She stopped short, tried to pull away, but Yennefer's hand was strong and unyielding and unrelentingly dragged her forward. And Ciri finally understood that she had been betrayed, deceived, sold out. That, ever since the first meeting, from the very beginning, from the first day, she had been no more than a marionette, a puppet on a string. She tugged harder, tore herself away from that grip. The darkness undulated like smoke and the whispering in the dark, all of a sudden, died away. The magician took a step forward, stopped, turned round and looked at her.
If you're afraid, turn back.
That door mustn't be opened. You know that.
I do.
But you're still leading me there.
If you're afraid, turn back. You still have time to turn back. It's not too late.
And you?
For me, it is.
Ciri looked around. Despite the omnipresent darkness she saw the door which they had passed through – and a long, distant vista. And there, from a distance, from the darkness, she heard.. The clatter of hooves. The grating of black armour. And the flutter of the wings of a bird of prey. And the voice. That quiet voice, boring into her skull…
You have made a mistake. You mistook the stars reflected in the surface of the lake at night for the heavens.
She woke and lifted her head abruptly, displacing the compress, fresh because it was still cool and wet. She was drenched in sweat; the dull pain was ringing and throbbing in her temples again. Yennefer was sitting beside on the bed. Her head was turned away so that Ciri did not see her face. She saw only the tempest of black hair.
'I had a dream…' whispered Ciri. 'In the dream…'
'I know,' the magician said in a strange voice not her own. 'That's why I'm here. I'm beside you.'
Beyond the window, in the darkness, the rain rustled in the leaves of the trees.
'Damn it,' snarled Dandilion, shaking water from the brim of his hat, soggy from the rain. 'It's a veritable fortress, not a house. What's that fraud frightened of, fortifying himself like that?'
Boats and barges moored to the bank rocked lazily on water furrowed by the rain, bumping against each other, creaking and rattling their chains.
'It's the port,' explained Shani. 'There's no shortage of thugs and scum, both local and just passing through. Quite a few people visit Myhrman, bringing money… Everybody knows that. And that he lives alone. So he's secured himself. Are you surprised?'
'Not in the least.' Geralt looked at the mansion built on stakes dug into the bottom of the canal some ten yards from the shore. 'I'm trying to work out how to get to that islet, to that waterside cottage. We'll probably have to borrow one of those boats on the quiet-'
'No need,' said the student of medicine. 'There's a drawbridge.'
'And how are you going to persuade that charlatan to lower it? Besides, there's also the door, and we didn't bring a battering ram with us
'Leave it to me.'
An enormous grey owl landed soundlessly on the deck's railing, fluttered its wings, ruffled its feathers and turned into Philippa Eilhart, equally ruffled and wet.
'What am I doing here?' the magician mumbled angrily. 'What am I doing here with you, damn it? Balancing on a wet bar… And on the edge of betraying the state. If Dijktra finds out I was helping you… And on top of it all, this endless drizzle! I hate flying in the rain. Is this it? This is Myhrman's house?'
'Yes,' confirmed Geralt. 'Listen, Shani, we'll try…'
They bunched together and started whispering, concealed in the dark under the eaves of a hut's reed roof. A strip of light fell on the water from the tavern on the opposite side of the canal. Singing, laughter and yelling resounded. Three bargemen rolled out on to the shore. Two were arguing, tugging, shoving each other and repeatedly swearing the same curses to the point of boredom. The third, leaning against a stake, was peeing into the canal and whistling. He was out of tune.
Dong, metallically reverberated the iron sheet tied by a strap to a pole by the deck. Dong.
The charlatan Myhrman opened a tiny window and peered out. The lantern in his hand only blinded him, so he set it aside.
'Who the devil is ringing at this time of the night?' he bawled furiously. 'Whack yourself in that empty head of yours, you shit, you lame dick, when you get the urge to knock! Get out, get lost you old soaks, right now! I've got my crossbow at the ready here! Does one of you want six inches of crossbow bolt in their arse?'
'Master Myhrman! It's me, Shani!'
'Eh?' The charlatan leaned out further. 'Miss Shani? Now, in the night? How come?'
'Lower the bridge, Master Myhrman! I've brought you what you asked for!'
'Right now, in the dark? Couldn't you do it during the day, miss?'
'Too many eyes here, during the day.' A slim outline in a green cloak loomed on the deck. 'If words gets out about what I'm
bringing you they'll throw me out of the Academy. Lower the bridge, I'm not going to stand around in the rain, I'm soaked!'
'You're not alone, miss,' the charlatan noted suspiciously. 'You usually come alone. Who's there with you?'
'A friend, a student like me. Was I supposed to come alone, at night, to this forsaken neighbourhood of yours? What, you think I don't value my maidenhood or something? Let me in, damn it!'
Muttering under his breath, Myhrman released the stopper on the winch and the bridge creaked down, hitting the planks of the deck. The old fraud minced to the door and pulled back the bolts and locks. Without putting his crossbow aside, he carefully peered out.
He didn't notice the fist clad in a black silver-studded glove as it flew towards the side of his head. But although the night was dark, the moon was new and the sky overcast, he suddenly saw ten thousand dazzlingly bright stars.
Toublanc Michelet drew the whetstone over the blade of his sword once more, looking totally engrossed in this activity.
'So we are to kill one man for you.' He set the stone aside, wiped the blade with a piece of greased rabbit skin and closely examined the blade. 'An ordinary fellow who walks around the streets of Oxenfurt by himself, without a guard, an escort or bodyguards. Doesn't even have any knaves hanging about. We won't have to clamber into any castles, town halls, mansion houses or garrisons to get at him… Is that right, honourable Rience? Have I understood you correctly?'
The man with a face disfigured by a burn nodded, narrowing his moist eyes with their unpleasant expression a little.
'On top of that,' Toublanc continued, 'after killing this fellow we won't be forced to remain hidden somewhere for the next six months because no one is going to chase or follow us. No one is going to set a posse or reward seekers on us. We won't get drawn into any blood feuds or vendettas. In other words, Master Rience, we're to finish off an ordinary, common fool of no importance to you?'
The man with the scar did not reply. Toublanc looked at his brothers sitting motionless and stiff on the bench. Rizzi, Flavius and Lodovico, as usual, said nothing. In the team they formed, it was they who killed, Toublanc who talked. Because only Toublanc had attended the Temple school. He was as efficient at killing as his brothers but he could also read and write. And talk.
'And in order to kill such an ordinary dunce, Master Rience, you're hiring not just any old thug from the port but us, the Michelet brothers? For a hundred Novigrad crowns?'
'That is your usual rate,' drawled the man with the scar, 'correct?'
'Incorrect,' contradicted Toublanc coldly. 'Because we're not for the killing of ordinary fools. But if we do… Master Rience, this fool you want to see made a corpse is going to cost you two hundred. Two hundred untrimmed, shining crowns with the stamp of the Novigrad mint on them. Do you know why? Because there's a catch here, honourable sir. You don't have to tell us what it is, we can manage without that. But you will pay for it.
