Stephen Hulin, Page 2

  ‘Certainly not. No, only to declare my extensive assistance and cooperation. Know, Belohun that if the effect of my practice comes to Kerack and unrest is ignited here, riots or the firebrand of rebellion, if the rebellious mob comes to drag you out of here by the head, dethrone you, and immediately after that, hang you from a withered branch… Then you can count on the Brotherhood. On the wizards to come here and help. We will not allow the revolts and anarchy because we are not on hand. Therefore, exploit and multiply your wealth. But multiply quietly. And do not interfere with others. I advise you nicely.’

  ‘You advise?’ Xander flared up, rising from his chair. ‘You advise? Father is the king! Kings do not listen to advice, kings give orders!’

  ‘Sit down, son,’ Belohun grimaced, ‘and be quiet. And you, sorceress, turn not your ears away. I have something to say.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I am taking a new wife… Seventeen years old… The cherry, I tell you. The cherry on the cake.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘I’m doing this for dynastic reasons. With concern for the succession and the order in the kingdom.’

  Egmund, who has so far been as silent as a boulder, jerked his head up.

  ‘Succession?’ he snapped, the evil glint in his eye did not escape, Lytta’s attention. ‘What succession? You have six sons and eight daughters, including bastards! Is that not enough?’

  ‘You see,’ Belohun said, waving his bony hand. ‘You see, Lady Neyd. I need to take care of the succession. Would you leave the Kingdom and Crown to someone who speaks so to their parent? Fortunately, I am still alive and in charge. And I’m going to rule for a long time. As I said, I’m getting married...’

  ‘And?’

  ‘If...’ the King scratched behind his ear, and look at Lytta from under lowered eyelids. ‘If she… My new wife I mean… Comes to you about one of these potions… I forbid you to give her one. Because I am opposed to such potions. Because they are immoral!’

  ‘We might just make an appointment,’ Coral smiled charmingly. ‘If she asks, I will not provide. I promise.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Belohun. ‘Please, let us get along, with an agreement of mutual understanding and respect.’

  ‘Yes,’ Xander interjected.

  Egmund snorted and swore under his breath.

  ‘Within the framework of respect and understanding, ’ Coral wove a red lock of hair around her finger and looked up at the ceiling, ‘as well as for the sake of harmony and order in your kingdom… I have some information. Confidential information. I despise denunciations, but I despise theft and fraud even more. And it is, my king, about brazen financial embezzlement. There are those who are trying to steal from you.’

  Belohun leaned forward on his throne, his face twisted in an angry grimace.

  ‘Who? Names!’

  Kerack, a city in the northern kingdom of Cidaris, at the mouth of the river Adalatte. Once the capital of a separate K. kingdom, which due to assembly lines falling into decline, and the extinction of the ruling line falling into disrepair, was broken down and divided among its neighbours. Has a port, several factories, a lighthouse and 2,000 citizens.

  Effenberg and Talbot,

  Encyclopaedia Maxima Mundi, volume VIII

  Chapter Two

  The bay bristled with masts and was full of sails both white and multi-coloured. Larger ships stood at anchor by the headland and sheltered by the breakwater. In the harbour, at the wooden jetties, there were moored the smaller vessels. On the beaches almost all of the free space was occupied by boats. Or the remains of boats. At the end of the cape, buffeted by waves of white surf, rose a lighthouse of white and red brick, a renovated relic from the time of the elves.

  The witcher nudged his mare with his spurs. Roach lifted her head, and snorted through her nostrils. She enjoyed the smell of the sea, carried by the wind. The rode through the dunes towards the already nearby city.

  The city of Kerack, the main metropolis of the kingdom with the same name, was located on the two banks of the river Adalatte and was divided into three separate and distinctly different zones.

  The Adalatte’s left bank was invested primarily as a port complex, docks, industrial and commercial center, including shipyards and workshops, as well as factories, warehouses, stores, markets and bazaars. The opposite side of the river, the area known as Palmyra, was filled by the huts and shacks of the poor and the workers, along with small trade stalls, abattoirs, and numerous pubs and abodes that did not come to life until after dark, Palmyra was also the entertainment district for forbidden pleasures. It was quite easy, as Geralt well knew, for one to lose a purse or get a knife in the ribs.

  Further from the sea, on the left bank, behind a high palisade of thick logs was proper Kerack. A quarter of narrow streets which ran between the homes of rich merchants and financiers, banks, shoemakers, seamstresses and gourmet shops. It housed taverns and entertainment of a higher category including those offered in the Palmyra port, but with significantly higher prices. In the center of the quarter was a market square, the town hall, theatre, court, the orchard, customs office and the homes of the city elite. In the middle of the town hall standing on a pedestal covered in seagull droppings was a monument to the kingdom’s founder, King Osmyk. It was obviously bullshit as the sea town had existed long before Osmyk arrived from devil knows where.

  Above, on a hill, stood the castle and the royal palace, the form and shape were unusual, because originally it had been a temple, then rebuilt when it was abandoned by the priests when they received a complete lack of interest from the general population. After the temple was built there was enough materials left over to build a bell tower in which the currently reigning king of Kerack, Belohun ordered to be rung every day at noon - and evidently to anger his subjects - at midnight.

  The bell rang as the witcher entered between the first houses in Palmyra.

  Palmyra stank of fish, dirty laundry and soup kitchens. The crowded streets were terrible, and riding through them cost the witcher a lot of time and patience. He breathed a sigh when he finally reached the bridge that ran to the left bank of the Adalatte. The water stank and carried dense foaming caps - the effect of the work being done at the tannery located upstream. He was now close to the road leading up to the city on the other side of the palisade.

  He left his horse in the stables before the city, pay for two days in advance and leaving the groom with instructions to ensure Roach’s proper care. He directed his steps towards the guardhouse. Kerack could only be reached via the guardhouse, after being subjected to inspection and the associated unpleasant procedures. The witcher was slightly irked by this, but he understood its purpose - the inhabitants of the city behind the palisade did not relish visits from the denizens of Palmyra, particularly those in the form of foreign sailors ashore on leave. He went to the guardhouse, a building of wooden construction, containing, as he knew, guards. He thought he knew what awaited him. He was wrong.

  He had visited many guardhouses in his life. Small, medium and large ones, throughout all corners of the world, close and quite distant regions more civilized, less or not at all. All across the world guardhouses had a musty smell of unwashed skin and urine as well as iron and grease used to keep it intact. The guardhouse in Kerack was similar. Or rather it would have been if the case if it was not suppressed by a heavy choking odour that reaching all the way to the ceiling, the stench of fart. Of the menu of the local soldiers, there could be no doubt, was dominated by legumes, such as peas, broad beans and colourful beans. The soldiers as it turned out was made up completely by women. It consisted of six women sitting around a table preoccupied with their midday meal. All the ladies greedily ate from earthenware bowls which contained something floating in a thin pepper sauce.

  The tallest of the guards, he could see she was a commander, pushed aside her bowl and rose.

  Geralt, who always believe that there were no ugly women, sudde
nly felt the need to revise this view.

  ‘Put your weapon on the table!’

  Like all present, the guard was shorn to nothing. Some of her hair was growing back, creating an untidy stubble on her bald head. From beneath her unbuttoned vest and undershirt peeked abdominal muscles, reminiscent of the great Zerrikania warrior women. The biceps of the guard reminded him of a butcher as they were the size of hams.

  ‘Put your weapon on the table!’ she repeated. ‘Are you deaf?’

  One of her subordinates, still bent over her bowl, lift herself slightly and farted loud and long. Her companions laughed. Geralt waved his glove before his face.

  The guard looked at his swords.

  ‘Hey girls! Stand up!’

  The “girls” got up, somewhat reluctantly, stretching. All of them, Geralt noted, wore rather loose fitting and airy clothes, mainly to enable the boasting of their muscles. One was wearing short leather pants, were the seams seemed unable to accommodate her thighs. And her clothing from the waist up consisted mainly of criss-cross straps.

  ‘A witcher,’ the first woman said. ‘Two swords. One steel the other silver.’

  The second woman approached and with a movement opened Geralt’s shirt, grabbed the silver chain and pulled out his medallion.

  ‘The symbol,’ she confirmed, ‘is the mark of the wolf, with its teeth bared. Do we let the witcher pass?’

  ‘Rules do not permit swords to pass...’

  ‘Just I,’ Geralt calm voice joined the conversation, ‘will pass. I suppose both with be left in a secure repository? And given back to me on receipt? That I will get in a moment?’

  The guards surrounded him. One prodded him reluctantly. The second, farted loudly.

  ‘That is your receipt,’ the first one snorted.

  ‘A witcher! A mercenary monster slayer! Giving up his sword! Instantly! Humble as shit!’

  ‘He would give up his dick had we ask.’

  ‘Let’s ask him then! huh, girls? Let him take it out.’

  ‘We will see what kind of dick, witchers have.’

  ‘Enough!’ the commander shouted. ‘Get gone, cunts! Gonschorek! Come here now! Gonschorek!’

  From the next room emerged a not very young and balding gentleman in a dun mantle and a woollen beret. Immediately after entering, the gentleman removed his beret and started fanning himself. Without a word he took the wrapped sword belts and gave Geralt a sign to follow him. The witcher did not hesitate. The gas that was filling the guardhouse was already dominant.

  The room into which they entered, was shared by a solid iron cage. The chap in the mantle, produced a large key and put it in the lock. He hung the swords on a rack next to other swords, sabers, cutlasses and axes. He opened his tattered registry and started scribbling slowly, constantly coughing and gasping for breath. When he was finished he gave Geralt a receipt.

  ‘I’m to understand that my swords are safe here? Under lock and key and guarded?’

  The old gentleman, panting and puffing, closed the cage and showed him the key. Geralt was not convinced. Every cage can be overcome, and the sound of the ladies guards fluctuating were able to drown out any intrusion attempts. But there was no way around it. It was necessary to get into the city dispatch matters at hand and then leave as soon as possible.

  ***

  The tavern - or as the sign proclaimed - the ‘Natura Rerum1’ inn was a tall, yet tasteful building made of cedar wood, topped with a steep roof with a high chimney protruding from the top. Stairs led up to a front porch which graced the building, placing invitingly around it were wood pots containing aloe plants. From the kitchen floated tasty smells, mostly of toasted grains and roasted meat. The fragrances were so inviting that the witcher took the Natura Rerum to mean Eden, the garden of delights, the isle of happiness, of milk and honey flowing freely.

  It soon turned out that Eden - like every other Eden - was guarded. It had it Cerberus, it’s guardian with a flaming sword. Geralt had a chance to see it in action. A man, small but powerfully built, before his eyes was banishing a lean young man from the garden of delights.

  The young man protested - shouting and gesticulated, which apparently annoyed Cerberus.

  ‘You have been banned, Muus. And you know it well. Leave. I won’t repeat myself.’

  The youngster descended the stairs quickly, fast enough to avoid being pushed. He was, Geralt noticed, prematurely balding, his thin, long blond hair began at the vicinity of his crown, which gave a generally nasty impression.

  ‘Screw you and your ban!’ yelled the young man from a safe distance. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing! You are not the only inn; I’ll go to your competition! Smart asses! Upstarts! Your signpost may be gold-plated, but it is still a turd on a post! And that's what it’ll always be! A shit will always be a shit!’

  Geralt was slightly worried. The balding youth, although ugly of appearance, was wearing fancy clothing, maybe not for the rich, but better dressed that he himself. So if his style of clothing lack elegance…

  ‘And where do you think you’re going?’ Cerberus’s cool voice interrupted his train of thought. And confirmed his concerns.

  ‘This is an upscale establishment,’ said Cerberus, blocking the stairs altogether. ‘Do you understand the meaning of these words? It is exclusive. For some.’

  ‘But not me?’

  ‘You are not dressed appropriately,’ standing two steps above, Cerberus could look down at the witcher. ‘You are, stranger, a walking figure of wisdom. You are not dressed appropriately. Perhaps some other qualities are hidden about you, but you cannot go in. Again, this is an upscale establishment. We do not tolerate people here dressed like bandits. Nor armed.’

  ‘I’m not armed.’

  ‘But you look like you are. Kindly direct your steps in another direction.’

  ‘Stand down, Tarp.’

  At the door to the establishment appeared a swarthy man in a velvet caftan, with bushy eyebrows, penetrating eyes and an aquiline nose. And fat.

  ‘Clearly,’ aquiline nose admonished Cerberus, ‘you do not know who you are dealing with. You don’t know who is visiting us.’

  Cerberus’s long silence testified that he was indeed ignorant.

  ‘Geralt of Rivia. The Witcher. Renowned for protecting people and saving their lives, just like a week before in the area of Angegis, where he saved a mother and child. A few months earlier in Vizima, he killed a man-eating ghoul, all alone, judging by his wounds. How could I forbid entrance to my establishment to someone so worthy of such deeds? On the contrary, I am glad to have such a guest. And it’s an honour that he wanted to visit me. Master Geralt, the Natura Rerum inn welcomes you to its premises. I’m Febus Ravenga, the owner of this modest establishment.’

  He was led to a table where a maitre'd covered it with a fresh tablecloth. All the tables in the Natura Rerum - which were mostly occupied - were covered with tablecloths. Geralt could not remember the last time he had seen tablecloths at an inn.

  Although curious, he did not stare, he did not want to come off looking like a bumpkin or simpleton. Restrained observation, however, revealed a modest decor, yet tasteful and elegant.

  Exquisite - though not always tasteful - was also the clientele, mostly assorted merchants and artisans. There were masters of vessels, weather-beaten and bearded. There was also no shortage of lords and nobility. The smell was exquisite too, roasted meat, garlic, caraway and big money.

  All eyes fell on him. He was being watched, his witcher senses signalled immediately. He looked around discreetly. Observing - also very discreetly, that no ordinary mortal would have noticed - was a young woman with red hair. She pretended to be completely absorbed in her dish - something tasty-looking even from this distance. But her style and body language left no doubt. Not for the witcher. He would bet that she was a sorceress.

  The maitre’d coughed interrupting his thoughts and sudden nostalgia.

  ‘T
oday,’ the maitre’d said solemnly and not without pride, ‘we offer braised calf in vegetables, mushrooms and beans. Roast rack of lamb with aubergine and bacon. Pork served in beer with glazed plums. Shoulder roast boar with apples. Pan fried duck breast, served with red cabbage and cranberries. Squid stuffed with grapes in white sauce. Grilled monkfish in a creamy sauce, served with stewed pears. And as usual, our specialities - goose leg in white wine, with a choice of fruit baked on a plate, and turbot in caramelized cuttlefish ink.’

  ‘If you a taste for the fish,’ he did not know how but at the table appeared Febus Ravenga. ‘I strongly recommend the turbot. It is the morning catch. And the pride of our chef.’

  ‘Turbot in ink, then,’ the witcher fought back in himself an irrational desire to order several dishes at once, knowing that it would be in bad taste. ‘Thank you for your advice, already I was experiencing the agony of choice.’

  ‘What kind of wine,’ asked the maitre’d, ‘would the gentleman wish?’

  ‘Please choose something appropriate. I confess I know little of wines.’

  ‘Hardly anything to confess,’ Febus Ravenga smiled. ‘And very rare to hear admitted. Do not worry, we will choose the brand and vintage, Master Witcher, do not bother yourself. I wish you a pleasant meal.’

  The wish was not to be fulfilled. Geralt did not have the opportunity to see the wine they choose for him. The taste of turbot in cuttlefish ink also remained a mystery for him that day.

  The red-haired woman suddenly gave up on discretion, and found him with her eyes. She smiled. He could not help but feel maliciously. He felt a shiver.

  ‘The Witcher, called Geralt of Rivia?’

  The question was asked from one of three black-clad individuals who had silently approached the table.

  ‘That’s me’

  ‘In the name of the law you are under arrest.’

  What judgement shall I dread, doing no wrong?

  William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice