The Sword of Destiny (23 page)

"Now see here! On this ship, I am in command. Not you!"

"Shut up, both of you." Geralt was hoarse with anger. "She's trying to tell us something. It is a difficult dialect that requires concentration!"

"I've had enough!" Sh'eenaz shouted in song. "I'm hungry. So, white-haired one, he will decide now! Tell him only that I will no longer suffer the humiliation of waiting for him while he keeps flopping around like a four-legged starfish. Tell him that I have girlfriends who can give me better satisfaction than the trifling sort he offers me on the rocks! As for me, I think he is playing at a game intended for younger fish. I am a siren, normal and sound..."

"Sh'eenaz..."

"Don't interrupt me! I haven't finished yet! I'm healthy, normal, and mature enough to spawn. If he really wants me, then he must have a tail, a fin, and everything else like a normal triton. Otherwise, I won't have anything to do with him!"

Geralt translated quickly. His efforts to avoid vulgarity were not very successful, because the duke blushed and swore horribly.

"Shameless slut!" he yelled. "Frigid whore! Go find yourself a herring!"

"What did he say?" Sh'eenaz asked, swimming close.

"He won't grow a tail!"

"Tell him... tell him to go dry out!"

"What did she say?"

"She wants you," explained the witcher, "to drown yourself."

II

"What a pity," sighed Dandelion. "I would have liked to come with you to the sea, but what can I do? I have such terrible seasickness! You know I've never spoken with a mermaid in my life? Damn it, it's too bad."

"I know you," said Geralt as he buckled his straps. "That won't stop you from writing your ballad."

"Of course. I already have the first verse. In my ballad, the mermaid sacrifices herself for the duke: she transforms her fish tail into magnificent little legs, but pays for her dedication with the loss of her voice. The duke betrays her and rejects her. She dies of grief and transforms into sea-foam when the rays of the sun..."

"Who's going to believe that nonsense?"

"It doesn't matter," Dandelion grumbled. "I don't write my ballads to be believable, I write them to be moving. Why am I talking to you about this? You don't know anything. Tell me instead, how much did Agloval pay you?"

"He didn't give me anything. He argued that I hadn't fulfilled my part of the mission, that he expected something else from me... That he rewards effects, not good intentions."

Dandelion nodded and took off his hat, looking at the witcher. He pursed his lips in disappointment.

"Does that mean we still don't have any money?"

"It looks like it."

Dandelion's grimace grew even more pathetic.

"It's all my fault," he moaned. "Everything is my fault. Geralt, are you angry with me?"

No, the witcher was not angry with Dandelion. Far from it.

Still, there was no doubt that they owed their misadventures to Dandelion. It was the bard who had insisted on going to the party at Four Maples. Attending parties, he explained, satisfied a deep and natural human need. From time to time, claimed the musician, a man must meet his fellow man in a place where one can laugh and sing, eat kebabs and dumplings, drink beer, listen to music, dance and fondle girls whose curves glisten with sweat. If each individual decided to satisfy those needs any old way, he argued, without concerted organization, boundless chaos would ensue. That's why festivals and parties were invented. And when festivals and parties were organized, it was only appropriate to attend.

Geralt wasn't stubborn enough to refuse, even if, on the list of his own deep and natural needs, attending parties was somewhere near the bottom. He agreed to accompany Dandelion, as he was relying on the contacts from such meetings to obtain information on available work: for a long time, no-one had called on him and his purse was beginning to grow dangerously light.

Nor did the witcher blame Dandelion for provoking the guards. Geralt, in this case,

was not himself blameless: he could have intervened and stopped the combative impulses of the troubadour, but he did not, preferring not to stand with the primitive forest guards known as the Foresters. That organization of volunteers had a nasty reputation for their mission of hunting "non-humans." Geralt yawned while listening to their boasting on the subject of elves, dryads or evil fairies pierced with arrows, slaughtered or hanged from trees. Dandelion, in contrast, emboldened by his association with the witcher, made his feelings known. At first the Foresters did not react badly to his banter, his jokes and his unpopular suggestions, which provoked gales of laughter from the farmers observing the scene. However, when Dandelion sang an outrageous verse that he had invented for the occasion, ending with the words "you're as thick as two short planks, so you must be a Forester," the situation degenerated into a pitched battle. The shed that served as the tavern went up in smoke. A squad under the command of Budibog the Bald, in whose domain Four-Maples was included, was forced to intervene. He ruled that the Foresters, Dandelion, and Geralt shared responsibility for the damages and the crimes, including the recent seduction of an under-aged redhead who was found after the event, in the bushes behind the field, smiling foolishly with a flushed complexion and her tunic torn down to her waist. Luckily, Budibog the Bald knew Dandelion. The sentence was commuted to a fine which nonetheless depleted all their funds. They also had to flee Four-Maples on horseback as soon as possible to avoid the vengeance of the Foresters, who had been exiled from the village and desired revemge. In the surrounding woods, forty individuals were engaged in the hunt. Geralt had no desire to become a target for the Foresters' arrows, whose harpoon-shaped tips caused horrific wounds.

Their original plan was displaced by a detour through the villages along the forest edge, where Geralt hoped to find some work. They took the road from the sea toward Bremervoord. Unfortunately, Geralt found no work except for his involvement in the affair of Duke Agloval and the mermaid Sh'eenaz, whose chances of succeeding were a priori very slim. Geralt's gold ring and the Alexandrite brooch from one of Dandelion's numerous dalliances had been sold to buy food. Despite their present difficulties, the witcher nevertheless felt no resentment toward Dandelion.

"No, Dandelion," he said. "I'm not angry with you."

Dandelion didn't believe a word of it. This explained the silence of the troubadour, who was rarely quiet. He patted the neck of his horse after searching afresh through the saddle-bags. Geralt knew he would find nothing of value. The smell food that the breeze brought from a nearby farm became unbearable.

"Master!" someone shouted suddenly. "Oy, Master!"

"Yes?" Geralt responded, turning.

From a two-wheeled cart drawn by two asses and parked to one side, there descended a man with an imposing paunch, dressed in felt shoes and a heavy fur-trimmed wolf-skin coat.

"Uh... Well..." the stout man said, embarrassed, as he approached. "I was not addressing you, sir, I only meant... Master Dandelion..."

"That's me," the poet proudly confirmed, adjusting his feather-plumed hat. "What can I do for you, good man?"

"With utmost respect, Master," said the heavyset man, "my name is Teleri Drouhard, spice merchant by trade, dean of the local guild. It's that my son Gaspard is engaged to Dalia, the daughter of Mestvin, captain of the royal navy."

"Ah," said Dandelion, flawlessly maintaining a serious expression. "Extend my congratulations and best wishes to the lucky couple. And what can I help you with? Is it the right of first night? That, I never refuse."

"Huh? No... not that... In fact, the banquet and the wedding will be tonight. It's that my wife wanted to invite you to Bremervoord, Master Dandelion, and forced my hand...

That's women for you. Listen, she said to me, 'Teleri, we should show the world that we are not governed by ignorance, but culture and art, you know, that when we host a banquet it's refined, not just an excuse for binge drinking until you throw up.' I told that stupid woman: so we already called a bard, isn't that enough? She answers that a bard isn't enough, that, oh la la, Master Dandelion, now there's a celebrity to make the neighbors die of jealousy. Master? Would you do us the honor? I symbolically present you with 25 good talars... in support of the arts..."

"Do my ears deceive me?" Dandelion demanded, after this last part. "Me, I'm expected to play second fiddle? You want me to be the side act for some other musician? Me? I have never yet fallen so low, venerable sir, as to be reduced to mere accompaniment for someone else."

Drouhard flushed.

"Excuse me, Master," he stammered. "It wasn't me, but my wife... I hold you in the highest honor..."

"Dandelion," whispered Geralt under his breath, "stop taking on airs. We need the coin."

"Don't tell me what to do," insisted the poet. "Me, putting on airs? Me? You're one to talk, the one who refuses interesting jobs every other day! You won't kill the hirikkhis because it's an endangered species; not the scorpion flies either because they're not dangerous; not to mention the noctambelles because they are charming sorceresses; and the dragons, because that's against your code of ethics. I too, you may imagine, am someone with self-respect! I too have my own personal code!"

"Dandelion, I'm begging you, do it for me. A little dedication, lad, that's all I ask. I promise that I won't be so choosy next time. Come on, Dandelion..."

The troubadour scratched the peach-fuzz on his chin and stared at the ground. Drouhard came closer shouting:

"Master... Grant us this honor. It's just that my wife would never forgive me for coming back without you. And so... I'll raise the price to 30."

"35!" Dandelion bid firmly.

Geralt smiled and sniffed hopefully at the smell of food coming from the farm.

"All right, Master, all right," Teleri Drouhard said quickly, so quickly it was obvious that he could easily follow the auction until 40. "And... my house, if you like, to refresh and relax you, Master, is yours. And you, sir... To whom do I owe the honor?"

"Geralt of Rivia."

"You too, sir, you're invited... to eat, drink..."

"Of course, with pleasure," interrupted Dandelion. "Show us the way, good sir Drouhard. Between the two of us, the other bard - who is it?"

"The honorable lady Essi Daven."

Ill

Geralt rubbed his belt buckle and the silver studs of his jacket with his sleeve once more, combed his hair and tied it back with a cord and polished his shoes, rubbing the sides of his boots together.

"Dandelion?"

"Yes?"

The bard stroked the egret plume attached to his hat, smoothed and straightened his jacket. Both had spent half a day washing their clothes to make them presentable.

"What is it, Geralt?"

"Try to behave yourself so that they run us off after the party, and not before."

"Very funny." Dandelion was indignant. "I advise you to mind your manners. Shall we go in?"

"Let's go. Do you hear that? Someone's singing. It's a woman."

"You just noticed? That's Essi Daven, known as Little-Eye. You never met a woman bard? Ah yes! I forgot that you avoid places where art flourishes. Little-Eye is a poet and a gifted singer, but not without some ill-mannered faults, if I can trust my ears, not without them in the least. What she's singing now is actually none other than my own ballad. Just wait, she'll hear my performance and we'll see that little eye squint in envy."

"Dandelion, for pity's sake. They'll throw us out."

"Don't interfere. This is a professional matter. Let's go in."

"Dandelion?"

"Yes?"

"Why Little-Eye'?"

"You'll see."

The wedding took place in a huge warehouse, emptied of its usual barrels of herrings and fish oil. The smell had almost been lifted by the hanging bunches of mistletoe and heather decorated with ribbons. Here and there, as was the custom, garlands of garlic were hung, to scare off supposed vampires. The tables and benches that flanked the walls were covered with white cloths. In one corner, a great bonfire and a spit had been installed. Although it was crowded, there was no uproar. Over five hundred people of different nations and trades, along with the spotty-faced groom and the bride he was devouring with his gaze, listened in silent contemplation to the charming ballad of a young woman, wearing a modest blue dress and sitting on a stage, singing melodiously, accompanied by a lute that rested on her knee. The girl couldn't have been older than eighteen. She was extremely thin. Her hair, long and full, was dark gold. She finished her song as they entered. She received the thunderous applause that was lavished upon her with a nod of her head that shook her hair.

"I bid you welcome, Master, welcome." Drouhard, dressed in his finest clothes, seized them and led them to the center of the warehouse. "And welcome to you, Sir Gerard... It is a great honor... Yes... Allow me... Venerable ladies and gentlemen! Here is our honorable host, who does us the honor of honoring us... Master Dandelion, the famous singer and writer of verse... and poet! who honors us with this very great honor... Honors us so..."

The cries of joy and applause drowned out Drouhard's stammered speech before he could choke. Dandelion, proud as a peacock, adopted a manner equal to the occasion and bowed deeply before gesturing with his hand to the young girls sitting in a row, like chickens on their perch, and were monitored, from the second row, by a squad of old matrons. The girls didn't flinch, giving the impression that they had been affixed to the bench with carpenter's glue or something equally effective. Without exception, they held their hands flat on their knees and kept their mouths open.

"Well then!" Drouhard called, "come, drink beer, my friends! And eat! Over here, over here! By the grace of..."

The girl dressed in blue fought her way through the crowd that rushed, like a wave against the reefs, toward the tables laden with food.

"Hi, Dandelion," she said.

Especially since he began traveling with Dandelion, Geralt considered expressions such as "eyes like the stars," which the bard used to indiscriminately compliment the girls, to be banal and trite. In the case of Essi Daven, even someone as deaf to poetry as Geralt must concede that the expression was nonetheless fitting. In a cute and friendly little face distinguished by nothing in particular, there burned and shone a dark blue eye, beautiful,