Vilfrid Wenck was tall, taller than Geralt and near twice the dwarf’s height. He wore an ordinary, simple outfit like that worn by greeves, bailiffs or mounted messengers, but there was a sharpness in his movements, a stiffness and sureness which the witcher knew and could faultlessly recognise, even at night, even in the meagre light of the campfire. That was how men accustomed to wearing hauberks and belts weighed down with weapons moved. Wenck was a professional soldier. Geralt was prepared to wager any sum on it. He shook the proffered hand and gave a little bow.
‘Let’s sit down.’ Yarpen indicated the stump where his mighty axe was still embedded. ‘Tell us what you’re doing in this neighbourhood, Geralt.’
‘Looking for help. I’m journeying in a threesome with a woman and youngster. The woman is sick. Seriously sick. I caught up with you to ask for help.’
‘Damn it, we don’t have a medic here.’ The dwarf spat at the naming logs. ‘Where have you left them?’
‘Half a furlong from here, by the roadside.’
‘You lead the way. Hey, you there! Three to the horses, saddle
the spare mounts! Geralt, will your sick woman hold up in the saddle?’
‘Not really. That’s why I had to leave her there.’
‘Get the sheepskin, canvas sheet and two poles from the wagon! Quick!’
Vilfrid Wenck, crossing his arms, hawked loudly.
‘We’re on the trail,’ Yarpen Zigrin said sharply, without looking at him. ‘You don’t refuse help on the Trail.’
‘Damn it.’ Yarpen removed his palm from Triss’s forehead. ‘She’s as hot as a furnace. I don’t like it. What if it’s typhoid or dysentery?’
‘It can’t be typhoid or dysentery,’ Geralt lied with conviction, wrapping the horse blankets around the sick woman. ‘Wizards are immune to those diseases. It’s food poisoning, nothing contagious.’
‘Hmm . . . Well, all right. I’ll rummage through the bags. I used to have some good medicine for the runs, maybe there’s still a little left.’
‘Ciri,’ muttered the witcher, passing her a sheepskin unstrapped from the horse, ‘go to sleep, you’re barely on your feet. No, not in the wagon. We’ll put Triss in the wagon. You lie down next to the fire.’
No,’ she protested quietly, watching the dwarf walk away. Tm going to lie down next to her. When they see you keeping me away from her, they won’t believe you. They’ll think it’s contagious and chase us away, like the soldiers in the fort.’
‘Geralt?’ the enchantress moaned suddenly. ‘Where . . . are we?’
‘Amongst friends.’
Tm here,’ said Ciri, stroking her chestnut hair. Tm at your side. Don’t be afraid. You feel how warm it is here? A campfire’s burning and a dwarf is just going to bring some medicine for . . . For your stomach.’
‘Geralt,’ sobbed Triss, trying to disentangle herself from the blankets. No … no magic elixirs, remember . . .’
‘I remember. Lie peacefully.’ I’ve got to . . . Oooh . . .’
The witcher leaned over without a word, picked up the enchantress together with her cocoon of caparisons and blankets, and marched to the woods, into the darkness. Ciri sighed.
She turned, hearing heavy panting. Behind the wagon appeared the dwarf, hefting a considerable bundle under his arm. The campfire flame gleamed on the blade of the axe behind his belt; the rivets on his heavy leather jerkin also glistened.
‘Where’s the sick one?’ he snarled. ‘Flown away on a broomstick?’
Ciri pointed to the darkness.
‘Right.’ The dwarf nodded. ‘I know the pain and I’ve known the same nasty complaint. When I was younger I used to eat everything I managed to find or catch or cut down, so I got food poisoning many a time. Who is she, this Enchantress?’
‘Triss Merigold.’
‘I don’t know her, never heard of her. I rarely have anything to do with the Brotherhood anyway. Well, but it’s polite to introduce oneself. I’m called Yarpen Zigrin. And what are you called, little goose?’
‘Something other than Little Goose,’ snarled Ciri with a gleam in her eyes.
The dwarf chuckled and bared his teeth.
‘Ah.’ He bowed with exaggeration. ‘I beg your forgiveness. I didn’t recognise you in the darkness. This isn’t a goose but a noble young lady. I fall at your feet. What is the young lady’s name, if it’s no secret?’
‘It’s no secret. I’m Ciri.’
‘Ciri. Aha. And who is the young lady?’
‘That,’ Ciri turned her nose up proudly, ‘is a secret.’
Yarpen snorted again.
‘The young lady’s little tongue is as sharp as a wasp. If the young lady will deign to forgive me, I’ve brought the medicine and a little food. Will the young lady accept it or will she send the old boor, Yarpen Zigrin, away?’
‘I’m sorry …” Ciri had second thoughts and lowered her head. ‘Triss really does need help, Master . . . Zigrin. She’s very sick. Thank you for the medicine.’
‘It’s nothing.’ The dwarf bared his teeth again and patted her shoulder amicably. ‘Come on, Ciri, you help me. The medicine has to be prepared. We’ll roll some pellets according to my grandmother’s recipe. No disease sitting in the guts will resist these kernels.’
He unwrapped the bundle, extracted something shaped like a piece of turf and a small clay vessel. Ciri approached, curious.
‘You should know, Ciri,’ said Yarpen, ‘that my grandmother knew her medicine like nobody’s business. Unfortunately, she believed that the source of most disease is idleness, and idleness is best cured through the application of a stick. As far as my siblings and I were concerned, she chiefly used this cure preventively. She beat us for anything and for nothing. She was a rare old hag. And once when, out of the blue, she gave me a chunk of bread with dripping and sugar, it was such a surprise that I dropped it in astonishment, dripping down. So my gran gave me a thrashing, the nasty old bitch. And then she gave me another chunk of bread, only without the sugar.’
‘My grandmother,’ Ciri nodded in understanding, ‘thrashed me once, too. With a switch.’
‘A switch?’ The dwarf laughed. ‘Mine whacked me once with a pickaxe handle. But that’s enough reminiscing, we have to roll the pellets. Here, tear this up and mould it into little balls.’
‘What is it? It’s sticky and messy . . . Eeeuuggh . . . What a stink!’
‘It’s mouldy oil-meal bread. Excellent medicine. Roll it into little halls. Smaller, smaller, they’re for a magician, not a cow. Give me one. Good. Now we’re going to roll the ball in medicine.’
‘ Eeeeuuuugggghh!’
‘Stinks?’ The dwarf brought his upturned nose closer to the clay pot. ‘Impossible. Crushed garlic and bitter salt has no right to slink, even if it’s a hundred years old.’
‘It’s foul, uugghh. Triss won’t eat that!’
‘We’ll use my grandmother’s method. You squeeze her nose and I’ll shove the pellets in.’
‘Yarpen,’ Geralt hissed, emerging abruptly from the darkness
with the magician in his arms. ‘Watch out or I’ll shove something down you.’
‘It’s medicine!’ The dwarf took offence. ‘It helps! Mould, garlic . . .’
‘Yes,’ moaned Triss weakly from the depths of her cocoon. ‘It’s true . . . Geralt, it really ought to help . . .’
‘See?’ Yarpen nudged Geralt with his elbow, turning his beard up proudly and pointing to Triss, who swallowed the pellets with a martyred expression. ‘A wise magician. Knows what’s good for her.’
‘What are you saying, Triss?’ The witcher leaned over. ‘Ah, I see. Yarpen, do you have any angelica? Or saffron?’
‘I’ll have a look, and ask around. I’ve brought you some water and a little food—’
‘Thank you. But they both need rest above all. Ciri, lie down.’
‘I’ll just make up a compress for Triss—’
‘I’ll do it myself. Yarpen, I’d like to talk to you.’
‘Come to the fire. We’ll broach a barrel—’
‘I want to talk to you. I don’t need an audience. Quite the contrary.’
‘Of course. I’m listening.’
‘What sort of convoy is this?’
The dwarf raised his small, piercing eyes at him.
‘The king’s service,’ he said slowly and emphatically.
‘That’s what I thought.’ The witcher held the gaze. ‘Yarpen, I’m not asking out of any inappropriate curiosity.’
‘I know. And I also know what you mean. But this convoy is . . . hmm . . . special.’
‘So what are you transporting?’
‘Salt fish,’ said Yarpen casually, and proceeded to embellish his lie without batting an eyelid. ‘Fodder, tools, harnesses, various odds and ends for the army. Wenck is a quartermaster to the king’s army.’
‘If he’s quartermaster then I’m a druid,’ smiled Geralt. ‘But that’s your affair – I’m not in the habit of poking my nose into other people’s secrets. But you can see the state Triss is in. Let us join you, Yarpen, let us put her in one of the wagons. Just for a few days. I’m not asking where you’re going because this trail goes straight to the south without forking until past the Lixela and it’s a ten-day journey to the Lixela. By that time the fever will have subsided and Triss will be able to ride a horse. And even if she isn’t then I’ll stop in a town beyond the river. Ten days in a wagon, well covered, hot food . . . Please.’
‘I don’t give the orders here. Wenck does.’
‘I don’t believe you lack influence over him. Not in a convoy primarily made up of dwarves. Of course he has to bear you in mind.’
‘Who is this Triss to you?’
‘What difference does it make in this situation?’
‘In this situation none. I asked out of an inappropriate curiosity born of the desire to start new rumours going around the inns. But be that as it may, you’re mighty attracted to this enchantress, Geralt.’
The witcher smiled sadly.
‘And the girl?’ Yarpen indicated Ciri with his head as she wriggled under the sheepskin. ‘Yours?’
‘Mine,’ he replied without thinking. ‘Mine, Zigrin.’
The dawn was grey, wet, and smelled of night rain and morning mist. Ciri felt she had slept no more than a few minutes, as though she had been woken up the very minute she lay her head down on the sacks heaped on the wagon.
Geralt was just settling Triss down next to her, having brought her in from another enforced expedition into the woods. The rugs cocooning the enchantress sparkled with dew. Geralt had dark circles under his eyes. Ciri knew he had not closed them for an instant Triss had run a fever through the night and suffered greatly.
‘Did I wake you? Sorry. Sleep, Ciri. It’s still early.’
‘What’s happening with Triss? How is she?’
‘Better,’ moaned the magician. ‘Better, but . . . Listen, Geralt … I’d like to
‘Yes?’ The witcher leaned over but Triss was already asleep. He straightened himself, stretched.
‘Geralt,’ whispered Ciri, ‘are they going to let us travel on the wagon?’
‘We’ll see.’ He bit his lip. ‘Sleep while you can. Rest.’
He jumped down off the wagon. Ciri heard the sound of the camp packing up – horses stamping, harnesses ringing, poles squeaking, swingle-trees grating, and talking and cursing. And then, nearby, Yarpen Zigrin’s hoarse voice and the calm voice of the tall man called Wenck. And the cold voice of Geralt. She raised herself and carefully peered out from behind the canvas.
‘I have no categorical interdictions on this matter,’ declared Wenck.
‘Excellent.’ The dwarf brightened. ‘So the matter’s settled?’
The commissar raised his hand a little, indicating that he had not yet finished. He was silent for a while, and Geralt and Yarpin waited patiently.
‘Nevertheless,’ Wenck said finally, ‘when it comes to the safe arrival of this caravan, it’s my head on the line.’
Again he said nothing. This time no one interrupted. There was no question about it – one had to get used to long intervals between sentences when speaking to the commissar.
‘For its safe arrival,’ he continued after a moment. ‘And for its timely arrival. Caring for this sick woman might slow down the march.’
‘We’re ahead of schedule on the route,’ Yarpen assured him, after a significant pause. We’re ahead of time, Wenck, sir, we won’t miss the deadline. And as for safety … I don’t think the witcher’s company will harm that. The Trail leads through the woods right up to the Lixela, and to the right and left there’s a wild forest. And rumour has it all sorts of evil creatures roam the forest.’
‘Indeed,’ the commissar agreed. Looking the witcher straight in the eye, he seemed to be weighing out every single word. ‘One can come across certain evil creatures in Kaedwen forests, lately incited by other evil creatures. They could jeopardise our safety. King
Henselt, knowing this, empowered me to recruit volunteers to join our armed escort. Geralt? That would solve your problem.’
The witcher’s silence lasted a long while, longer than Wenck’s entire speech, interspersed though it had been with regular pauses.
‘No,’ he said finally. ‘No, Wenck. Let us put this clearly. I am prepared to repay the help given Lady Merigold, but not in this manner. I can groom the horses, carry water and firewood, even cook. But I will not enter the king’s service as a soldier. Please don’t count on my sword. I have no intention of killing those, as you call them, evil creatures on the order of other creatures whom I do not consider to be any better.’
Ciri heard Yarpen Zigrin hiss loudly and cough into his rolled-up sleeve. Wenck stared at the witcher calmly.
‘I see,’ he stated dryly. ‘I like clear situations. All right then. Zigrin, see to it that the speed of our progress does not slow. As for you, Geralt … I know you will prove to be useful and helpful in a way you deem fit. It would be an affront to both of us if I were to treat your good stead as payment for aid offered to a suffering woman. Is she feeling better today?’
The witcher gave a nod which seemed, to Ciri, to be somewhat deeper and politer than usual. Wenck’s expression did not change.
‘That pleases me,’ he said after a normal pause. ‘In taking Lady Merigold aboard a wagon in my convoy I take on the responsibility lor her health, comfort and safety. Zigrin, give the command to march out.’
‘Wenck.’
‘Yes, Geralt?’
‘Thank you.’
The commissar bowed his head, a bit more deeply and politely, it seemed to Ciri, than the usual, perfunctory politeness required.
Yarpen Zigrin ran the length of the column, giving orders and instructions loudly, after which he clambered onto the coachman’s box, shouted and whipped the horses with the reins. The wagon jolted and rattled along the forest trail. The bump woke Triss up but Ciri reassured her and changed the compress on her forehead.