Baptism of Fire, Page 3

  Dijkstra pushed the minutes of a hearing to the edge of his desk, it seemed to him that the parchment still stank of the torture chamber.

  “And then, "he took a guess, “Milva vanished to Brokilon without a trace. But today in Verden it is difficult to find volunteers who are willing to make expeditions to the dryads. Old and young, Eithné and Milva make a pretty good team. And they dare to say that provocation is a human invention. But perhaps...”

  “ahem, ahem?” Ori muttered, surprised by the prolonged silence of his superior.

  “Perhaps they have started to learn something from our methods.” the spy coolly finished, gazing at the denunciations, records of hearings and death sentences on his table.

  Seeing no blood anywhere, Milva became concerned. She remembered suddenly that the deer had taken a step forward when she had fired. Either he had, or he had intended to - which would have given the same outcome. If he had moved, the arrow could have hit him in the stomach. Milva cursed. A shot in the belly, it was a curse and a disgrace to the hunter! Bad luck! Pah, pish, poor devil!

  She ran quickly to the slope of the hill, searching intently through the brambles, moss and ferns. She was looking for her arrow. Equipped with a four-bezelled tip, so sharp that it shaved the hair on her forearm, launched from a distance of fifty yards, it would have pierced the deer right through.

  Milva saw, she had found it. She breathed a sigh of relief and spat three times, to ward off bad luck. She needn't have worried, yes, it was better than expected. The arrow was not covered with the sticky and stinking contents of the stomach. It did not bear the traces of the clear, pink and foamy substance from the lungs. The tip was covered with dark, rich red blood. The tip had pierced the heart. Milva would not have to sneak or walk on tiptoe for long through the forest. The deer no doubt lay dead in the thicket, no more than a hundred paces from the clearing, where the traces of blood would lead. A deer shot in the heart would die after a few jumps, and she knew that she would track it with ease.

  After a dozen paces, she found the trail of her prey, and followed it, re-immersing herself in thoughts and memories.

  She kept her promise to the witcher. She returned to Brokilon even earlier than promised, five days after the Harvest Festival, five days after the new moon, the beginning of the month of August according to the humans, Lammas for the elves, the seventh, penultimate savaed of the year.

  She crossed the Ribbon at dawn, herself and five elves. The commando, which she led, initially consisted of nine horses, but mercenaries from Brugge had hunted them the whole time they walked. Three had attacked about five hundred yards from the river, harassing them, until in the mists of dawn, they began to see Brokilon at the edge of the Ribbon. The attackers feared Brokilon. This saved Milva and her group. They crossed the river. Exhausted, wounded. And not all of them had survived.

  She had news for the witcher, and she was convinced that Gwynbleidd was still in Col Serrai. She intended to go to him only around noon, after he had slept his fill. She was amazed when he suddenly emerged from the fog like a ghost. Without a word, he sat nearby, watching as she prepared her bed, putting blankets over a pile of branches.

  “What, you're in a hurry?” she exclaimed mockingly, “Witcher, I get tired you know. Day and night in the saddle, I do not even feel my ass, and I'm soaked up to the navel, because at daybreak like wolves, we made our way through the willows in the stream ...”

  “Please tell me. Did you learn anything?”

  “Yes I did.” she snorted, unlacing and removing her soaked shoes. “With little difficulty, because she seems to have caused quite a stir. You had not mentioned that this young lady was so important! I thought she must be your stepdaughter, she must be one of those poor little unfortunate and abused orphans. And here we have the princess of Cintra! Ha! And perhaps you are too a prince in disguise?”

  “Tell me, please.”

  “It would seem the Kings wanted their hands on her, because your Cirilla, from what I learned, was saved from Thanedd and sent straight to Nilfgaard, together with the traitorous sorcerers. At Nilfgaard she was welcomed with great revelry by Emperor Emhyr. And you know what? He'd made up his mind to marry her it seems. And now let me breathe. If you want, we can resume this conversation when I'm rested.”

  The witcher was silent. Milva hung out her wet socks on a forked branch, so that the rising sun would dry them out, then pulled off her belt buckle.

  “I wish you would not stand there with that disapproving look,” she grumbled, “What better news could you have expected? Nothing threatens you, no questions are asked about you and the spies have stopped caring for you. As for your damsel, she escaped the king, she will become Empress ...”

  “You are certain this is the right information?”

  “Nothing is certain these days,” she replied with a yawn, sitting on her bed. “Except that every day the sun travels from east to west. But what they say about the emperor of Nilfgaard and the princess of Cintra must be true. People talk a lot about it.”

  “Why the sudden popularity then?”

  “As if you do not know! Think... she will bring Emhyr a good piece of land as a dowry! Not only Cintra, but land on this side of the Yaruga too! Ha, she may even become my empress, since I'm from Upper Sodden and all of Sodden is his domain. Pfft! Then, one day I'll kill a deer in their forests, and I will hang at her command... fucking cruel world! Ah curse it, my eyes are heavy ...”

  “Just one more question. From these sorceresses ... That is, of those wizards who had betrayed, some were caught?”

  “No. But one of them committed suicide, they say. After Vengerberg fell, and the army marched into Aedirn and Kaedwen. Maybe out of grief or fear of torture ...”

  “The commando which you brought had spare horses, will the elves give me one?”

  “Aha, I see your anxious to get on the road,” she mumbled, wrapping herself in a blanket. “And I'm thinking that I know where ...”

  She paused, surprised at the expression on his face. Suddenly she realized that the news she had brought was not good at all, she didn't really understand anything. Unexpectedly, she felt the urge to sit down with him, to attack him with questions, listen, give advice perhaps ... She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles roughly. I'm exhausted, she thought, death, chased all through the night after my heels. I need to breathe. At the end of the day what do I care about his troubles or concerns? What does it matter? And this girl? To hell with him and with her! What a curse, I've lost sleep over this...

  The witcher stood up.

  “Will the elves give me a horse?” He repeated.

  “Take whichever one you want.” she said after a moment. “Just make sure they do not see you. The mercenaries attacked us on the crossing, it was bloody ... Oh and do not touch the Moreau, that one is mine ... Why are you still standing here?”

  “Thank you for your help. For everything.”

  She did not answer.

  “I am indebted to you. How can I repay you?”

  “How? You can finally go away!” She cried, raising herself onto her elbow and tugging violently at the blanket to cover herself. “I ... I want to sleep! Take a horse ...go. ... To Nilfgaard, to hell, for all I care! Go away! Leave me alone!”

  “I will pay what I owe you,” he said softly. “I will not forget. Maybe one day it will be that you will need help, support - an arm to support you. Then call, call into the night. And I'll come.”

  The deer was on the edge of the slope, his glassy eye pointed to the sky. The ground was spongy and damp, densely overgrown with fern. Milva could see an enormous tick planted in the light fawn belly of the animal.

  “You will have to find another victim my little critter,” she muttered, folding her sleeves and drawing a knife. “Because this one is already cold.”

  With swift, skillful movements she cut the skin from the breastbone to the anus, cleverly bypassing the reproductive system. She carefully split the layer of fat, cut the esophagus and with
blood up to her elbows, she rummaged through the intestines and gall bladder in search of bezoars. She did not believe in the magical properties of bezoars, but there was no shortage fools who believed and paid a good price for them.

  She took the carcass of the deer and laid him over a log with his belly to the ground to let he blood flow. She wiped her hands on fern leaves and sat down next to her prey.

  “You must be mad or possessed witcher.” she said quietly, staring at the wall of Brokilon pines, their crowns suspended a hundred feet above her. “Going away to Nilfgaard looking for that girl. Going to the end of the world, to stand in fire, and not even a thought to stock up on provisions. I know that you live for her, but does it have to be this way?”

  The trees, of course, did not comment or interrupt her monologue.

  “I was thinking,” Milva went on, picking the blood from her nails with the knife, “You have no chance of rescuing your young lady. You will never reach Nilfgaard, or even the Yaruga. In this state you could not even walk up Sodden. Your death is already written. It is written on your stubborn face, you can see it in your own terrifying eyes. Death will surprise you soon, witcher. But thanks to this little deer, you will not die of starvation. And that's a good thing. Well... I think.”

  Seeing the Nilfgaardian ambassador enter the courtroom, Dijkstra quietly sighed. Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen, envoy of Emperor Emhyr var Emreis, had a habit of talking in diplomatic terms and loved to weave pompous language and paradoxical turns of phrase into sentences, intelligible only to diplomats and scholars. Dijkstra had studied at the academy in Oxenfurt and although he had not obtained a master's degree, he knew the basics of the turgid jargon spoken by academics. He used it reluctantly however, because at heart he could not stand pomp and ceremony, or any of that sort of pretention.

  “Welcome, Your Excellency.”

  “Sir Count,” Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen bowed ceremoniously. “Ah, please forgive me. Maybe now I should say, Grand Duke? Noble and enlightened Prince? Your Highness Secretary of State? Upon my word, your highness, the honors are showered upon you at such a rate that in truth I do not know what title to give you without breaking protocol.”

  “The best is 'Your Majesty'.” said Dijkstra modestly. “You know, after all, Excellency, that the court makes the king. And you are probably familiar with the fact that when I shout "jump!", the whole court of Tretogor asks, "How high?"”

  The ambassador knew that Dijkstra was exaggerating, but it wasn't that far from the truth. Prince Radovid was a minor, Queen Hedwig had been devastated by the tragic death of her husband - the aristocracy, terrified, had become stupid, and was disunited and divided into factions.

  In fact, the government of Redania was led by Dijkstra. He could without difficulty obtain all the honors he wanted. But he wanted none.

  “Your Highness has deigned to call me,” the ambassador said after a moment. “Without the presence of the Minister of Foreign Affairs. To what do I owe this honor?”

  “The Minister,” Dijkstra raised his eyes to a ceiling, “resigned because of ill health.”

  The ambassador nodded solemnly. He knew perfectly well that the foreign minister was sitting in the dungeon, and that surely just a swift look at the pre-interview instruments of torture was enough to make him confess any of his collusions with the secret services of Nilfgaard because he was a coward and an idiot. The ambassador knew that the network organized by the agent Vattier de Rideaux, head of Imperial Intelligence, had been smashed, and that all the threads were now in the hands of Dijkstra. He also knew that these threads led directly to him. But his immunity protected him, and tradition and duty forced him to play the game until the very end.

  Especially after the strange coded instructions that Vattier and Stefan Skellen “The Coroner”, the imperial agent of special missions, had recently sent to the embassy.

  “As a successor has not yet been appointed,” began Dijkstra, “The unpleasant duty falls to me, of informing you that your Excellency has been considered persona non grata in the kingdom of Redania.”

  The ambassador bowed.

  “It is unfortunate,” he said, “that the distrust resulting in the mutual expulsion of the ambassadors arises from facts which do not relate directly to the kingdom of Redania, or the empire of Nilfgaard. The Empire has taken no hostile action against the Redania.”

  “Apart from the blockade at the mouth of the Skellig Islands and Yaruga for our ships and goods? Aside from arming, and supporting bands of Scoia'tael?”

  “Those are insinuations.”

  “What about the concentration of the imperial army in Verden and Cintra? The raids by armed bands in Sodden and Brugge? Sodden and Brugge are Temerian protectorates, and while we are in alliance with Temeria, your Excellency, the attacks on Temeria are attacks on us. The rebellion on the island of Thanedd and assassination of king Vizimir are also issues that relate directly to Redania. I question the nature of the role that the Empire played in these events.”

  “As for the incident on Thanedd,” the ambassador spread his hands, “I am not authorized to express an opinion. Beyond the scenes of his private affairs, sorcerers are foreign to His Majesty Emhyr var Emreis. I regret the marginal effect of our protests against the propaganda which suggests otherwise. Propaganda enlarged by, as I dare say, and not without the support of the highest authorities of the kingdom Redania.”

  “Your protests surprise me. And I am extremely surprised, at that.” Dijkstra smiled slightly, “After all, the Emperor did not conceal the fact that the Princess of Cintra, who was kidnapped from Thanedd, resides at his court.”

  “Cirilla, Queen of Cintra,” Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen corrected insistently, “was not abducted, but sought asylum within the Empire. It has nothing to do with the incident on Thanedd.”

  “Really?”

  “The incident on Thanedd,” continued the ambassador with a stony face, “deeply disgusted the Emperor. And the insidious attack committed by a madman against king Vizimir has awakened in him a deep and genuine loathing. However, it reached its peak when terrible rumors spread amongst the populace, who dare to look upon the Empire as the instigators of this crime.”

  “Recognition of the real instigators,” Dijkstra articulated slowly, “will put an end to the gossip, hopefully. The persecutors will be captured, and justice administered, it is only a matter of time.”

  “Justitia Est Fundamentum Regnorum,” answered Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen seriously. “Crimen horribilis non potest non esse punibile. I assure you that His Majesty also wishes to see that happen.”

  “It is in the power of the Emperor to grant that desire.” Dijkstra tossed in casually, crossing his arms over her chest. “One of the political leaders of the plot, Enid an Gleanna, until recently, known as Francesca Findabair the sorceress, from Imperial benches plays elf queen of the puppet state, Dol Blathanna.”

  “His Imperial Majesty,” the ambassador bowed stiffly, “can not interfere in the affairs of Dol Blathanna, an independent kingdom, recognized by all the neighboring powers.”

  “Except for Redania. To Redania, Dol Blathanna is still part of the kingdom of Aedirn, although you cut Aedirn and Lyria to pieces with the help of the elves of Kaedwen. You have crossed out these kingdoms from the world map too soon. Too soon, your Excellency. However, this is not the time nor the place to discuss it. Let Francesca Findabair hold the reigns for now, the time for justice will come. What about the other rebels, and the organizers of the assassination of King Vizimir? Vilgefortz of Roggeveen, and Yennefer of Vengerberg? There is every reason to suppose that after the defeat of the coup they both fled to Nilfgaard.”

  “I assure you,” the ambassador lifted his head, “that they did not. And if they did, I guarantee that they will not escape the punishment they deserve.”

  “They have not sinned against you, so it is not up to you to punish them. By delivering them, Emperor Emhyr would provide evidence of his sincere desire for justice, after all, Justitia Est Fundamen
tum Regnorum.”

  “There is no denying the wisdom in your request,” admitted Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen, feigning an embarrassed laugh. “Firstly, these people are not within the territory of the Empire. Secondly, even if they were, there would still be a problem. The extraditions would have to be carried out following an official ruling, in this case, by the Imperial Council. Consider, your Highness, that the severance of diplomatic relations is an act of hostility on Redania's part. It is therefore illogical to expect the Council to grant a request for extradition from a hostile country. It would be an unprecedented ... Unless ...”

  “Unless what?”

  “You created a precedent.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “If the kingdom of Redania was ready to hand over someone who was considered a felon by the Empire, the Emperor and his Council would have a reason to reciprocate this gesture of goodwill.”

  Dijkstra was silent for a long time, giving the impression of being lost in thought.

  “Who is it you want?”

  “The name of the criminal?” the ambassador pretended to try to remember the name, and finally reached into his briefcase for the document. “I do apologize, my memory fails me. I have it here. Ah yes, a certain Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach. Undeniably the allegations against him are serious. He is wanted for murder, desertion, kidnap, rape, theft and forgery of documents. Fleeing from the wrath of the emperor, he escaped abroad.”

  “To Redania? He chose a long way then.”

  “Your worship,” Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen smiled slightly, “he is not limited to Redanian territory. But I have no doubt that if the offender has been seen in any of the allied kingdoms, your grace would be informed of it from one of his ... personal relations.”