Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 03] Read online

  ‘Your sarcasm breaks my heart, witcher. I have pulled you out of trouble and instead of thanking me, you’re breaking my heart.’

  ‘Thank you and forgive me. Why did king Foltest order his men to look for Ciri, Codringher? What were they supposed to do after they’d found her?’

  ‘How naïve. Kill her, of course. She has claims to the throne of Cintra and there are other plans towards this throne.’

  ‘Codringher, this makes no sense. The throne of Cintra was burned down along with the royal castle, the city and the whole country. Nilfgaard is in power over there now. Foltest knows it well, so do other kings. What claims could Ciri have towards a throne which no longer exists?’

  ‘Come’ Codringher stood up ‘Let us find the answer to this question together. I will give you a proof of my trust… What is so interesting about this painting?’

  ‘That it has more holes than a fishing net’ said Geralt looking at a portrait in golden frames hanging on the wall opposite of advocate’s desk ‘And that it shows some unbelievable moron.’

  ‘My late father’ Codringher grimaced ‘An unbelievable moron, indeed. I hanged him in here as a sort of warning to myself. Let’s go, witcher’

  They entered the anteroom. At the sight of the witcher, the cat, which was laying in the middle of the carpet and licking its paw, escaped through the dark corridor.

  ‘Why do cats hate you so, Geralt? Is it because…’

  ‘Yes. It is.’

  Behind one of the mahogany panels was a secret entrance. Codringher walked in first. The panel, no doubt magically activated, closed behind them. There was a light on the other side of the secret corridor. The room there was cold and the dry air was heavy from the smell of candles and dust.

  ‘Meet my partner, Geralt.’

  ‘Fenn?’ smiled the witcher. ‘Impossible.’

  ‘Possible. Admit it, you thought Fenn wasn’t real?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  A screeching sound could be heard from between the bookshelves and soon after that a curious vehicle emerged. It was an armchair with wheels. On it sat a midget with a big head placed on disproportionately thin shoulders. The midget had no legs.

  ‘Let me introduce you,’ said Codringher. ‘Jacob Fenn, a talented legist, my partner and invaluable co-worker. And this is our guest and client…’

  ‘Witcher Geralt of Rivia,’ finished the cripple with a smile. ‘I figured it out. After all, I’ve been working on our contract for quite some time now. Follow me, gentlemen.’

  They walked behind the screeching armchair into a labyrinth of bookshelves, the size of which could put the Oxenfurt University Library to shame. The incunabula, guessed Geralt, must have been collected by whole generations of Codringhers and Fenns. He was glad for the trust he was given and for the possibility of meeting Fenn. He knew, however, that despite being a real living person Fenn was also mythical, if only in part. The mythical Fenn, Codringher’s infallible alter-ego was often reported to have been spotted in town, whereas the talented legist had probably never left either the building or the armchair.

  The middle of the room was especially well-lit. There was a low, easy to access desktop, which was piled up with books, scrolls of parchment and vellum, paper, ink bottles, bundles of feathers, and thousands of mysterious utensils. Not all were so mysterious though. Geralt recognized forms for counterfeit stamps and a diamond grater used to remove the records from official documents. In the middle of the desktop lay a small arbalest repeater ball and next to it, from under a velvet fabric, sat a large magnifying glass made of polished crystal. Such glass was a rarity and cost a fortune.

  ‘Found anything new, Fenn?’

  ‘Not much,’ the cripple smiled. The smile was warm and pleasant. ‘I have narrowed the list of Rience’s potential employers to twenty eight wizards…’

  ’Let’s leave that for a second,’ interrupted Codringher. ‘We’re interested in something else at the moment. Please explain to Geralt all of the reasons why the missing Princess Ciri is an object of wide search by the agents of the Four Kingdoms.’

  ‘In the girl’s veins runs the blood of Queen Calanthe,’ said Fenn in a voice expressing surprise at having needed to explain such simple facts. ‘She is the last descendant of the royal line. Cintra has a significant strategic and political value. Lost, somewhere far from the sphere of influence, a successor to the throne is a bother, it not a danger when in a sphere of the wrong influence. Like a Nilfgaardian sphere of influence, for example.’

  ‘As I recall,’ said Geralt. ‘The Cintran law of succession excludes women.’

  ‘True,’ confirmed Fenn and smiled again. ‘But a woman can always become somebody’s wife and the mother of a male descendant. The Intelligence agencies of the Four Kingdoms found out about the frantic search for the princess started by Rience and assumed that this was the reason. It was then decided to prevent the princess from becoming somebody’s wife and mother. In the simplest and most reliable way.

  ‘But the princess is dead,’ added Codringher quickly, seeing the change in Geralt’s face caused by midget’s words. ‘The agents learned it and called off the search.’

  ‘They have for now,’ the witcher made an effort to sound cool and collected. ‘One of the aspects of a lie is that it never works for long. Besides, the royal agents are only one of the players in this game. The agents, as you yourselves said, were hunting for Ciri in order to thwart the plans of other hunters. Those other ones might be much less susceptible to disinformation. I have hired you so that you would find a way of ensuring the child’s safety. What are your propositions?’

  ‘We have a certain idea,’ Fenn shot a look at his partner but didn’t find an order of silence. ‘We want to spread, discreetly but widely, a notion that not only Princess Cirilla, but also her potential male descendants, have no right to the throne of Cintra.’

  ‘In Cintra the distaff side doesn’t take part in the succession,’ explained Codringher struggling with a new coughing attack. ‘Only the spear does.’

  ‘Exactly,’ nodded the legist. ‘Geralt said so himself. It’s an old law, even that she-devil Calanthe failed to invalidate it, despite the attempts.’

  ‘She tried to override it using an intrigue,’ said Codringher. ’An unlawful kind of an intrigue. Tell him, Fenn.’

  ‘Celanthe was the only daughter of King Dagorad and Queen Adalia. After their deaths, she had defied the nobility, which saw in her solely a wife for the new king. She wanted to rule alone. She did agree for a Prince Consort, just to ensure continuity of the dynasty, but his position and authority would be comparable to that of a ragdoll. The old aristocratic families opposed fervently. Calanthe’s alternatives were a civil war, an abdication, or a marriage with Roegner, the prince of Ebbing. She chose the third option. She still maintained authority over the country, but together with Roegner. Naturally, she never let herself be subjugated or relegated to the womanly sidelines. She was the Lioness of Cintra. But formally Roegner was the ruler, although nobody would title him a Lion.’

  ‘And Calanthe,’ added Codringher, ‘struggled fiercely to become pregnant with a son. In vain. She gave birth to a daughter, Pavetta, then miscarried twice and it became clear that she wouldn’t have any more children. All her plans went down the drain. Women’s lot. Great ambitions spoiled by a ruined uterus.’

  Geralt winced.

  ‘You’re disgustingly trivial, Codringher.’

  ‘I know. The truth can be trivial too. Because soon Roegner started to look for a young princess with appropriately wide hips, preferably from a family with fertility practically figuring on their pedigree chart. And Calanthe found herself in deep trouble. Every meal, every cup of wine could have brought her death, every hunting expedition could have ended with an unfortunate accident. It is therefore no wonder that the Lioness of Cintra decided to take the initiative. Roegner died. The country was at the time plagued with a pox, so his death raised no suspicions.’

  ‘I think I�
�m beginning to understand,’ said the witcher, seemingly impassive. ‘The news you are going to spread discreetly but widely around the world, that is. Ciri will become known as the granddaughter of a schemer and a murderer?’

  ‘Don’t be too hasty, Geralt. Go on, Fenn.’

  ‘Calanthe,’ smiled the midget. ‘May have kept her life, but not the crown, which was slipping further and further away. When, after Roegner’s death, the Lioness took full power, the nobility again opposed violations of the law and tradition. The throne of Cintra was reserved for a king, not a queen. It had therefore been decided: the moment little Pavetta started resembling a woman in the least bit; she would be married to somebody who would become the new king. An infertile queen’s remarriage was out of the question. The Lioness of Cintra understood that her best hopes would be to become a Queen Mother. What’s worse, Pavetta’s husband could be someone who would completely remove his mother-in-law from power.’

  ‘Allow me to be trivial again,’ said Codringher. ‘Calanthe did everything in her power to postpone Pavetta’s marriage. She cancelled the first plans when the girl was ten years old and again, when she was thirteen. The nobility saw through her scheme and demanded Pavetta’s fifteenth birthday to be her last birthday as a maiden. Calanthe was forced to comply. But before that happened, she had achieved what she had hoped for. Pavetta stayed a virgin for too long. She got so horny that she eventually got laid by a random stranger, who also happened to have been turned into a monster. There were some additional supernatural circumstances, some prophecies, spells, promises… The so-called Law of Surprise? Right, Geralt? You probably remember what happened next. Calanthe summoned a witcher to Cintra, and that witcher caused a big turmoil. Unaware that he was being used, he removed the curse from the monstrous Hedgehog, enabling him to marry Pavetta. By doing so, the witcher had given Calanthe easier access to the throne. Pavetta’s relationship with the uncharmed monster was, to the nobles, such a huge shock that they accepted the sudden marriage of the Lioness and Eist Tuirseach. The Earl of Skellige Islands was, to them, a much better party than some vagabond Hedgehog. In this way, Calanthe could still rule over the country. Eist, like all Islanders, had too much respect for the Lioness of Cintra to oppose her in anything, and the kingship simply bored him anyway. And so he handed her the full power. And Calanthe, stuffing herself with elixirs and medicaments, dragged her husband to the bedroom day and night. She wanted to rule till the end of her days. And if she had to rule as a Queen Mother, then only to her own son. But, like I said, great ambitions…’

  ‘Like you said. No need to repeat yourself.’

  ‘As for Princess Pavetta, the wife of that strange Hedgehog, already during the marriage ceremony she was wearing a suspiciously loose dress. The disheartened Calanthe changed her plans. If not her own son, she decided, then at least Pavetta’s. But Pavetta gave birth to a daughter. A curse or what? However, the princess could always have more children. Or rather could have had. Because then a curious accident had taken place. Both her and the Hedgehog died in an unexplainable catastrophe.’

  ‘What are you implying, Codringher?’

  ‘I’m trying to explain the situation, nothing more. After Pavetta’s death Calanthe fell apart, but not for long. Her granddaughter was her last hope: Pavetta’s daughter, Cirilla. Wayward little Ciri, running wild around the castle. Apple of the eye for some, especially elders, since she resembled Calanthe from her younger days so much. For the others… a freak, the daughter of a monster, promised to some witcher. And here’s the thing: Calanthe’s golden girl, evidently being groomed as her successor, was treated almost as if she was her next incarnation; the Lion Cub of the Lionesses blood, was already back then considered by some to be excluded from succession. Cirilla was a child of a low birth. Pavetta had committed a mésalliance. She had mixed the blue royal blood with the common blood of a vagabond of unknown origin.’

  ‘Quite cunning, Codringher. But it won’t pass. Ciri’s father was not a commoner at all. He was a prince.’

  ‘Really? I wasn’t aware. From which kingdom?’

  ‘Somewhere on the south… from Maecht… Yes, definitely Maecht.’

  ‘Interesting,’ murmured Codringher. ‘Maecht has been a Nilfgaardian march for a long time now. It’s part of the Metinna Province.’

  ‘But it is a kingdom,’ objected Fenn. ‘The ruler there is a king.’

  ‘The ruler there is Emhyr van Emreis,’ retorted Codringher. ‘Whoever is the king there, it’s due to Emhyr’s grace. But since we’re at it, go check who Emhyr did put on the throne over there. I can’t remember.’

  ‘Right away.’ The cripple pushed the wheels of the armchair and moved with a screech in the direction of one of the bookshelves. Once there, he picked up a thick roll of scrolls and began to view them, throwing the unimportant ones on the floor. ‘Hmmm… got it. Maecht Kingdom. Coat of Arms: silver fish and crowns on the blue-red field…’

  ‘Screw heraldry, Fenn. Who is the king?’

  ‘Hoet the Righteous. Chosen through an election…’

  ‘…by Emhyr of Nilfgaard,’ finished Codringher coldly.

  ‘…nine years ago.’

  ‘Not this one.’ The advocate countered quickly. ‘This one is of no interest to us. Who was there before him?’

  ‘Give me a second. Here. Akerspaark. Died…’

  ‘Died of acute pneumonia induced by daggers belonging to Emhyr’s stooges, or to that Righteous Fellow,’ Codringher once again showed his perspicacity. ‘Geralt, does the name Akerspaark ring a bell? Could this possibly be the daddy of our Hedgehog?’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Geralt. ‘Akerspaark. I remember Duny mentioning that name.’

  ‘Duny?’

  ‘That was his name. He was a prince, son of this Akerspaark…’

  ‘No,’ interrupted Fenn, gazing into the scrolls. ‘Here’s a list of his children. Legitimate sons: Orm, Gorm, Torm, Horm and Gonzalez. Legitimate Daughters: Alia, Valia, Nina, Pauli¬na, Mamna and Argentina…’

  ‘I take back my vicious accusations towards Nilfgaard and Righteous Hoet,’ said Codringher with all seriousness. ‘That Akerspaark wasn’t assassinated. He was simply screwed to death. Because I assume that he also had bastard children, right Fenn?’

  ‘He did. Quite a lot. But none with the name Duny.’

  ‘And I don’t expect to see him there. Geralt, your Hedgehog was no prince. Even if he was sired somewhere in the dark by this boor Akerspaark, he’s separated from the title not only by Nilfgaard, but also by the long line of legitimate Orms, Gorms or some other Gonzalezes with their own, probably quite numerous, progeny. So formally, Pavetta did commit a mésalliance.’

  ‘And Ciri, being the product of this mésalliance, has no right to the throne?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Fenn screeched his way back to the desktop.

  ‘It’s a good argument,’ he said, tilting his big head. ‘But only one argument. Keep in mind, Geralt, that we’re not fighting over the crown. The rumours are supposed to make it clear that the girl cannot be used as a means of taking over Cintra. And that such an attempt could easily be challenged. The girl would stop being a figure in the political game; she would be just an unimportant pawn. Therefore…’

  ‘She would be allowed to live,’ finished Codringher dispassionately.

  ‘From the formal point of view,’ asked Geralt, ‘how solid is that argument of yours?’

  Fenn looked at Coringher and then at the witcher.

  ‘Not very solid,’ he admitted. ‘Cirilla is still of Calanthe’s blood, even if a bit diluted. In normal circumstances she would have probably ended up tossed aside from the throne but the current circumstances can’t be described as normal. Lionesses blood has a political meaning…’

  ‘Blood…’ Geralt rubbed his forehead. ‘Codringher, what is the meaning of the phrase ‘Child of Elder Blood’?

  ‘Why do you ask? Did someone use it when speaking about Ciri?’

  ‘Yes.’


  ‘Who had?’

  ‘Never mind. What does it mean?’

  ‘Luned aep Hen Ichaer,’ mumbled Fenn suddenly, moving away from the desktop. ‘Literally not a ‘Child’ but a ‘Daughter’ of the Elder Blood. Hmm… Elder Blood… I’ve encountered this phrase before. I can’t recall where… I think it has something to do with elven prophecies. In some of the older versions of Ithlinne’s prophecy texts there are, I believe, mentions of the Elder Blood of Elves, or Aen Hen Ichaer. But we don’t have the full text here; we would have to ask the elves…’

  ‘Let’s just leave it,’ cut Codringher coldly. ‘Too many matters solved at the same time, too many magpies caught by their tails, too many prophecies and secrets. That’s enough for now. Thank you and goodbye. Let’s go, Geralt. We shall return to the guestroom.’

  ‘Not enough, eh?’ inquired the witcher the moment they settled themselves in the armchairs. ‘The fee is too low?’

  Codringher picked up a metal star-shaped object from the top of the desk and spun it around his fingers.

  ‘Too low, Geralt. Digging in elven prophecies is a huge burden, loss of time and resources. The need of searching for a contact with the elves because nobody else can comprehend their language in all its entirety. Elven manuscripts are usually filled with twisted symbolism, acrostics, sometimes even codes. The Elder Speech always has at least a double meaning and when written it can have dozens of meanings. Elves have never been happy to help anyone trying to crack their prophecies. And in these times, when there’s a bloody war with the Squirrels in the forests and pogroms in the cities, it’s not safe to approach them. It’s a double risk. Elves can take you for a provocateur, humans can accuse you of treason…’

  ‘How much, Codringher?’

  The advocate was silent for a while, constantly playing with the metal star.

  ‘Ten percent,’ he said finally.

  ‘Ten percent of what?’

  ‘Don’t insult me, witcher. It’s a serious matter. I’m less and less sure of what is going on and whenever something isn’t certain then everything is certainly about money. Therefore I’m more content on percentages than fees. You will give me ten percent of whatever you are going to get yourself, discounting the sum already paid. Do we have a deal?’