Carraigh.'
'You won't get far. The patrols have orders to stop everyone. Besides, it is dangerous. The Scoia'tael have gone in exactly that direction.'
'I'll manage.'
'From what I've heard about you' – the knight's lips twisted -
'I have no doubt you would. But bear in mind you are not alone. You have a gravely sick woman on your shoulders and this brat…'
Ciri, who was trying to clean her dung-smeared boot on a ladder rung, raised her head. The knight cleared his throat and looked down. Geralt smiled faintly. Over the last two years Ciri had almost forgotten her origins and had almost entirely lost her royal manners and airs, but her glare, when she wanted, was very much like that of her grandmother. So much so that Queen Calanthe would no doubt have been very proud of her granddaughter.
'Yeeessss, what was I…' the knight stammered, tugging at his belt with embarrassment. 'Geralt, sir, I know what you need to do. Cross beyond the river, south. You will catch up with a caravan which is following the trail. Night is just around the corner and the caravan is certain to stop for a rest. You will reach it by dawn.'
'What kind of caravan?'
'I don't know.' The knight shrugged. 'But it is not a merchant or an ordinary convoy. It's too orderly, the wagons are all the same, all covered… A royal bailiff's, no doubt. I allowed them to cross the bridge because they are following the Trail south, probably towards the fords on the Lixela.'
'Hmmm…' The witcher considered this, looking at Triss. 'That would be on my way. But will I find help there?'
'Maybe yes,' the knight said coldly. 'Maybe no. But you won't find it here, that's for sure.'
They did not hear or see him as he approached, engrossed as they were in conversation, sitting around a campfire which, with its yellow light, cadaverously illuminated the canvas of the wagons arranged in a circle. Geralt gently pulled up his mare and forced her to neigh loudly. He wanted to warn the caravan, which had set up camp for the night, wanted to temper the surprise of having visitors and avoid a nervous reaction. He knew from experience that the release mechanisms on crossbows did not like nervous moves.
The campers leaped up and, despite his warning, performed
numerous agitated movements. Most of them, he saw at once, were dwarves. This reassured him somewhat – dwarves, although extremely irascible, usually asked questions first in situations such as these and only then aimed their crossbows.
'Who's that?' shouted one of the dwarves hoarsely and with a swift, energetic move, prised an axe from a stump by the campfire. 'Who goes there?'
'A friend.' The witcher dismounted.
'I wonder whose,' growled the dwarf. 'Come closer. Hold your hands out so we can see them.'
Geralt approached, holding his hands out so they could be seen even by someone afflicted with conjunctivitis or night blindness.
'Closer.'
He obeyed. The dwarf lowered his axe and tilted his head a little.
'Either my eyes deceive me,' he said, 'or it's the witcher Geralt of Rivia. Or someone who looks damn like him.'
The fire suddenly shot up into flames, bursting into a golden brightness which drew faces and figures from the dark.
'Yarpen Zigrin,' declared Geralt, astonished. 'None other than Yarpen Zigrin in person, complete with beard!'
'Ha!' The dwarf waved his axe as if it were an osier twig. The blade whirred in the air and cut into a stump with a dull thud. 'Call the alarm off! This truly is a friend!'
The rest of the gathering visibly relaxed and Geralt thought he heard deep sighs of relief. The dwarf walked up to him, holding out his hand. His grip could easily rival a pair of iron pincers.
Welcome, you warlock,' he said. 'Wherever you've come from and wherever you're going, welcome. Boys! Over here! You remember my boys, witcher? This is Yannick Brass, this one's Xavier Moran and here's Paulie Dahlberg and his brother Regan.'
Geralt didn't remember any of them, and besides they all looked alike, bearded, stocky, practically square in their thick quilted jerkins.
'There were six of you,' one by one he squeezed the hard, gnarled hands offered him, 'if I remember correctly.'
'You've a good memory,' laughed Yarpen Zigrin. 'There were six of us, indeed. But Lucas Corto got married, settled down in Mahakam and dropped out of the company, the stupid oaf. Somehow we haven't managed to find anybody worthy of his place yet. Pity, six is just right, not too many, not too few. To eat a calf, knock back a barrel, there's nothing like six-'
'As I see,' with a nod Geralt indicated the rest of the group standing undecided by the wagons, 'there are enough of you here to manage three calves, not to mention a quantity of poultry. What's this gang of fellows you're commanding, Yarpen?'
'I'm not the one in command. Allow me to introduce you. Forgive me, Wenck, for not doing so straight away but me and my boys have known Geralt of Rivia for a long time – we've a fair number of shared memories behind us. Geralt, this is Commissar Vilfrid Wenck, in the service of King Henselt of Ard Carraigh, the merciful ruler of Kaedwen.'
Vilfrid Wenck was tall, taller than Geralt and near twice the dwarf's height. He wore an ordinary, simple outfit like that worn by greeves, bailiffs or mounted messengers, but there was a sharpness in his movements, a stiffness and sureness which the witcher knew and could faultlessly recognise, even at night, even in the meagre light of the campfire. That was how men accustomed to wearing hauberks and belts weighed down with weapons moved. Wenck was a professional soldier. Geralt was prepared to wager any sum on it. He shook the proffered hand and gave a little bow.
'Let's sit down.' Yarpen indicated the stump where his mighty axe was still embedded. 'Tell us what you're doing in this neighbourhood, Geralt.'
'Looking for help. I'm journeying in a threesome with a woman and youngster. The woman is sick. Seriously sick. I caught up with you to ask for help.'
'Damn it, we don't have a medic here.' The dwarf spat at the naming logs. 'Where have you left them?'
'Half a furlong from here, by the roadside.'
'You lead the way. Hey, you there! Three to the horses, saddle
the spare mounts! Geralt, will your sick woman hold up in the saddle?'
'Not really. That's why I had to leave her there.'
'Get the sheepskin, canvas sheet and two poles from the wagon! Quick!'
Vilfrid Wenck, crossing his arms, hawked loudly.
'We're on the trail,' Yarpen Zigrin said sharply, without looking at him. 'You don't refuse help on the Trail.'
'Damn it.' Yarpen removed his palm from Triss's forehead. 'She's as hot as a furnace. I don't like it. What if it's typhoid or dysentery?'
'It can't be typhoid or dysentery,' Geralt lied with conviction, wrapping the horse blankets around the sick woman. 'Wizards are immune to those diseases. It's food poisoning, nothing contagious.'
'Hmm… Well, all right. I'll rummage through the bags. I used to have some good medicine for the runs, maybe there's still a little left.'
'Ciri,' muttered the witcher, passing her a sheepskin unstrapped from the horse, 'go to sleep, you're barely on your feet. No, not in the wagon. We'll put Triss in the wagon. You lie down next to the fire.'
No,' she protested quietly, watching the dwarf walk away. Tm going to lie down next to her. When they see you keeping me away from her, they won't believe you. They'll think it's contagious and chase us away, like the soldiers in the fort.'
'Geralt?' the enchantress moaned suddenly. 'Where… are we?'
'Amongst friends.'
Tm here,' said Ciri, stroking her chestnut hair. Tm at your side. Don't be afraid. You feel how warm it is here?
