'You do not understand.' The soldier nodded, lowering his hand towards the hilt of his sword. 'So I shall tell you, sir. Human trafficking is forbidden and there is no lack of scoundrels selling slaves to the Nilfgaardians. If I find humans in stocks in your wagons, you will not convince me that you are in the king's service. Even if you were to show me a dozen rings.'
'Fine,' said Wenck dryly. 'If it is slaves you are looking for then look. You have my permission.'
The soldier cantered to the wagon in the middle, leaned over from the saddle and raised the canvas.
'What's in those barrels?'
'What do you expect? Prisoners?' sneered Yannick Brass, sprawled in the coachman's box.
'I am asking you what's in them, so answer me!'
'Salt fish.'
'And in those trunks there?' The warrior rode up to the next wagon and kicked the side.
'Hooves,' snapped Paulie Dahlberg. 'And there, in the back, are buffalo skins.'
'So I see.' The lance-corporal waved his hand, smacked his lips at his horse, rode up to the vanguard and peered into Yarpen's wagon.
'And who is that woman lying there?'
Triss Merigold smiled weakly, raised herself to her elbow and traced a short, complicated sign with her hand.
'Who am I?' she asked in a quiet voice. 'But you can't see me at all.'
The soldier winked nervously, shuddered slightly.
'Salt fish,' he said, convinced, lowering the canvas. 'All is in order. And this child?'
'Dried mushrooms,' said Ciri looking at him impudently. The soldier fell silent, frozen with his mouth open.
'What's that?' he asked after a while, frowning. 'What?'
'Have you concluded your inspection, warrior?' Wenck showed cool interest as he rode up on the other side of the cart. The soldier could barely look away from Ciri's green eyes.
'I have concluded it. Drive on, and may the gods guide you. But be on your guard. Two days ago, the Scoia'tael wiped out an entire mounted patrol up by Badger Ravine. It was a strong, large command. It's true that Badger Ravine is far from here but elves travel through the forest faster than the wind. We were ordered to round them up, but how do you catch an elf? It's like trying to catch the wind-'
'Good, enough, we're not interested,' the commissar interrupted him brusquely. 'Time presses and we still have a long journey ahead of us.'
'Fare you well then. Hey, follow me!'
'You heard, Geralt?' snarled Yarpen Zigrin, watching the patrol ride away. 'There are bloody Squirrels in the vicinity. I felt it. I've got this tingling feeling in my back all the time as if some archer was already aiming at me. No, damn it, we can't travel blindly as we've been doing until now, whistling away, dozing and sleepily farting. We have to know what lies ahead of us. Listen, I've an idea.'
Ciri pulled her chestnut up sharply, and then launched into a gallop, leaning low in the saddle. Geralt, engrossed in conversation with Wenck, suddenly sat up straight.
'Don't run wild!' he called. 'No madness, girl! Do you want to break your neck? And don't go too far-'
She heard no more – she had torn ahead too fiercely. She had done it on purpose, not wanting to listen to the daily cautions. Not too quickly, not too fiercely, Ciri! Pah-pah. Don't go too far! Pah-pah-pah. Be careful! Pah-pah! Exactly as if I were a child, she thought. And I'm almost thirteen and have a swift chestnut beneath me and a sharp sword across my back. And I'm not afraid of anything!
And it's spring!
'Hey, careful, you'll burn your backside!'
Yarpen Zigrin. Another know-it-all. Pah-pah!
Further, further, at a gallop, along the bumpy path, through the green, green grasses and bushes, through the silver puddles, through the damp golden sand, through the feathery ferns. A frightened fallow deer disappeared into the woods, flashing the black and white lantern of its tail and rump as it skipped away. Birds soared up from the trees – colourful jays and bee-eaters, screaming black magpies with their funny tails. Water splashed beneath her horse's hooves in the puddles and the clefts.
Further, even further! The horse, which had been trudging sluggishly behind the wagon for too long, carried her joyously and briskly; happy to be allowed speed, it ran fluidly, muscles playing between her thighs, damp mane thrashing her face. The horse extended its neck as Ciri gave it free rein. Further, dear horse, don't feel the bit, further, at the gallop, at the gallop, sharp, sharp! Spring!
She slowed and glanced back. There, alone at last. Far away at last. No one was going to tell her off any more, remind her of something, demand her attention, threaten that this would be the end of such rides. Alone at last, free, at ease and independent.
Slower. A light trot. After all, this wasn't just a fun ride, she also had responsibilities. Ciri was, after all, a mounted foray now, a patrol, an advance guard. Ha, she thought, looking around, the safety of the entire convoy depends on me now. They're all waiting impatiently for me to return and report: the way is clear and passable, I didn't see anyone – there are no traces of wheels or hooves. I'll report it, and thin Master Wenck with his cold, blue eyes will nod his head gravely, Yarpen Zigrin will bare his yellow, horse teeth, Paulie Dahlberg will shout: 'Well done, little one!', and Geralt will smile faintly. He'll smile, although he very rarely smiles recently.
Ciri looked around and took a mental note. Two felled birches -no problem. A heap of branches – nothing the wagons couldn't pass. A cleft washed out by the rain – a small obstacle, the wheels of the first wagon will run over it, the others will follow in the ruts. A huge clearing – a good place for a rest…
Traces? What traces can there be here? There's no one here. There's the forest. There are birds screeching amidst fresh, green leaves. A red fox runs leisurely across the path… And everything smells of spring.
The track broke off halfway up the hill, disappeared in the sandy ravine, wound through the crooked pines which clung to the slopes. Ciri abandoned the path and, wanting to scrutinise the area from a height, climbed the steep slope. And so she could touch the wet, sweet-smelling leaves…
She dismounted, threw the reins over a snag in a tree and slowly strolled among the junipers which covered the hill. On the other side of the hill was an open space, gaping in the thick of the forest like a hole bitten out of the trees – left, no doubt, after a fire which had raged here a very long time ago, for there was no sign of blackened or charred remains, everywhere was green with low birches and little fir trees. The trail, as far as the eye could see, seemed clear and passable.
And safe.
What are they afraid of? she thought. The Scoia'tael? But what was there to be afraid of? I'm not frightened of elves. I haven't done anything to them.
Elves. The Squirrels. Scoia'tael.
Before Geralt had ordered her to leave, Ciri had managed to take a look at the corpses in the fort. She remembered one in particular – his face covered by hair stuck together with darkened blood, his neck unnaturally twisted and bent. Pulled back in a ghastly, set grimace, his upper lip revealed teeth, very white and very tiny, non-human. She remembered the elf's boots, ruined and reaching up to the knees, laced at the bottom and fastened at the top with many wrought buckles.
Elves who kill humans and die in battles themselves. Geralt says you have to remain neutral… And Yarpen says you have to behave in such a way that you don't have to ask for forgiveness…
She kicked a molehill and, lost in thought, dug her heel into the sand.
Who and whom, whom and what should one forgive?
The Squirrels kill humans. And Nilfgaard pays them for it. Uses them. Incites them. Nilfgaard.
Ciri had not forgotten – although she very much wanted to forget – what had happened in Cintra. The wandering, the despair, the fear, the hunger and the pain. The apathy and torpor, which came later, much later when the druids from Transriver had found her and taken her in. She remembered it all as though through a mist, and she wanted to stop remembering it.
But it came back. Came back in her thoughts, into her dreams. Cintra. The thundering of horses and the savage cries, corpses, flames… And the black knight in his winged helmet… And later… Cottages in Transriver… A flame-blackened chimney amongst charred ruins… Next to it, by an unscathed well, a black cat licking a terrible burn on its side. A well… A sweep… A bucket…
