternal like hope.

"Repeat that for Dandelion if you can remember it," he called. "This ballad should be titled The Eternal Fire. Goodbye, witcher!"

"Hey!" he heard suddenly. "Lousy crook!"

Startled, Tellico turned. Vespula appeared from behind a stall, her bust rising and falling violently, and gave him an ominous look.

"Ogling girls, you traitor?" she hissed, moving with increasing agitation. "Serenading them, scoundrel?"

Tellico doffed his cap and bowed, giving her a broad smile, just as Dandelion would.

"Vespula, my dear," he said attentively, "how happy I am to see you. Forgive me, my sweet. I'm in your debt..."

"You are... you are..." she interrupted loudly. "And as you're in my debt, it's time to pay! Here!"

The enormous copper pan flashed in the sun before striking the doppler's head, making a deep resonant sound. With a stupid grin frozen on his face, Tellico stiffened and fell, folding his arms. His form suddenly began to change, to melt and lose all true similarity. Witnessing the scene, the witcher grabbed a large rug from a stall and hurried toward him. Having unrolled the rug on the ground, he slipped the doppler onto it with two little kicks and conscientiously wrapped him in the carpet.

Sitting on the bundle, Geralt wiped his brow with his sleeve. Vespula looked at him menacingly, shaking the pan in her fist. A crowd amassed around the two of them.

"He's ill," said the witcher, forcing a smile. "It's for his own good. Don't crowd, good people. The poor man needs air."

"Didn't you hear?" Chapelle asked with quiet authhority, making his way into the throng. "I suggest you to return to your activities! These assemblies are forbidden under penalty of law!"

The crowd dispersed around him to reveal Dandelion, who had been attracted, with no particular urgency, by the notes of the lute. At the sight of him, Vespula gave a terrible cry before throwing down her pan and fleeing the square at a run.

"What happened to her?" asked Dandelion. "Did she see a devil?"

Geralt got up from the rolled rug, which was beginning to wriggle slightly. Chapelle approached it slowly. He was alone. His personal guard was never visible.

"In your place, master Chapelle, I would not go any farther," Geralt said in a low voice.

"Oh yes?"

Chapelle looked at him coolly, his lips thinning.

"If I were you, master Chapelle, I would pretend to have seen nothing."

"Yes, clearly," Chapelle replied, "but you are not me."

Dainty Biberveldt, breathless and sweaty, emerged from behind the tent. He stopped short at the sight of Chapelle and began to whistle, his hands behind his back, pretending to admire the roof of the warehouse.

Chapelle came close to Geralt. The witcher remained motionless without blinking or flinching. Their eyes met for a moment, then Chapelle leaned over the bundle:

"Dudu," he said, addressing Dandelion's cordovan shoes where they protruded from the rolled and misshapen carpet. "Copy Biberveldt, quickly."

"How?" Dainty cried, looking away from the warehouse. "What?"

"Silence," Chapelle insisted. "So Dudu, how are you?"

"That's..." replied a stifled groan from inside the rug. "That's... That's..."

The cordovan shoes protruding from the carpet lost their consistency, dematerializing

to transform into the barefoot and hairy feet of the halfling.

"Get out of there, Dudu," said Chapelle. "And you, Dainty, keep quiet. To these people, all halflings look alike, don't they?"

Dainty grumbled indistinctly. Geralt stared at Chapelle, blinking suspiciously. The official straightened up and turned: the last curious onlookers on the periphery decamped on the spot in a clamor of footsteps that faded into the distance.

Dainty Biberveldt the Second extricated himself and emerged from the carpet, sneezing. He sat down, wiping his nose and eyes. Dandelion leaned against a chest that was resting on its side and strummed his lute with an intrigued expression on his face.

"Who is it? Who do you think, Dainty?" Chapelle asked gently. "It's a strong resemblance, don't you think?"

"It's my cousin," Dainty said in a whisper, and smiled widely. "A very close relation: Dudu Biberveldt from the Persicaires prairie, a genius of commerce. I've just decided to..."

"Yes, Dainty?"

"I've decided to make him my representative in Novigrad. What do you think, cousin?"

"Thank you very much, cousin," responded the very close relation, the hero of the Biberveldt clan, the genius of commerce, with a wide smile.

Chapelle smiled too.

"Your dream of living in the big city has come true," Geralt murmured. "What are you looking for in the city, Dudu... and you, Chapelle?"

"If you had lived in the headlands," Chapelle replied, "eating roots, soaking wet and shivering in the cold, then you would know... We too want something from life, Geralt. We are no worse than you."

"That's a fact," Geralt commented, nodding. "You're not. You may even be better. What happened to the real Chapelle?"

"He kicked the bucket," Chapelle the Second said under his breath. "It was two months ago: apoplexy. May the earth above his resting place weigh lightly on him and may the Eternal Fire illuminate his path. I was nearby when it happened... No-one noticed... Geralt? You won't..."

"What didn't they notice?" asked the witcher, his face impassive.

"I thank you," Chapelle whispered.

"Are there many of you?"

"Is it important?"

"No," conceded the witcher. "It's not."

A form wearing a green hat and dressed in rabbit fur emerged from behind the carts and stalls.

"Lord Biberveldt..." the gnome stammered breathlessly, looking from one halfling to the other with amazement.

"I think, little one," Dainty said, "that you're looking for my cousin, Dudu Biberveldt. Speak, speak, here he is."

"Oxyria reports that the stock has been completely sold," explained the gnome, who smiled broadly, displaying his sharp teeth. "At 4 crowns apiece."

"I think I know what's happening," said Dainty. "Too bad Vivaldi isn't with us: he could have calculated our profit in the wink of an eye."

"If you'll allow me, cousin," interrupted Tellico Lunngrevink Letorte, also known as Penstock, Dudu to his friends and, to all the city of Novigrad, member of the numerous Biberveldt clan. "Allow me to make the calculation. I have an infallible memory for figures. Among other things."

"Please," Dainty said, bowing. "Please do, dear cousin."

"The expenses," the doppler reflected, furrowing his brow, "weren't high: 18 for the rose essence, 8.50 for the fish oil, hum... in all, including the string: 45 crowns. The transaction is 600 pieces at 4 crowns, so 2,400. And no commission in the absence of an intermediary..."

"I ask you not to forget the tax," Chapelle the Second prompted. "Remember that a representative of the municipal authorities and of the church stands before you and plans to fulfill his duties conscientiously."

"Not subject to a tax," Dudu Biberveldt fired back, "because it is a sale with religious purposes."

"Huh?"

"Mixed in suitable proportions, fish oil, wax and rose essence, colored with a little cochineal," the doppler explained, "poured into earthenware bowls around a piece of cotton cord will, when the wick is lit, burn with a beautiful red flame that will burn for a long time without an unpleasant odor: the Eternal Fire. The priests need candles for their altars to the Eternal Fire. Now we have what they need."

"By the plague," Chapelle groaned. "Indeed... We needed candles... Dudu, you really are a genius."

"I get it from my mother," Tellico replied modestly.

"A mother you closely resemble," Dainty confirmed. "Look at those eyes shining with intelligence. Just like my dear aunt, Begonia Biberveldt."

"Geralt," Dandelion moaned. "In three days, he earned more money than I have in all my life!"

"In your place," the witcher said seriously, "I would give up singing for commerce. Ask him, perhaps he'll take you on as an apprentice."

"Witcher..." Tellico grasped his sleeve. "Tell me how I can... can thank you."

"22 crowns."

"What?"

"For a new jacket. Look at what's left of this one."

"You know what?" Dandelion shouted abruptly. "We're all gong to a brothel. To Passionflower! The Biberveldts' treat!"

"They'll admit halflings?" Dainty asked, worried.

"Just let them try to keep you out." Chapelle made a menacing face. "Let them try and I'll accuse the entire brothel of heresy."

"Well," Dandelion said. "All is well. And you, Geralt, are you coming with us?"

The witcher chuckled.

"You know, Dandelion," he said, "I'd actually be happy to."

A Little Dedication

This is a fan translation of a French translation of the story from Andrzej Sapkowski's The Sword of Destiny (L'Epee de la Providence). / am not a native or even a strong French speaker but I hope that the result is sufficiently readable for my fellow Anglophones.

I

The young siren emerged from the water up to her waist, violently splashing the surface with her hands. Geralt considered her breasts beautiful -perfect, even. Only their color spoiled the sight: the nipples were pale green and the surrounding aureola paler yet. Skillfully riding the waves that she raised, the young mermaid stretched charmingly, shaking out her wet celadon-green hair, and began to sing melodiously.

"What?" The duke leaned over the railing of the ship. "What did she say?"

"She refused," said Geralt. "She says she doesn't want to."

"You've explained that I love her, that I can't imagine living without her, that I want to marry her, be only with her, and no-one else?"

"I told her that."

"And..?"

"And nothing."

"Tell her again."

The witcher touched his lips with his fingers and gave a vibrant trill. Picking up the words and the melody, he began to scrupulously pass on the duke's confessions of love.

Drifting on her back, the young siren interrupted him: "Stop translating, stop working so hard," she sang. "I understood that. When he professes his love for me, it is always the same stupid simpering. Has he said anything concrete?"

"Not really."

"That's a shame."

The siren struck the water and immersed herself with an abrupt movement of her tail. The sea foamed where it was churned by the mullet-like fin.

"What? What did she say?" asked the duke.

"That it's a shame."

"What's a shame? What does that mean: 'a shame'?"

"It sounds to me like a refusal."

"Nobody refuses me anything!" shouted the duke, in defiance of the obvious facts.

"Lord," muttered the captain of the ship as he approached the two of them, "our nets are ready. All we have to do is throw them to capture..."

"I wouldn't advise that," Geralt interrupted in a measured tone. "She isn't alone. Under the water there are many others, and the depths could hide a kraken."

The captain trembled and grew pale, fixating on the last. "A kra... a kraken?"

"A kraken," confirmed the witcher. "I don't advise that you mess about with your nets. One scream from her would reduce us to drifting planks and drown us like common

kittens. And you, Agloval, must decide: do you want a wife or a fish to keep in a bowl?"

"I love her," Agloval answered resolutely. "I want to marry her. But for that, she must have legs, and not a scaly tail. Everything is prepared: I traded two pounds of beautiful pearls for a magic elixir that is fully guaranteed to cause her to grow legs. She will suffer only a little for three days, no more. Call her, witcher, tell her one more time."

"I've already explained it to her twice. She replied that she categorically refuses, but that she knows of a sea witch whose spells can turn your legs into a magnificent tail. And do so painlessly."

"Has she lost her mind? Me, I'm expected to grow a fish tail? Not on your life! Tell her, Geralt!"

The witcher leaned heavily over the railing. In his shadow, the sea looked as lush and green as aspic. The siren emerged in a fountain of water before he even had time to call her. She froze for a moment, balanced on her tail, then turned on her back to plunge into a wave in a movement that displayed all her charms. Geralt swallowed.

"Hey, you!" she sang. "Will it take much longer? My skin is cracking under the sun! White-haired one, ask him if he agrees."

"He doesn't agree," replied the witcher, taking up the melody. "Sh'eenaz, you must understand that he can't possibly grow a tail and live under the water. You are free to breathe the air, but he absolutely cannot breathe water!"

"I knew it!" she squealed. "I knew it! The excuses, the stupid and naive excuses: not the slightest bit of dedication! Who likes to make sacrifices? Me, I sacrifice myself for him: every day, I crawl on rocks that scrape the scales off my back and fray my fin. All for him! And now he refuses to renounce his two horrible canes? Love is not only taking, it is also devotion and dedication! Tell that to him!"

"Sh'eenaz," called Geralt. "Don't you understand? He can't live in the water!"

"I do not accept the claims of an imbecile! I... I love him too, and I want to raise fry with him, but how can I do that if he refuses to become a fish like me? Where, then, am I supposed to leave my spawn, huh? In his hat?"

"What does she say?" cried the duke. "Geralt! I didn't bring you here so that you could have a private chat with her..."

"She refuses to change her mind. She is angry."

"Throw the nets!" bawled Agloval. "I will keep her trapped in a pool for a month and..."

"Then what?" the captain interrupted rudely. "There could be a kraken under the ship! Have you ever seen a kraken, sir? Jump into the water if you want and catch her with your hands! I'm not getting involved in this. This sea is my livelihood."

"Your livelihood? I am your livelihood, you scoundrel! Throw the nets or I'll have you drawn and quartered!"