Authors: Andrzej Sapkowski
Ciri had suddenly had enough of inaction. She nimbly tore herself free from the Trapper holding her, set off at a run, caught hold of the Blue Knight’s grey, and with one leap was in the saddle with the high pommel.
She might have managed her escape had not the servants from Sarda been mounted and on fresh horses. They caught up with her without difficulty and snatched the reins from her. She jumped off and sprinted towards the forest, but the horsemen caught her once again. One of them seized her by the hair in full flight, then pulled and dragged her behind him. Ciri screamed, hanging from his arm. The horseman threw her down at Skomlik’s feet. The knout swished, and Ciri howled and curled up in a ball, protecting her head with her hands. The whip swished again, cutting into the backs of her hands. She rolled away, but Skomlik jumped after her, kicked her, and then pinned her down with his boot.
‘Trying to escape, you viper?’
The knout swished. Ciri howled. Skomlik kicked her again and lashed her with the knout.
‘Stop hitting me!’ she screamed, cowering.
‘So you can talk, bitch! Cat let go of your tongue? I’ll teach you—’
‘Control yourself, Skomlik!’ shouted one of the Trappers. ‘Do you want to beat the life out of her or what? She’s worth too much to waste!’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Remiz, dismounting. ‘Is she the one Nilfgaard’s spent a week searching for?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Ha! All the garrisons are hunting for her. She’s some kind of important personage to Nilfgaard. They say a mighty sorceror divined that she must be somewhere in the area. That’s what they were saying in Sarda, at least. Where did you find her?’
‘In the Frying Pan.’
‘That’s not possible!’
‘It is, it is,’ said Skomlik angrily, frowning. ‘We’ve got her and the reward’s ours. Why are you standing around like statues? Bind the little bird and get her up in the saddle! Let’s scram, boys! Look lively!’
‘I think the Honourable Sweers,’ said one of the Trappers, ‘is still breathing . . .’
‘But not for long. Curse him! We’re riding straight to Amarillo, boys. To the prefect. We’ll deliver the wench to him and pick up the bounty.’
‘To Amarillo?’ Remiz scratched the back of his head, and looked at the scene of the recent fight. ‘And right into the hangman’s hands? What will you tell the prefect? That the knights battered each other to death and you’re all in one piece? When the whole story comes out the prefect will have you hanged, and send us back to Sarda under guard . . . And then the Varnhagens will take the bounty. You might want to head for Amarillo, but I’d rather disappear into the forest . . .’
‘You’re my brother-in-law, Remiz,’ said Skomlik. ‘And even though you’re a son of a bitch for beating my sister you’re still a mate. So I’ll save your skin. We’re going to Amarillo, I said. The prefect knows there’s a feud between the Sweers and the Varnhagens. They met and did each other in. That’s normal for them. What could we have done? And we – heed my words – found the wench afterwards. We did, the Trappers. You’re a Trapper now, too, Remiz. The prefect hasn’t got a bloody clue how many of us set off with Sweers. He won’t count us up . . .’
‘Haven’t you forgotten something, Skomlik?’ asked Remiz in a slow drawl, looking at the other servant from Sarda.
Skomlik turned around slowly, then as quick as a flash pulled out a knife and thrust it hard into the servant’s throat. The servant rasped and then collapsed on the ground.
‘I don’t forget about anything,’ said the Trapper coldly. ‘We’re all in it together. There are no witnesses, and not too many heads to divide the bounty amongst either. To horse, boys, and on to Amarillo! There’s a fair distance between us and the bounty, so let’s not hang around!’
After leaving a dark, wet, beech forest, they saw a village at the foot of the mountain: a dozen or so thatched cottages inside the ring of a low stockade enclosing a bend in a small river.
The wind carried the scent of smoke. Ciri wiggled her numb fingers, which were fastened by a leather strap to the pommel. She was numb all over; her buttocks ached unbearably and she was being tormented by a full bladder. She’d been in the saddle since daybreak. She had not rested during the night, since she had been forced to sleep with her hands fastened to the wrists of two Trappers lying on either side of her. Each time she moved, the Trappers reacted with curses and threats to beat her.
‘It’s a village,’ said one of them.
‘I can see that,’ responded Skomlik.
They rode down the slope, their horses’ hooves crunching through the tall, dry grass. They soon found themselves on a bumpy track leading straight to the village, towards a wooden bridge and a gate in the stockade.
Skomlik reined back his horse and stood up in his stirrups.
‘What village is this? I’ve never stopped here. Remiz, do you know these parts?’
‘Years ago,’ said Remiz, ‘this village was called White River. But when the unrest began, some locals joined the rebels. Then the Varnhagens of Sarda put it to the torch, murdered the villagers or took them prisoner. Now only Nilfgaardian settlers live here, all newcomers. And the village has been renamed Glyswen. These settlers are fierce, nasty people. I’m telling you, let’s not dally. We should ride on.’
‘We have to let the horses rest,’ protested one of the Trappers, ‘and feed them. And my belly’s rumbling like I’ve swallowed a brass band. Why worry about the settlers? They’re just rabble. Scum. We’ll wave the prefect’s order in front of their noses. I mean, the prefect’s a Nilfgaardian like them. You watch, they’ll bow down before us.’
‘I can just see that,’ growled Skomlik. ‘Has anyone seen a Nilfgaardian bow? Remiz, is there an inn in this ’ere Glyswen?’
‘Yes. The Varnhagens didn’t burn it down.’
Skomlik turned around in the saddle and looked at Ciri.
‘We’ll have to untie her,’ he said. ‘We can’t risk anyone recognising her . . . Give her a mantle. And a hood for her head . . . Hey there! Where you going, you slummock?’
‘I have to go into the bushes—’
‘I’ll give you bushes, you slut! Squat by the track! And mark: don’t breathe a word in the village. Don’t start getting clever! One squeak and I’ll slit your throat. If I don’t get any florins for you, no one’s getting any.’
They approached at a walk, the horses’ hooves thudding on the bridge. Right away, some settlers armed with lances emerged from behind the stockade.
‘They’re guarding the gate,’ muttered Remiz. ‘I wonder why.’
‘Me too,’ Skomlik muttered back, raising himself in his stirrups. ‘They’re guarding the gate, and the stockade’s down by the mill. You could drive a wagon through there . . .’
They rode closer and reined in their horses.
‘Greetings, gentlemen!’ called out Skomlik jovially, but somewhat unnaturally. ‘Good day to you.’
‘Who are you?’ asked the tallest of the settlers brusquely.
‘We, mate, are the army,’ lied Skomlik, leaning back in the saddle. ‘In the service of His Lordlyship, the prefect of Amarillo.’
The settler slid his hand down the shaft of his lance and scowled at Skomlik. He clearly couldn’t recall when he and the Trapper had become mates.
‘His Lordship the prefect sent us here,’ Skomlik continued to lie, ‘to learn how his countrymen, the good people of Glyswen, are faring. His Lordlyship sends his greetings and enquires if the people of Glyswen need any kind of help.’
‘We’re getting by,’ said the settler. Ciri noticed he spoke the Common Speech in a similar way to the Winged Knight, with the same accent, as though he was trying to imitate Skomlik’s lazy speech pattern. ‘We’ve got used to looking after ourselves.’
‘The prefect will be pleased to hear it. Is the inn open? We’re parched . . .’
‘It’s open,’ said the settler grimly. ‘For the moment.’
‘For the moment?’
‘For the moment. For we’ll soon be pulling it down. The rafters and planks will serve us for a granary. The inn’s no use to anyone. We toil in the fields and don’t visit the inn. The inn only serves travellers, mostly of a sort that aren’t to our liking. Some of that kind are drinking there now.’
‘Who’s that?’ asked Remiz, blanching somewhat. ‘Not from the stronghold in Sarda, by any chance? Not the Honourable Varnhagens?’
The settler grimaced and moved his lips around, as though intending to spit.
‘Unfortunately not. They’re the Lords Barons’ militiamen. The Nissirs.’
‘The Nissirs?’ frowned Skomlik. ‘Where did they come from? Under whose command?’
‘Their commander is tall and black-haired, with whiskers like a catfish.’
‘Eh!’ Skomlik turned to his companions. ‘We’re in luck. We only know one like that, don’t we? It’s sure to be our old comrade “Trust Me” Vercta. Remember him? And what are the Nissirs doing here, mate?’
‘The Lords Nissir,’ explained the settler grimly, ‘are bound for Tyffi. They honoured us with a visit. They’re moving a prisoner. They’ve caught one of those of Rats.’
‘Of course they have,’ snorted Remiz. ‘And why not the Nilfgaardian emperor?’
The settler frowned and tightened his grip on the shaft of his lance. His companions murmured softly.
‘Go to the inn, sirs,’ said the settler, the muscles in his jaw working, ‘and talk to the Lords Nissir, your comrades. You claim to be in the prefect’s service, so ask the Lords Nissirs why they’re taking the criminal to Tyffi, rather than impaling him on a stake right here, right now, as the prefect ordered. And remind the Lords Nissirs, your comrades, that the prefect is in command here, not the Baron of Tyffi. We already have the oxen yoked up and the stake sharpened. If the Lords Nissirs don’t want to, we’ll do the necessary. Tell them that.’
‘I’ll tell them. Rely on me,’ said Skomlik, winking meaningfully at his comrades. ‘Farewell, gentlemen.’
They set off at a walk between the cottages. The village appeared deserted; there was not a soul around. An emaciated pig was rooting around by one of the fences and some dirty ducks were splashing around in the mud. A large black tomcat crossed the riders’ path.
‘Ugh, ugh, bloody cat,’ said Remiz, leaning over, spitting and making a sign with his fingers to protect himself from black magic. ‘He ran across our path, the son of a bitch!’
‘I hope he chokes on a mouse!’
‘What was it?’ said Skomlik, turning back.
‘A cat. As black as pitch. He crossed our path, ugh, ugh.’
‘To hell with him,’ said Skomlik, looking all around. ‘Just look how empty it is. But I saw the people in their cottages, watching. And I saw a lance blade glint in that doorway.’
‘They’re guarding their womenfolk,’ laughed the man who had wished ill on the cat. ‘The Nissirs are in the village! Did you hear what that yokel was saying? It’s obvious they don’t like them.’
‘And no wonder. Trust Me and his company never pass up a chance. They’ll get what’s coming to them one day, those Lords Nissirs. The barons call them “keepers of the peace”, and that’s what they’re paid to do. To keep order and guard the roads. But try whispering “Nissir” near a peasant’s ear, and you’ll see. He’ll shit his pants in fear. But they’ll get their comeuppance. They’ll slaughter one too many calf, rape one too many wench, and the peasants will tear them apart with their pitchforks. You’ll see. Did you notice their fierce expressions by those gates? They’re Nilfgaardian settlers. You don’t want to mess with them . . . Ah, and here’s the inn . . .’
They urged the horses on.
The inn had a slightly sunken, very mossy thatched roof. It stood some distance from the cottages and farm buildings, although it marked the central point of the entire area encircled by the dilapidated stockade; the place where the two roads passing through the village crossed. In the shadow cast by the only large tree in the vicinity were two enclosures; one for cattle and the other for horses. In the latter stood five or six unsaddled horses. On the steps leading up to the door sat two individuals in leather jerkins and pointed fur hats. They were both nursing earthenware mugs, and between them stood a bowl full of bones picked clean of meat.
‘Who are you?’ yelled one of them at the sight of Skomlik and his company dismounting. ‘What do you want? Be off with you! This inn is occupied by the forces of law and order!’
‘Don’t holler, Nissir, don’t holler,’ said Skomlik, pulling Ciri down from the saddle. ‘And get that door open, because we want to go inside. Your commander, Vercta, is a friend of ours.’
‘I don’t know you!’
‘Because you’re naught but a stripling. Me and Trust Me served together years ago, before Nilfgaard came into power here.’
‘Well, if you say so . . .’ The fellow hesitated, letting go of his sword hilt. ‘You’d better come inside. It’s all the same to me . . .’
Skomlik shoved Ciri and another Trapper grabbed her by the collar. They went inside.
It was gloomy and stuffy, and smelled of smoke and baking. The inn was almost empty – only one of the tables was occupied, standing in a stream of light coming through a small window with some kind of animal skin stretched across it. A small group of men were sitting at the table. The innkeeper was bustling around in the background by the fireplace, clinking beer mugs.
‘Good cheer to you, Nissirs!’ boomed Skomlik.
‘We don’t shake hands with any old brigands,’ growled a member of the company sitting by the window, who then spat on the floor. Another stopped him with a gesture.
‘Take it easy,’ he said. ‘They’re mates, don’t you recognise them? That’s Skomlik and his Trappers. Welcome, welcome!’
Skomlik brightened up and walked towards the table, but stopped on seeing his companions staring at the wooden post holding up the roof timbers. At its base, on a stool, sat a slim, fair-haired youth, strangely erect and stiff. Ciri saw that his unnatural position derived from the fact that his hands were twisted behind him and tied together, and his neck was attached to the post by a leather strap.
‘May the pox seize me,’ loudly sighed one of the Trappers, the one holding Ciri by the collar, ‘Just look, Skomlik. It’s Kayleigh!’
‘Kayleigh?’ Skomlik tilted his head. ‘Kayleigh the Rat? Can’t be!’
One of the Nissirs sitting at the table, a fat man with hair shorn in an exotic topknot, gave a throaty laugh.