The Tower of the Swallow by Andrzej Sapkowski
‘Shut up, damn it!’
‘On the other hand,’ Vattier de Rideaux hastily steered the conversation away, obeying the unspoken order in the Emperor’s angry eyes, ‘it could all be disinformation. To discredit the magician. That would be like Dijkstra.’
‘You should remove him and find Vilgefortz and Ciri! The devil take you! Do not speculate or make assumptions! Where is The Owl? Still in Geso? Does he have to turn over every stone and look into each hole? The girl is apparently not there and never was? The astrologer either made a mistake or a lied? These are all quotations from his reports. So what is he still doing there?’
‘Coroner Skellen, I dare to say, has goals that are not so clear... His department, which your Majesty has ordered him to form, has built its base in Fort Rocayne, in Maecht. This department, let me add, is a rather suspicious mob. Even more strange, however, is that Mr. Skellen hired a famous assassin in late August...’
‘What?’
‘He has hired a bounty hunter and asked him to liquidate a rampant gang in Geso. A laudable thing in itself, but is that the task of the Imperial Coroner?’
‘Are you sure that is not envy speaking, Vattier? And that your report is not biased from jealousy?’
‘I have noted only facts, Your Majesty.’
‘I want to see facts’ – the Emperor said abruptly – ‘I'm sick of only hearing about them.’
It had truly been a tough day. Vattier de Rideaux was tired. His daily schedule called for an hour or two of paperwork, which should prevent him from drowning in pending documents tomorrow, but even the thought of it made him shudder. No, he thought, by the gods no. The work will not run away. I will go home... No, not home. The woman can wait. I am going to Cantarella. To the sweet Cantarella, where I can relax as well...
He did not wait long. He simply stood up, took his coat and went outside. When his secretary tried to give him a portfolio of saffian leather, filled with urgent documents awaiting his signature – he stopped her with a gesture of disgust. Tomorrow! Tomorrow is another day!
He left the palace through the back entrance alongside the gardens and walked along a short avenue of cypress trees. He passed the artificial pond in which lived a carp of the venerable age of one hundred thirty-two years. Emperor Torres had been prone to it and gifted it a golden commemorative medal, which was attached to the gill cover of the giant fish.
‘Good evening, Viscount.’
Vattier flicked his forearm, shaking loose the stiletto hidden in his sleeve. The handle slipped into his hands.
‘You are risking a lot, Rience,’ he said coldly. ‘You're risking a lot to show your scorched visage in Nilfgaard. Ahh, it must be a magical teleprojection...’
‘You've noticed? Vilgefortz guaranteed that no one will be able to guess that it is an illusion without contact.’
Vattier put away the stiletto. He had guessed that it was an illusion, but now he knew it.
‘Rience,’ he said, ‘you're too cowardly to show up here in person. You know what you could expect.’
‘The emperor is still prejudiced against me? And against my master Vilgefortz?’
‘Your insolence is disarming.’
‘Hell, Vattier. I assure you that we are still on your side, myself and Vilgefortz. Well, I confess we have betrayed you, because we gave you the wrong Cirilla, but that was done in good faith, may I be drowned if I lie. After the real one was gone, Vilgefortz figured wrong was better than none. We thought you would not care...’
‘Your insolence is not disarming, but insulting. I have no intention to squander my time with an offensive illusion. When I finally catch you in your true form, then we will see what kind of entertainment you can offer me, and I will make sure that it takes a long time. I promise. But until then... Apage, Rience.’
‘I don't know you any more, Vattier. The Vattier I knew, even if the devil had appeared before him, wouldn't fail to find out if it could be beneficial to him, accidently or not, before he performed the exorcism.’
Vattier did not acknowledge the illusion by looking at it, but instead watched the algae-covered carp lazily stir up the mud in the pond.
‘Beneficial?’ He finally repeated, and pursed his lips with contempt. ‘You? What could you give me? Perhaps the real Cirilla? Maybe your boss, Vilgefortz? Perhaps Cahir aep Ceallach?’
‘Halt!’ The illusion of Rience raised his illusory hand. ‘You've got it.’
‘What I have got?’
‘Cahir. We will procure the head of Cahir for you. Myself and my master, Vilgefortz...’
‘Mercy, Rience’ snorted Vattier. ‘Modify the sequence of names, but still...’
‘As you wish. Vilgefortz – with my humble help – will procure for you the head of Cahir, son of Ceallach. We know where he is, we can always pull him out of our sleeve, if desired.’
‘You have opportunities perhaps. Please, are you telling me you have such good agents in the army of Queen Meve?’
‘You wish to test me?’ Rience grimaced. ‘Or do you really not know? Probably the latter. Cahir, my dear Viscount, is... We know where he is, we know where he wants to go know, and we know in whose company he travels. You want his head? We can get it.’
‘The head’ Vattier said smiling, ‘which will no longer be able to tell what really happened on Thanedd.’
‘That will probably be better,’ replied Rience cynically. ‘Why give Cahir the opportunity to give speeches? Our job is to appease the animosity between Vilgefortz and the emperor, not to deepen it. I will procure the silent head of Cahir aep Ceallach. We will regulate it so that the merit goes to you and only you. Delivery within three weeks.’
The age-old carp in the pond fanned the water with its pectoral fins. The carp, thought Vattier, must be full of wisdom. But wise in regards to what? Always the same mud and same water lilies.
‘Your price Rience?’
‘A trifle. Where is Stefan Skellen and what are his plans?’
‘I told him what he wanted to know.’ Vattier de Rideaux stretched out on the pillow while he played with a golden lock of Carthia van Canten's hair. ‘You see, my sweet, certain things have to be addressed wisely. And ‘wise’ means conforming. If one is different, you get nothing. Only rotten stinking mud and water in a basin. And what did they expect when the basin is made of marble and just a few steps from the palace? Am I right, my sweet?’
Carthia van Canten, nicknamed Cantarella, did not answer. Vattier did not expect her to. The girl was eighteen years old and, generally speaking, not the brightest. Her interests were limited to – at least for now – making love, with – at least for now – Vattier. When it came to sex Cantarella was a natural talent, her technique and skill were surpassed only by her commitment and zeal. But this was not the most important thing about her.
Cantarella spoke little and rarely, but she was an excellent and willing listener. He could speak his mind with her, relax, relax, relax, and mentally and spiritually rebuild himself.
‘In such a profession one expects a reprimand,’ Vattier said bitterly ‘because I have not found Cirilla. However, thanks to my people's work the army achieves success, and that’s nothing? And that the General Staff knows every move of the enemy, that's nothing? And there were a few forts that my agents opened to the imperial troops, rather than having to besiege them for weeks to win? But no, there is no praise for it. Cirilla is the only important thing!’
With an angry snort Vattier de Rideaux took a chalice filled with exquisite Est Est Toussaint from Cantarella's hands. It was a vintage that recalled the days when the Emperor was Emhyr var Emreis the little boy, deprived of his right to the throne and cruelly insulted – and Vattier de Rideaux was the young intelligence officer, insignificant in the department's hierarchy.
It had been a good year. For wines.
Vattier drank a little, played with Cantarella’s shapely breasts, and talked. Cantarella listened devotedly.
‘Stefan Skellen, my sweet,’ murmured the chief
Cantarella untied the scarf that held her gown together and leaned down. Vattier felt her breath and sighed in anticipation of pleasure. A natural talent, he thought. And then the soft, hot, and velvety-to-the-touch lips banished every thought from his head.
Carthia van Canten bestowed her talent to Vattier de Rideaux, chief of the imperial intelligence, slowly and skillfully. This was not Carthia's only talent. But Vattier de Rideaux had no idea of that.
He did not know that, despite appearances, Carthia van Canten possessed an excellent memory and an intelligence like quicksilver.
Everything Vattier told her, every scrap of information, every word that he had uttered to her during their meeting – Carthia repeated the following morning to the sorceress Assire var Anahid.
Yes, I'll bet my head that no one in Nilfgaard even remembered Cahir, not even his fiancé, if he had one.
But more about that later, first we will return to the day and place that we crossed the Yaruga. We rode in somewhat of a rush to the east, towards the Black Forest, known as Caed Dhu in the Elder Speech. We sought the Druids who would able to predict Ciri's whereabouts and may be able to interpret the strange dreams that haunted Geralt. We rode through the forests of the upper Transriver, which the left bank is also called, a wild and almost uninhabited region. It is located between the Yaruga and the foothills of Amell Mountains, an area called the ‘North Case’, It is bordered on the east by the valley of Dol Angra and on the west by a marshy lake district, whose name escapes me.
This area has never been claimed by anyone specifically. Therefore, no one has ever really known who owned the area and who really ruled over it. The rulers of Temeria, Sodden, Cintra and Rivia, in succession, have apparently had something to say on this matter. They considered various areas of the left bank as fiefdoms of their crowns, and occasionally enforced that notion with fire and iron. But then the Nilfgaardian Armies came from behind the Amell Mountains and no one had anything more to say. Nor did any doubts remain about the feudal law of the land and property – everything south of the Yaruga belonged to the Empire. At the time I am writing this, even many lands to the north of the Yaruga belong to the Empire. Though lacking precise information, I do not know how many they are or how far they extend to the north.
Returning to Transriver, dear reader, allow me a digression on historical developments: The story of a given territory’s origin and formation is often somewhat random, a side effect of conflicts of external forces. The history of a country is very often made by outsiders. Foreign affairs are the cause, but the locals – always and without exception – bear the effects.
For Transriver, this rule applies in full.
Transriver was called the river country by its own people. Through the ongoing, year-long marches and battles, they had sunk into poverty and had to emigrate. Villages and hamlets were burned, and the ruins of homesteads and fallow fields were devoured by the wilderness. Trade came to a standstill; the caravans avoided the dilapidated roads and paths. The few that remained in the river country were overgrown bullies. They mainly differed from wolverines and bears, because they wore pants. At least some of them. And by that I mean: Some wore pants, and others did not. They were – mostly – a selfish, boorish, and silly people.
And they had no sense of humor.
The dark-haired daughter of the bee keeper tossed her annoying braid back and continued to work on the hand mill with furious energy. Dandelion’s efforts fizzled – the poet's words seemed to have absolutely no effect on their targeted audience. Dandelion winked at the rest of the company and acted as if he sighed and raised his eyes to the ceiling. But he did not.
‘Give it to me,’ he repeated, and bared his teeth. ‘Let me grind, and you run into the cellar and fetch some beer. There must be a keg hidden somewhere in the cellar. Am I right, beautiful?’
‘Leave the girl alone, sir,’ said the angry wife of the bee keeper – a tall and slender woman of surprising beauty, who worked in the kitchen. ‘I’ve already told you there is no beer.’
‘You’ve been told a dozen times, sir,’ said the bee keeper, prompting his wife to jump to the side and interrupting the conversation the witcher and vampire were having. ‘We'll make pancakes with honey, and then you can eat. But allow the girl to grind the corn into flour in peace, because unless you brought a magician, there can be no pancakes without flour! Let her work in peace.’
‘Did you hear that, Dandelion?’ cried the witcher. ‘Let the girl work in peace and occupy yourself with something useful. Or write your memoirs!’
‘I want to drink. I like drink something before eating something. I have a few herbs and I'm going to make an infusion. Grandmother, can hot water be found in the hut? I’m asking – is there hot water?’
The old woman on the bench, who was the mother of the bee keeper, looked up from the stocking she was stuffing. ‘Yes, my dear, it can be found,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s just that it's gone cold.’
Dandelion sighed and resignedly sat down at the table where the company was chatting with the bee keeper, who they had met in an early morning encounter in the forest. The bee keeper was a thickset, stocky man with black and terribly overgrown hair. It was no wonder that he had frightened the company when he suddenly emerged from the brush – they had thought he was a lycanthrope. The funniest part was that first one to scream ‘A werewolf! A werewolf!’ was the vampire Regis. There was some confusion, but the matter was quickly cleared up and the bee keeper, although wild appearance, proved to be hospitable and courteous. The company accepted the invitation to his home without hesitation. The home – in the jargon of the bee keeper called an ‘estate’ – was located in a cleared glade. The bee keeper lived there with his mother, wife and daughter. The latter two were women of above average and somewhat downright amazing beauty that clearly signified that they were the descendants of a Dryad or Hamadryad.
In the discussions that followed, the bee keeper immediately gave the impression that he would only talk about bees, hives, hives on tree tops, drilling hives, smoking out hives, honeycomb, wax, and honey. But first impressions turned out to be deceptive.
‘The situation? How should it be? Same like always. You must deliver ever-higher taxes. Two pints of honey and an entire wax disc. I slave away to get enough together and sit from morning to night on the board, cleaning the hives... To whom do I pay taxes? Well, whoever asks for them, how should I know who is currently in power? Lately, it’s been to Nilfgaard. Because we are now a ‘Province of the Empire’ or something. And if I sell any honey for cash, the emperor takes a cut of it. The Emperor looks prettier than the others, but really the situation is just as strict. So...’
Two dogs, one black and one red-brown, sat down opposite the vampire, lifted their heads, and began to howl. The bee keeper’s hamadryad wife turned from the stove and missed one of them with the broom.
‘A bad omen,’ said bee keeper, ‘when dogs howl at midday. So... what do you wish to speak of?’
‘Of the Druids of Caed Dhu.’
‘Ha! Is that a joke, my noble lords? You really want to go to the Druids? Are you tired of living, or what? It's death! The mistletoe cutters capture anyone who dares to enter their glades, tie them to a willow trunk, and roast them over a low flame.’
Geralt threw Regis a glance. Regis winked at him. They both knew very well that the rumors that circulated about the Druids were invented. Milva and Dandelion, on the other hand, listened with more interest now than before. And with obvious anxiety.
‘Some say,’ continued the bee keeper, ‘that the mistletoe cutters are exacting vengeance against the Nilfgaardians, who started it all by harassing the Druids, namely because they marched through Dol Angra and the sacred oak groves and started to attack the Druids without reason. Others say that the Druids started it bec
‘We do not fear them,’ said Geralt calmly.
‘Of course.’ The bee keeper looked at the witcher, Milva, and Cahir, who had just come into the hut after feeding the horses. ‘One can see that you're not timid people, you’re combative and fortified. Ha, those such as you can go peacefully... well... except that your efforts and travels have been in vain – the mistletoe cutters are gone from the black trees. Nilfgaard has oppressed them, pushed them out of Caed Dhu. They are not there anymore...’
‘Just like that?’
‘Just like that. The mistletoe cutters have left.’
‘Where did they go?’
The bee keeper threw his Hamadryad wife a look and was silent for a moment.
‘Where?’ Repeated the witcher.
The bee keeper's striped cat sat in front of the vampire and began to meow loudly. The Hamadryad wife gave it a smack with her broom.
‘A bad omen when cats meow in the middle of the day,’ gasped the bee keeper, strangely confused. ‘And the Druids... they... have fled to the North Case. Yes. That's right. To the North Case.’
‘Some sixty miles south,’ estimated Dandelion unconcernedly, almost cheerfully. Under the witcher's gaze, however, he quieted immediately.
In the ensuing silence, the only sound was the evil meowing of the cat as it was chased out of the house.
‘Well,’ said the vampire, ‘what does difference does it make?’
The following morning brought more surprises. And puzzles, however, their solutions were very quickly found.