'What's happening with Triss? How is she?'
'Better,' moaned the magician. 'Better, but… Listen, Geralt… I'd like to
'Yes?' The witcher leaned over but Triss was already asleep. He straightened himself, stretched.
'Geralt,' whispered Ciri, 'are they going to let us travel on the wagon?'
'We'll see.' He bit his lip. 'Sleep while you can. Rest.'
He jumped down off the wagon. Ciri heard the sound of the camp packing up – horses stamping, harnesses ringing, poles squeaking, swingle-trees grating, and talking and cursing. And then, nearby, Yarpen Zigrin's hoarse voice and the calm voice of the tall man called Wenck. And the cold voice of Geralt. She raised herself and carefully peered out from behind the canvas.
'I have no categorical interdictions on this matter,' declared Wenck.
'Excellent.' The dwarf brightened. 'So the matter's settled?'
The commissar raised his hand a little, indicating that he had not yet finished. He was silent for a while, and Geralt and Yarpin waited patiently.
'Nevertheless,' Wenck said finally, 'when it comes to the safe arrival of this caravan, it's my head on the line.'
Again he said nothing. This time no one interrupted. There was no question about it – one had to get used to long intervals between sentences when speaking to the commissar.
'For its safe arrival,' he continued after a moment. 'And for its timely arrival. Caring for this sick woman might slow down the march.'
'We're ahead of schedule on the route,' Yarpen assured him, after a significant pause. We're ahead of time, Wenck, sir, we won't miss the deadline. And as for safety… I don't think the witcher's company will harm that. The Trail leads through the woods right up to the Lixela, and to the right and left there's a wild forest. And rumour has it all sorts of evil creatures roam the forest.'
'Indeed,' the commissar agreed. Looking the witcher straight in the eye, he seemed to be weighing out every single word. 'One can come across certain evil creatures in Kaedwen forests, lately incited by other evil creatures. They could jeopardise our safety. King
Henselt, knowing this, empowered me to recruit volunteers to join our armed escort. Geralt? That would solve your problem.'
The witcher's silence lasted a long while, longer than Wenck's entire speech, interspersed though it had been with regular pauses.
'No,' he said finally. 'No, Wenck. Let us put this clearly. I am prepared to repay the help given Lady Merigold, but not in this manner. I can groom the horses, carry water and firewood, even cook. But I will not enter the king's service as a soldier. Please don't count on my sword. I have no intention of killing those, as you call them, evil creatures on the order of other creatures whom I do not consider to be any better.'
Ciri heard Yarpen Zigrin hiss loudly and cough into his rolled-up sleeve. Wenck stared at the witcher calmly.
'I see,' he stated dryly. 'I like clear situations. All right then. Zigrin, see to it that the speed of our progress does not slow. As for you, Geralt… I know you will prove to be useful and helpful in a way you deem fit. It would be an affront to both of us if I were to treat your good stead as payment for aid offered to a suffering woman. Is she feeling better today?'
The witcher gave a nod which seemed, to Ciri, to be somewhat deeper and politer than usual. Wenck's expression did not change.
'That pleases me,' he said after a normal pause. 'In taking Lady Merigold aboard a wagon in my convoy I take on the responsibility lor her health, comfort and safety. Zigrin, give the command to march out.'
'Wenck.'
'Yes, Geralt?'
'Thank you.'
The commissar bowed his head, a bit more deeply and politely, it seemed to Ciri, than the usual, perfunctory politeness required.
Yarpen Zigrin ran the length of the column, giving orders and instructions loudly, after which he clambered onto the coachman's box, shouted and whipped the horses with the reins. The wagon jolted and rattled along the forest trail. The bump woke Triss up but Ciri reassured her and changed the compress on her forehead.
The rattling had a soporific effect and the magician was soon asleep; Ciri, too, fell to dozing.
When she woke the sun was already high. She peered out between the barrels and packages. The wagon she was in was at the vanguard of the convoy. The one following them was being driven by a dwarf with a red kerchief tied around his neck. From conversations between the dwarves, she had gathered that his name was Paulie Dahlberg. Next to him sat his brother Regan. She also saw Wenck riding a horse, in the company of two bailiffs.
Roach, Geralt's mare, tethered to the wagon, greeted her with a quiet neigh. She couldn't see her chestnut anywhere or Triss's dun. No doubt they were at the rear, with the convoy's spare horses.
Geralt was sitting on the coachman's box next to Yarpen. They were talking quietly, drinking beer from a barrel perched between them. Ciri pricked up her ears but soon grew bored – the discussion concerned politics and was mainly about King Henselt's intentions and plans, and some special service or missions to do with secretly aiding his neighbour, King Demawend of Aedirn, who was being threatened by war. Geralt expressed interest about how five wagons of salted fish could help Aedirn's defence. Yarpen, ignoring the gibe in Geralt's voice, explained that some species of fish were so valuable that a few wagon-loads would suffice to pay an armoured company for a year, and each new armoured company was a considerable help. Geralt was surprised that the aid had to be quite so secretive, to which the dwarf replied that was why the secret was a secret.
Triss tossed in her sleep, shook the compress off and talked indistinctly to herself. She demanded that someone called Kevyn kept his hands to himself, and immediately after that declared that destiny cannot be avoided. Finally, having stated that everyone, absolutely everyone, is a mutant to a certain degree, she fell into a peaceful sleep.
Ciri also felt sleepy but was brought to her senses by Yarpen's chuckle, as he reminded Geralt of their past adventures. This one concerned a hunt for a golden dragon who instead of allowing itself to be hunted down had counted the hunters' bones and then eaten
a cobbler called Goatmuncher. Ciri began to listen with greater interest.
Geralt asked about what had happened to the Slashers but Yarpen didn't know. Yarpen, in turn, was curious about a woman called Yennefer, at which Geralt grew oddly uncommunicative. The dwarf drank more beer and started to complain that Yennefer still bore him a grudge although a good few years had gone by since those days.
'I came across her at the market in Gors Velen,' he recounted. 'She barely noticed me – she spat like a she- cat and insulted my deceased mother horribly. I fled for all I was worth, but she shouted after me that she'd catch up with me one day and make grass grow out of my arse.'
Ciri giggled, imagining Yarpen with the grass. Geralt grunted something about women and their impulsive natures – which the dwarf considered far too mild a description for maliciousness, obstinacy and vindictiveness. Geralt did not take up the subject and Ciri fell into dozing once more.
This time she was woken by raised voices. Yarpen's voice to be exact – he was yelling.
'Oh yes! So you know! That's what I've decided!'
'Quieter,' said the witcher calmly. 'There's a sick woman in the wagon. Understand, I'm not criticising your decisions or your resolutions…'
'No, of course not,' the dwarf interrupted sarcastically. 'You're just smiling knowingly about them.'
'Yarpen I'm warning you, as one friend to another: both sides despise those who sit on the fence, or at best they treat them with suspicion.'
'I'm not sitting. I'm unambiguously declaring myself to be on one side.'
'But you'll always remain a dwarf for that side. Someone who's different. An outsider. While for the other side…'
He broke off.
'Well!' growled Yarpen turning away. 'Well, go on, what are you waiting for? Call me a traitor and a dog on a human leash
