Time of Contempt (22 page)

‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,’ Codringher coughed. ‘Have you only now realised who Cirilla, Princess of Cintra, really is? The Child of the Elder Blood; the last offshoot of that bloody tree of hatred! The last branch and, on it, the last poisoned apple . . .’

‘The Elder Blood . . . So far back in time . . . Pavetta, Calanthe, Adalia, Elen, Fiona . . .’

‘And Falka.’

‘By the gods, but that’s impossible. Firstly, Falka had no children! Secondly, Fiona was the legitimate daughter of —’

‘Firstly, we know nothing about Falka’s youth. Secondly, Fenn, don’t make me laugh. You know, of course, that I’m overcome with spasms of mirth at the sound of the word “legitimate”. I believe that document, because in my opinion it’s authentic and speaks the truth. Fiona, Pavetta’s great-great-grandmother, was the daughter of Falka, that monster in human form. Damn it, I don’t believe in all those insane predictions, prophecies and other poppycock, but when I now recall the Ithlinne forecasts . . .’

‘Tainted blood?’

‘Tainted, contaminated, accursed; it can be understood in various ways. And according to legend, if you recall, it was Falka who was accursed – because Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal had put a curse on her mother—’

‘Those are just stories, Codringher.’

‘You’re right: stories. But do you know when stories stop being stories? The moment someone begins to believe in them. And someone believes in the story of the Elder Blood. In particular, in the part that says
from Falka’s blood will be born an avenger who will destroy the old world and build a new one on its ruins
.’

‘And Cirilla is supposed to be that avenger?’

‘No. Not Cirilla. Her son.’

‘And Cirilla is being hunted by –’

‘– Emhyr var Emreis, Emperor of Nilfgaard,’ finished Codringher coldly. ‘Now do you understand? Cirilla, irrespective of her will, is to become the mother of the heir to the throne. Mother to an arch-prince; the Arch-Prince of Darkness, the descendant and avenger of that she-devil Falka. The destruction and the subsequent rebuilding of the world is meant – it seems to me – to proceed in a guided and controlled way.’

The cripple said nothing for a long time.

‘Don’t you think,’ he finally asked, ‘we should tell Geralt about this?’

‘Geralt?’ sneered Codringher. ‘Who? You mean that simpleton who, not so long ago, tried to persuade me he doesn’t work for gain? Oh, I believe that; he doesn’t work for his own gain. But for someone else’s. And unwittingly, as a matter of fact. Geralt is hunting Rience; Rience may be on a leash but Geralt doesn’t even know there’s a collar around his neck. Should I inform him? And so help the people planning to capture this golden-egg laying hen, in order to blackmail Emhyr or ingratiate themselves with him? No, Fenn. I’m not that stupid.’

‘The Witcher’s on a leash? But who’s holding it?’

‘Think.’

‘Bitch!’

‘You said it. The only person who can influence him. Whom he trusts. But I don’t trust her and never have. So I’m going to join the game myself.’

‘It’s a dangerous one, Codringher.’

‘There aren’t any safe games. Games are either worth a candle or they aren’t. Fenn, old man, don’t you understand what has fallen into our hands? A golden hen, which will lay for us – and no one else – and it’ll be huge egg, with a rich, yellow yolk . . .’

Codringher coughed violently. When he removed the handkerchief from his mouth there were flecks of blood on it.

‘Gold won’t cure that,’ said Fenn, looking at the handkerchief in his partner’s hand. ‘Nor give me back my legs . . .’

‘Who knows?’

Somebody knocked at the door. Fenn fidgeted nervously in his wheeled chair.

‘Are you expecting anyone, Codringher?’

‘I am. The men I’m sending to Thanedd. To fetch our golden hen.’

‘Don’t open it,’ Ciri screamed. ‘Don’t open the door! Death stands behind it! Don’t open the door!’

‘All right, all right, I’m just coming,’ called Codringher, pulling back the bolts, then turning to his meowing cat. ‘And you’ll sit quietly, you accursed little beast . . .’

He broke off. The men in the doorway were not the ones he had been expecting. Instead, three characters he did not know were standing there.

‘The Honourable Mr Codringher?’

‘The master’s away on business,’ said the lawyer, assuming the expression of a halfwit and speaking with a slightly squeaky voice. ‘I am the master’s butler. The name is Dullord, Mikael Dullord. How may I serve your honourable selves?’

‘You cannot,’ said one of the individuals, a tall half-elf. ‘Since your master is not here, we’ll just leave a letter and a message. Here is the letter.’

‘I will pass it on without fail,’ said Codringher, playing the role of a simple lackey perfectly; bowing subserviently and holding out a hand to take a scroll of parchment tied up with a red cord. ‘And the message?’

The cord binding the scroll unwound like a striking snake, lashing and curling itself tightly around his wrist. The tall man jerked hard. Codringher lost his balance and lurched forward, instinctively thrusting his left hand towards the half-elf’s chest to stop himself from falling against him. As he fell he was unable to avoid the dagger which was rammed into his belly. He cried out breathlessly and jerked backwards, but the magic cord around his wrist held fast. The half-elf pulled Codringher towards him and stabbed again. This time the whole of Codringher’s weight bore down on the blade.

‘That’s the message and greetings from Rience,’ hissed the tall half-elf, pulling the dagger upwards powerfully and gutting the lawyer like a fish. ‘Go to hell, Codringher. Straight to hell.’

Codringher’s breath rasped. He felt the dagger blade grate and crunch against his ribs and sternum. He slumped onto the floor, curling up into a ball. He wanted to shout, to warn Fenn, but was only able to screech, and the screech was immediately drowned in a gush of blood.

The tall half-elf stepped over the body and was followed inside by the other two. They were humans.

Fenn was ready for them.

The bowstring thwacked, and one of the thugs crashed onto his back, struck directly in the forehead by a steel ball. Fenn shoved himself backwards in his chair, trying desperately to reload the arbalest with his shaking hands.

The tall man leapt towards him, knocking over the chair with a powerful kick. The midget rolled among the papers strewn over the floor. Waving his small hands and the stumps of his legs helplessly, he resembled a mutilated spider.

The half-elf kicked the arbalest out of Fenn’s reach. Paying no attention to the cripple’s attempts to struggle away, he hurriedly looked through the documents lying on the lectern. His attention was caught by a miniature in a horn and brass frame, showing a fair-haired girl. He picked it up with the scrap of paper attached to it.

The second thug ignored the one who had been hit by the arbalest ball and came closer. The half-elf raised his eyebrows questioningly. The thug shook his head.

The half-elf picked up several documents from the lectern, tucking them away in his coat, along with the miniature. He then took a handful of quills from the inkwell and set light to them with one of the candlesticks. He turned them around slowly, allowing the fire take good hold and then threw them onto the lectern among the scrolls of parchment, which immediately burst into flames.

Fenn screamed.

The tall half-elf took a bottle of ink remover from the burning table, stood over the midget thrashing around on the floor and emptied the contents over him. Fenn gave a tormented howl. The other thug swept an armful of scrolls from a bookshelf and threw them over the cripple.

The fire on the lectern had just reached the ceiling. A second, smaller bottle of solvent exploded with a roar, the flames licking the bookshelves. The scrolls, rolls and files began to blacken, curl up and catch fire. Fenn wailed. The tall half-elf stepped back from the burning pulpit, twisted up a second piece of paper and lit it. The second thug threw another armful of vellum scrolls on the cripple.

Fenn screamed.

The half-elf stood over him, holding the burning brand.

Codringher’s black and white cat alighted on a nearby wall. In its yellow eyes danced the reflection of the fire, which had transformed the pleasant night into this horrific parody of day. People were screaming.
Fire! Fire! Water!
People ran towards the building. The cat froze, watching them with astonishment and contempt. Those idiots were clearly heading towards the fiery abyss, from which it had only just managed to extricate itself.

Turning away, unconcerned, Codringher’s cat went back to licking its bloodstained paws.

Ciri awoke covered in sweat, with her hands painfully gripping the sheets. Everything was quiet, and the soft darkness was pierced by a dagger-like shaft of moonlight.

A fire. An inferno. Blood. A nightmare . . . I don’t remember, I don’t remember anything . . .

She took a deep breath of the crisp night air. The sense of stuffiness had vanished. She knew why.

The protective charms had stopped working.

Something’s happened
, thought Ciri. She jumped out of bed and quickly dressed. She belted on her dagger. She didn’t have a sword any more; Yennefer had taken it from her, giving it to Dandelion for safekeeping. The poet must have gone to sleep, and it was silent in Loxia. Ciri was already wondering whether to go and wake him when she felt a strong pulse and a rush of blood in her ears.

The shaft of moonlight coming through the window became a road. At the end of the road, far away, was a door. The door opened and Yennefer stood there.

‘Come with me.’

Other doors opened behind the sorceress’s back. One after the other. An endless succession. The black shapes of columns crystallised from the darkness.
Not columns – perhaps they’re statues . . . I’m dreaming
, thought Ciri,
I don’t believe my eyes. I’m dreaming. That isn’t a road. It’s light, a shaft of light. I can’t go along that . . .

‘Come with me.’

She obeyed.

Had it not been for the foolish scruples of the Witcher, and his impractical principles, many subsequent events would have run their course quite differently. Many events would probably have not taken place at all. And the history of the world would have unfolded in an alternative way.

But the history of the world unfolded as it unfolded, the sole cause of which was that the Witcher had scruples. When he awoke in the morning with the need to relieve himself, he didn’t do what any other man would have done; he didn’t go out onto the balcony and piss into a flowerpot of nasturtiums. He had scruples. He dressed quietly without waking Yennefer, who was sleeping deeply, motion less and barely breathing. He left the chamber and went out to the garden.

The banquet was still in progress but, as the sounds indicated, only in a fragmentary form. The lights were still burning in the ball room windows, illuminating the atrium and beds of peonies. The Witcher went a little further in, among some dense bushes, where he stared at the lightening sky. The horizon was already burning with the purple streaks of dawn.

As he slowly returned, pondering important matters, his medallion vibrated powerfully. He held it in his hand, feeling the vibrations penetrate his entire body. There was no doubt; someone in Aretuza had cast a spell. Geralt listened carefully and heard some muffled shouts, and a clattering and pounding coming from the cloister in the palace’s left wing.

Anyone else would have turned on their heels at once and walked briskly back to where they’d come from, pretending they hadn’t heard anything. And then perhaps the history of the world would have unfolded differently. But the Witcher had scruples and was accustomed to acting according to foolish, impractical principles.

When he ran into the cloister and the corridor, he saw that a fight was in progress. Several tough-looking men in grey jerkins were in the act of overpowering a short sorcerer who had been thrown to the ground. The fight was being directed by Dijkstra, chief of Vizimir, King of Redania’s intelligence service. Before Geralt was able to take any action he was overpowered himself; two other heavies in grey pinned him to a wall, and a third held the three-pronged blade of a partisan against his chest.

All the heavies had breastplates emblazoned with the Redanian eagle.

‘That’s called “being in the shit”,’ explained Dijkstra quietly, approaching him. ‘And you, Witcher, seem to have an inborn talent for falling into it. Stand there nice and peacefully and try not to attract anyone’s attention.’

The Redanians finally overpowered the short sorcerer and lifted him up, holding him by his arms. It was Artaud Terranova, a member of the Chapter.

The light which made the details visible emanated from an orb suspended above Keira Metz’s head – a sorceress with whom Geralt had been chatting at the banquet the previous evening. He barely recognised her; she had exchanged her flowing tulle for severe male clothing, and she had a dagger at her side.

‘Handcuff him,’ she ordered curtly. A set of handcuffs made of a bluish metal clinked in her hand.

‘Don’t you dare put those on me!’ yelled Terranova. ‘Don’t you dare, Metz! I am a member of the Chapter!’

‘You were. Now you’re a common traitor. And you will be treated as such.’

‘And you’re a lousy whore, who—’

Keira took a step back, swayed her hips and punched him in the face with all her strength. The sorcerer’s head jerked backwards so hard that for a moment Geralt thought it would be torn from his trunk. Terranova lolled in the arms of the men holding him, blood streaming from his nose and mouth. The sorceress didn’t strike him a second time, though her fist was raised. The Witcher saw the flash of brass knuckles on her fingers. He wasn’t surprised. Keira was very lightly built, and a blow like that couldn’t have been dealt with a bare fist.

He didn’t move. The thugs were holding him tightly, and the point of the partisan was pressing against his chest. Geralt wasn’t sure if he would have moved, had he been free, or whether he would have known what to do.