Time of Contempt (16 page)

The enchantress squeezed his forearm firmly and moved closer to his side.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured, guiding him towards the tables once again. ‘But without such excessive ostentation, if you don’t mind.’

‘Do you mages always take sincerity for ostentation? Is that why you don’t believe in sincerity, even when you read it in someone’s mind?’

‘Yes. That
is
why.’

‘But you still thank me?’

‘Because I believe you,’ she said, squeezing his arm even tighter and picking up a plate. ‘Give me a little salmon, Witcher. And some crab.’

‘These crabs are from Poviss. They were probably caught a month ago; and it’s really hot right now. Aren’t you worried . . . ?’

‘These crabs,’ she interrupted, ‘were still creeping along the seabed this morning. Teleportation is a wonderful invention.’

‘Indeed,’ he concurred. ‘It ought to be made more widely available, don’t you think?’

‘We’re working on it. Come on, give me some. I’m hungry.’

‘I love you, Yen.’

‘I said drop the ostentation . . .’ she broke off, tossed her head, drew some black curls away from her cheek and opened her violet eyes wide. ‘Geralt! It’s the first time you’ve ever said that!’

‘It can’t be. You’re making fun of me.’

‘No, no I’m not. You used only to think it, but today you said it.’

‘Is there such a difference?’

‘A huge one.’

‘Yen . . .’

‘Don’t talk with your mouth full. I love you too. Haven’t I ever told you? Heavens, you’ll choke! Lift your arms up and I’ll thump you in the back. Take some deep breaths.’

‘Yen . . .’

‘Keep breathing, it’ll soon pass.’

‘Yen!’

‘Yes. I’m repaying sincerity with sincerity.’

‘Are you feeling all right?’

‘I was waiting,’ she said, squeezing lemon on the salmon. ‘It wouldn’t have been proper to react to a declaration made as a thought. I was waiting for the words. I was able to reply, so I replied. I feel wonderful.’

‘What’s up?’

‘I’ll tell you later. Eat. This salmon is delicious, I swear on the Power, absolutely delicious.’

‘May I kiss you? Right now, here, in front of everyone?’

‘No.’

‘Yennefer!’ A dark-haired sorceress passing alongside freed her arm from the crook of her companion’s elbow and came closer. ‘So you made it? Oh, how divine! I haven’t seen you for ages!’

‘Sabrina!’ said Yennefer, displaying such genuine joy that anyone apart from Geralt might have been deceived. ‘Darling! How wonderful!’

The enchantresses embraced gingerly and kissed each other beside their ears and their diamond and onyx earrings. The two enchantresses’ earrings, resembling miniature bunches of grapes, were identical; but the whiff of fierce hostility immediately floated in the air.

‘Geralt, if I may. This is a school friend of mine, Sabrina Glevissig of Ard Carraigh.’

The Witcher bowed and kissed the raised hand. He had already observed that all enchantresses expected to be greeted by being kissed on the hand, a gesture which awarded them the same status as princesses, to put it mildly. Sabrina Glevissig raised her head, her earrings shaking and jingling. Gently, but ostentatiously and impudently.

‘I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you, Geralt,’ she said with a smile. Like all enchantresses, she didn’t recognise any ‘sirs’, ‘Your Excellencies’ or other forms of address used among the nobility. ‘You can’t believe how delighted I am. You’ve finally stopped hiding him from us, Yenna. Speaking frankly, I’m amazed you put it off for so long. You have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘I agree,’ replied Yennefer nonchalantly, narrowing her eyes a little and ostentatiously tossing her hair back from her own earrings. ‘Gorgeous blouse, Sabrina. Simply stunning. Isn’t it, Geralt?’

The Witcher nodded and swallowed. Sabrina Glevissig’s blouse, made of black chiffon, revealed absolutely everything there was to reveal, and there was plenty of it. Her crimson skirt, gathered in by a silver belt with a large rose-shaped buckle, was split up the side, in keeping with the latest fashion. Fashion demanded it be split halfway up the thigh, but Sabrina wore hers split to halfway up her hip. And a very nice hip at that.

‘What’s new in Kaedwen?’ asked Yennefer, pretending not to see what Geralt was looking at. ‘Is your King Henselt still wasting energy and resources chasing the Squirrels through the forests? Is he still thinking about a punitive expedition against the elves from Dol Blathann?’

‘Let’s give politics a rest,’ smiled Sabrina. Her slightly too-long nose and predatory eyes made her resemble the classic image of a witch. ‘Tomorrow, at the Council, we’ll be politicking until it comes out of our ears. And we’ll hear plenty of moralising, too. About the need for peaceful coexistence . . . About friendship . . . About the necessity to adopt a loyal position regarding the plans and ambitions of our kings . . . What else shall we hear, Yennefer? What else are the Chapter and Vilgefortz preparing for us?’

‘Let’s give politics a rest.’

Sabrina Glevissig gave a silvery laugh, echoed by the gentle jingling of her earrings.

‘Indeed. Let’s wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow . . . Everything will become clear tomorrow. Oh, politics, and those endless debates, what an awful effect they have on the complexion. Fortunately, I have an excellent cream. Believe me, darling, wrinkles disappear like morning mist . . . Shall I give you the formula?’

‘Thank you, darling, but I don’t need it. Truly.’

‘Oh, I know. I always envied your complexion at school. How many years is it now, by the gods?’

Yennefer pretended she was returning a greeting to someone passing alongside, while Sabrina smiled at the Witcher and joyously thrust out everything the black chiffon wasn’t hiding. Geralt swallowed again, trying not to look too blatantly at her pink nipples, only too visible beneath the transparent material. He glanced timidly at Yennefer. The enchantress smiled, but he knew her too well. She was incandescent.

‘Oh, forgive me,’ said Yennefer suddenly. ‘I can see Philippa over there; I just have to talk to her. Come with me, Geralt. Bye-bye, Sabrina.’

‘Bye, Yenna,’ said Sabrina Glevissig, looking the Witcher in the eyes. ‘Congratulations again on your . . . taste.’

‘Thank you,’ said Yennefer, her voice suspiciously cold. ‘Thank you, darling.’

Philippa Eilhart was accompanied by Dijkstra. Geralt, who’d once had a fleeting contact with the Redanian spy, ought in principle to have been pleased; he had finally met someone he knew, who – like he – didn’t belong to the fraternity. Yet he wasn’t glad at all.

‘How lovely to see you, Yenna,’ said Philippa, giving Yennefer an air kiss. ‘Greetings, Geralt. You both know Count Dijkstra, don’t you?’

‘Who doesn’t?’ said Yennefer, bowing her head and proffering her hand to Dijkstra. The spy kissed it with reverence. ‘I’m delighted to see you again, Your Excellency.’

‘It’s a joy for me to see you again, Yennefer,’ replied the chief of King Vizimir’s secret service. ‘Particularly in such agreeable company. Geralt, my respects come from the bottom of my heart . . .’

Geralt, refraining from telling Dijkstra
his
respect came from the heart of his bottom, shook the proffered hand – or rather tried to. Its dimensions exceeded the norm which made made shaking it practically impossible.

The gigantic spy was dressed in a light beige doublet, unbuttoned informally. He clearly felt at ease in it.

‘I noticed,’ said Philippa, ‘you talking to Sabrina.’

‘That’s right,’ snorted Yennefer. ‘Have you seen what she’s wearing? You’d either have to have no taste or no shame to . . . She’s bloody older than me by at least— Never mind. And as if she still had anything to show! The revolting cow!’

‘Did she try to question you? Everyone knows she spies for Henselt of Kaedwen.’

‘You don’t say?’ said Yennefer, faking astonishment, which was rightly considered an excellent joke.

‘And you, Your Excellency, are you enjoying our celebration?’ asked Yennefer, after Philippa and Dijkstra had stopped laughing.

‘Extraordinarily,’ said King Vizimir’s spy, giving a courtly bow.

‘If we presume,’ said Philippa, smiling, ‘that the Count is here on business, such an assurance is extremely complimentary. And, like every similar compliment, not very sincere. Only a moment ago, he confessed he’d prefer a nice, murky atmosphere, the stink of flaming brands and scorched meat on a spit. He also misses a traditional table swimming in spilt sauce and beer, which he could bang with his beer mug to the rhythm of a few filthy, drunken songs, and which he could gracefully slide under in the early hours, to fall asleep among hounds gnawing bones. And, just imagine, he remains deaf to my arguments extolling the superiority of our way of banqueting.’

‘Indeed?’ said the Witcher, looking at the spy more benignly. ‘And what were those arguments, if I might ask?’

This time his question was clearly treated as an excellent joke, because both enchantresses began laughing at the same time.

‘Oh, you men,’ said Philippa. ‘You don’t understand anything. How can you show off your dress or your figure if you’re hiding behind a table in the gloom and smoke?’

Geralt, unable to find the words, merely bowed. Yennefer squeezed his arm gently.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I see Triss Merigold over there. I just have to exchange a few words with her . . . Excuse me for abandoning you. Take care, Philippa. We will certainly find an opportunity for a chat today. Won’t we, Your Excellency?’

‘Undoubtedly,’ said Dijkstra, smiling and bowing low. ‘At your service, Yennefer. Your wish is my command.’

They went over to Triss, who was shimmering in shades of blue and pale green. On seeing them, Triss broke off her conversation with two sorcerers, smiled radiantly and hugged Yennefer; the ritual of kissing the air near each other’s ears was repeated. Geralt took the proffered hand, but decided to act contrary to the rules of etiquette; he embraced the chestnut-haired enchantress and kissed her on her soft cheek, as downy as a peach. Triss blushed faintly.

The sorcerers introduced themselves. One of them was Drithelm of Pont Vanis, the other his brother, Detmold. They were both in the service of King Esterad of Kovir. Both proved to be taciturn and both moved away at the first opportunity that presented itself.

‘You were talking to Philippa and Dijkstra of Tretogor,’ observed Triss, playing with a lapis-lazuli heart set in silver and diamonds, which hung around from her neck. ‘You know who Dijkstra is, of course?’

‘Yes, we do,’ said Yennefer. ‘Did he talk to you? Did he try to get anything out of you?’

‘He tried,’ said the enchantress, smiling knowingly and giggling. ‘Quite subtly. But Philippa was doing a good job throwing him off his stride. And I thought they were on better terms.’

‘They’re on excellent terms,’ Yennefer warned her gravely. ‘Be careful, Triss. Don’t breathe a word to him about – about you know who.’

‘I know. I’ll be careful. And by the way . . .’ Triss lowered her voice. ‘How’s she doing? Will I be able to see her?’

‘If you finally decide to run classes at Aretuza,’ smiled Yennefer, ‘you’ll be able to see her very often.’

‘Ah,’ said Triss, opening her eyes widely. ‘I see. Is Ciri . . . ?’

‘Be quiet, Triss. We’ll talk about it later. Tomorrow. After the Council.’

‘Tomorrow?’ said Triss, smiling strangely. Yennefer frowned, but before she had time to ask a question, a slight commotion suddenly broke out in the hall.

‘They’re here,’ said Triss, clearing her throat. ‘They’ve finally arrived.’

‘Yes,’ confirmed Yennefer, tearing her gaze from her friend’s eyes. ‘They’re here. Geralt, at last you’ll have a chance to meet the members of the Chapter and the High Council. If the opportunity presents itself I’ll introduce you, but it won’t hurt if you know who’s who beforehand.’

The assembled sorcerers parted, bowing with respect at the personages entering the hall. The first was a middle-aged but vigorous man in extremely modest woollen clothing. At his side strode a tall, sharp-featured woman with dark, smoothly combed hair.

‘That is Gerhart of Aelle, also known as Hen Gedymdeith, the oldest living sorcerer,’ Yennefer informed Geralt in hushed tones. ‘The woman walking beside him is Tissaia de Vries. She isn’t much younger than Hen, but is not afraid of using elixirs to hide it.’

Behind the couple walked an attractive woman with very long, dark golden hair, and a grey-green dress decorated with lace, which rustled as she moved.

‘Francesca Findabair, also called Enid an Gleanna, the Daisy of the Valleys. Don’t goggle, Witcher. She is widely considered to be the most beautiful woman in the world.’

‘Is she a member of the Chapter?’ he whispered in astonishment. ‘She looks very young. Is that also thanks to magical elixirs?’

‘Not in her case. Francesca is a pure-blooded elf. Observe the man escorting her. He’s Vilgefortz of Roggeveen and he really is young. But incredibly talented.’

In the case of sorcerers, as Geralt knew, the term ‘young’ covered any age up to and including a hundred years. Vilgefortz looked thirty-five. He was tall and well-built, wore a short jerkin of a knightly cut – but without a coat of arms, naturally. He was also fiendishly handsome. It made a great impression, even considering that Francesca Findabair was flowing gracefully along at his side, with her huge, doe eyes and breathless beauty.

‘That short man walking alongside Vilgefortz is Artaud Terranova,’ explained Triss Merigold. ‘Those five constitute the Chapter—’

‘And that girl with a strange face, walking behind Vilgefortz?’

‘That’s his assistant, Lydia van Bredevoort,’ said Yennefer coldly. ‘A meaningless individual, but looking her directly in the face is considered a serious faux pas. Take note of those three men bringing up the rear; they’re all members of the Council. Fercart of Cidaris, Radcliffe of Oxenfurt and Carduin of Lan Exeter.’

‘Is that the whole Council? In its entirety? I thought there were more of them.’

‘The Chapter numbers five, and there are another five in the Council. Philippa Eilhart is another Council member.’

‘The numbers still don’t add up,’ he said, shaking his head. Triss giggled.