is far away and your bailiff means no more to me than a heap of dung. Hey, Unist! Who are you bringing here, sergeant? Another merchant?'
'No,' answered the sergeant reluctantly. 'A witcher, sir. He goes by the name Geralt of Rivia.'
To Geralt's astonishment, the knight gave a broad smile, approached and held a hand out in greeting.
'Geralt of Rivia,' he repeated, still smiling. 'I have heard about you, and not just from gossip and hearsay. What brings you here?'
Geralt explained what brought him there. The knight's smile faded.
'You have not come at a good time. Or to a good place. We are at war here, witcher. A band of Scoia'tael is doing the rounds and there was a skirmish yesterday. I am waiting here for relief forces and then we'll start a counterattack.'
'You're fighting elves?'
'Not just elves! Is it possible? Have you, a witcher, not heard of the Squirrels?'
'No. I haven't.'
'Where have you been these past two years? Beyond the seas? Here, in Kaedwen, the Scoia'tael have made sure everybody's talking about them, they've seen to it only too well. The first bands appeared just after the war with Nilgaard broke out. The cursed non-humans took advantage of our difficulties. We were fighting in the south and they began a guerrilla campaign at our rear. They counted on the Nilgaardians defeating us, started declaring it was the end of human rule and there would be a return to the old order. 'Humans to the sea!' That's their battle cry, as they murder, burn and plunder!'
'It's your own fault and your own problem,' the greeve commented glumly, tapping his thigh with the notched stick, a mark of his position. 'Yours, and all the other noblemen and knights. You're the ones who oppressed the non-humans, would not allow them their way of life, so now you pay for it. While we've always moved goods this way and no one stopped us. We didn't need an army.'
'What's true is true,' said one of the merchants who had been sitting silently on a bench. 'The Squirrels are no fiercer than the bandits who used to roam these ways. And who did the elves take in hand first? The bandits!'
What do I care if it's a bandit or an elf who runs me through with an arrow from behind some bushes?' the toll-collector with the bandaged head said suddenly. 'The thatch, if it's set on fire above my head in the night, burns just the same. What difference does it make who lit the fire-brand? You say, sir, that the Scoia'tael are no worse than the bandits? You lie. The bandits wanted loot, but the elves are after human blood. Not everyone has ducats, but we all have blood running through our veins. You say it's the nobility's problem, greeve? That's an even greater folly. What about the lumberjacks shot in the clearing, the tar-makers hacked to pieces at the Beeches, the refugee peasants from the burned down hamlets, did they hurt the non-humans? They lived and worked together, as neighbours, and suddenly they got an arrow in the back… And me? Never in my life have I harmed a non- human and look, my head is broken open by a dwarf's cutlass.
And if it were not for the soldiers you're snapping at, I would be lying beneath an ell of turf-'
'Exactly!' The knight in the yellow surcoat thumped his fist against the table once again. 'We are protecting your mangy skin, greeve, from those, as you call them, oppressed elves, who, according to you, we did not let live. But I will say something different – we have emboldened them too much. We tolerated them, treated them as humans, as equals and now they are stabbing us in the back. Nilfgaard is paying them for it, I'd stake my life, and the savage elves from the mountains are furnishing them with arms. But their real support comes from those who always lived amongst us – from the elves, half-elves, dwarves, gnomes and halfiings. They are the ones who are hiding them, feeding them, supplying them with volunteers-'
'Not all of them,' said another merchant, slim, with a delicate and noble face – in no way a typical merchant's features. 'The majority of non-humans condemn the Squirrels, sir, and want nothing to do with them. The majority of them are loyal, and sometimes pay a high price for that loyalty. Remember the burgomaster from Ban Ard. He was a half-elf who urged peace and cooperation. He was killed by an assassin's arrow.'
'Aimed, no doubt, by a neighbour, some halfling or dwarf who also feigned loyalty,' scoffed the knight. 'If you ask me, none of them are loyal! Every one of them- Hey there! Who are you?'
Geralt looked around. Ciri stood right behind him casting her huge emerald eyes over everyone. As far as the ability to move noiselessly was concerned, she had clearly made enormous progress.
'She's with me,' he explained.
'Hmmm…' The knight measured Ciri with his eyes then turned back to the merchant with the noble face, evidently considering him the most serious partner in the discussion. 'Yes, sir, do not talk to me about loyal non- humans. They are all our enemies, it's just that some are better than others at pretending otherwise. Halfiings, dwarves and gnomes have lived amongst us for centuries – in some sort of harmony, it would seem. But it sufficed for the elves to lift their heads, and all the others grabbed their weapons and took to
the woods too. I tell you, it was a mistake to tolerate the free elves and dryads, with their forests and their mountain enclaves. It wasn't enough for them, and now they're yelling: 'It's our world! Begone, strangers!'. By the gods, we'll show them who will be gone, and of which race even the slightest traces will be wiped away. We beat the hides off the Nilfgaardians and now we will do something about these rogue bands.'
'It's not easy to catch an elfin the woods,' said the witcher. 'Nor would I go after a gnome or dwarf in the mountains. How large are these units?'
'Bands,' corrected the knight. 'They're bands, witcher. They can count up to a hundred heads, sometimes more. They call each pack a 'commando'. It's a word borrowed from the gnomes. And in saying they are hard to catch you speak truly. Evidently you are a professional. Chasing them through the woods and thickets is senseless. The only way is to cut them off from their supplies, isolate them, starve them out. Seize the non-humans who are helping them firmly by the scruff of their necks. Those from the towns and settlements, villages and farms-'
'The problem is,' said the merchant with noble features, 'that we still don't know which of the non-humans are helping them and which aren't.'
'Then we have to seize them all!'
'Ah.' The merchant smiled. 'I understand. I've heard that somewhere before. Take everyone by the scruff of their neck and throw them down the mines, into enclosed camps, into quarries. Everyone. The innocent, too. Women and children. Is that right?'
The knight raised his head and slammed his hand down on his sword hilt.
'Just so, and no other way!' he said sharply. 'You pity the children yet you're like a child yourself in this world, dear sir. A truce with Nilfgaard is a very fragile thing, like an egg-shell. If not today then the war might start anew tomorrow, and anything can happen in war. If they defeated us, what do you think would happen? I'll tell you what – elven commandos would emerge from the forests, they'd emerge strong and numerous and these 'loyal
elements' would instantly join them. Those loyal dwarves of yours, your friendly halflings, do you think they are going to talk of peace, of reconciliation then? No, sir. They'll be tearing our guts out. Nilfgaard is going to deal with us through their hands. And they'll drown us in the sea, just as they promise. No, sir, we must not pussyfoot around them. It's either them or us. There's no third way!'
The door of the hut squeaked and a soldier in a bloodied apron stood in the doorway.
'Forgive me for disturbing you,' he hawked. 'Which of you, noble sirs, be the one who brought this sick woman here?'
'I did,' said the witcher. 'What's happened?'
'Come with me, please.'
They went out into the courtyard.
'It bodes not well with her, sir,' said the soldier, indicating Triss. 'Firewater with pepper and saltpetre I gave her – but it be no good. I don't really…'
Geralt made no comment because there was nothing to say. The magician, doubled over, was clear evidence of the fact that firewater with pepper and saltpetre was not something her stomach could tolerate.
'It could be some plague.' The soldier frowned. 'Or that, what's it called… Zintery. If it were to spread to our men-'
'She is a wizard,' protested the witcher. Wizards don't fall sick…'
'Just so,' the knight who had followed them out threw in cynically. 'Yours, as I see, is just emanating good health. Geralt, listen to me. The woman needs help and we cannot offer such. Nor can I risk an epidemic amongst my troops. You understand.'
'I understand. I will leave immediately. I have no choice I have to turn back towards Daevon or Ard
