The Last Wish (14 page)

She was silent for a moment, idly brushing the uneven strands of hair from her forehead.

'I stole rather than starve to death. I killed to avoid being killed myself. I was locked in prisons which stank of urine, never knowing if they would hang me in the morning, or just flog me and release me. And through it all my stepmother and your sorcerer were hard on my heels, with their poisons and assassins and spells. And you want me to reveal my magnanimity? To forgive him royally? I'll tear his head off, royally, first.'

'Aridea and Stregobor tried to poison you?'

'With an apple seasoned with nightshade. I was saved by a gnome, and an emetic I thought would turn my insides out. But I survived.'

'Was that one of the seven gnomes?' Renfri, pouring wine, froze holding the wine-skin over the tumbler.

'Ah,' she said. 'You do know a lot about me. Yes? Do you have something against gnomes?

Or humanoids? They were better to me than most people, not that it's your business.

'Stregobor and Aridea hunted me like a wild animal as long as they could. Until I became the hunter. Aridea died in her own bed. She was lucky I didn't get to her earlier - I had a special plan for her, and now I've got one for the sorcerer. Do you think he deserves to die?'

'I'm no judge. I'm a witcher.'

'You are. I said that there were two people who could prevent bloodshed in Blaviken. The second is you. The sorcerer will let you into the tower. You could kill him.'

'Renfri,' said Geralt calmly, 'did you fall from the roof onto your head on the way to my room?'

'Are you a witcher or aren't you, dammit? They say you killed a kikimora and brought it here on a donkey to get a price for it. Stregobor is worse than the kikimora. It's just a mindless beast which kills because that's how the gods made it. Stregobor is a brute, a true monster.

Bring him to me on a donkey and I won't begrudge you any sum you care to mention.'

'I'm not a hired thug, Shrike.'

'You're not,' she agreed with a smile. She leant back on the stool and crossed her legs on the table without the slightest effort to cover her thighs with her skirt. 'You're a witcher, a defender of people from evil. And evil is the steel and fire which will cause devastation here if we fight each other. Don't you think I'm proposing a lesser evil, a better solution? Even for that son-of-a-bitch Stregobor. You can kill him mercifully, with one thrust. He'll die without knowing it. And I guarantee him quite the reverse.'

Geralt remained silent.

Renfri stretched, raising her arms.

'I understand your hesitation,' she said. 'But I need an answer now.'

'Do you know why Stregobor and the king's wife wanted to kill you?'

Renfri straightened abruptly and took her legs off the table.

'It's obvious,' she snarled. 'I am heir to the throne. Aridea's children were born out of wedlock and don't have any right to

'No.'

Renfri lowered her head, but only for a moment. Her eyes flashed. 'Fine. I'm supposed to be cursed. Contaminated in my mother's womb. I'm supposed to be . . .'

'Yes?'

'A monster.'

'And are you?'

For a fleeting moment she looked helpless, shattered. And very sad.

'I don't know, Geralt,' she whispered, and then her features hardened again. 'Because how am I to know, dammit? When I cut my finger, I bleed. I bleed every month, too. I get belly-ache when I overeat, and a hangover when I get drunk. When I'm happy I sing and I swear when I'm sad. When I hate someone I kill them and when— But enough of this! Your answer, witcher.'

'My answer is no.'

You remember what I said?' she asked after a moment's silence. 'There are offers you can't refuse, the consequences are so terrible, and this is one of them. Think it over.'

'I have thought carefully. And my suggestion was as serious.'

Renfri was silent for some time, fiddling with a string of pearls wound three times around her shapely neck before falling teasingly between her breasts, their curves just visible through the slit of her jacket.

'Geralt,' she said, 'did Stregobor ask you to kill me?'

Yes. He believed it was the lesser evil.'

'Can I believe you refused him, as you have me?'

You can.'

'Why?'

'Because I don't believe in a lesser evil.'

Renfri smiled faintly, an ugly grimace in the yellow candlelight.

'You don't believe in it, you say. Well you're right, in a way. Only Evil and Greater Evil exist and beyond them, in the shadows, lurks True Evil. True Evil, Geralt, is something you can barely imagine, even if you believe nothing can still surprise you. And sometimes True Evil seizes you by the throat and demands that you choose between it and another, slightly lesser, Evil.'

'What's your goal here, Renfri?

'Nothing. I've had a bit to drink and I'm philosophising, I'm looking for general truths. And I've found one: lesser evils exist, but we can't choose them. Only True Evil can force us to such a choice. Whether we like it or not.'

'Maybe I've not had enough to drink.' The witcher smiled sourly. 'And in the meantime midnight's passed, the way it does. Let's speak plainly. You're not going to kill Stregobor in Blaviken because I'm not going to let you. I'm not going to let it come to a slaughter here. So, for the second time, renounce your revenge. Prove to him, to everyone, that you're not an inhuman and bloodthirsty monster. Prove he has done you great harm through his mistake.'

For a moment Renfri watched the witcher's medallion spinning as he twisted the chain.

And if I tell you, witcher, that I can neither forgive Stregobor nor renounce my revenge then I admit that he is right, is that it? I'd be proving that I am a monster cursed by the gods? You know, when I was still new to this life a freeman took me in. He took a fancy to me, even though I found him repellent. So every time he wanted to fuck me he had to beat me so hard I could barely move, even the following day. One morning I rose while it was still dark and slashed his throat with a scythe. I wasn't yet as skilled as I am now, and a knife seemed too small. And as I listened to him gurgle and choke, watched him kicking and flailing, I felt the marks left by his feet and fists fade, and I felt, oh, so great, so great that ... I left him, whistling, sprightly, feeling so joyful, so happy. And it's the same each time. If it wasn't, who'd waste time on revenge?'

'Renfri,' said Geralt. 'Whatever your motives, you're not going to leave here joyful and happy.

But you'll leave here alive, early tomorrow morning, as the alderman ordered. You're not going to kill Stregobor in Blaviken.'

Renfri's eyes glistened in the candlelight, reflecting the flame, the pearls glowed in the slit of her jacket, the wolf medallion spinning round on its chain sparkled.

'I pity you,' she said slowly, gazing at the medallion. 'You claim a lesser evil doesn't exist.

You're standing on a flagstone running with blood, alone and so very lonely because you can't choose, but you had to. And you'll never know, you'll never be sure, if you were right . . . And your reward will be a stoning, and a bad word. I pity you . . .'

'And you?' asked the witcher quietly, almost in a whisper.

'I can't choose, either.'

'What are you?'

'I am what I am.'

'Where are you?'

'I'm . . . cold . . .'

'Renfri!' Geralt squeezed the medallion tightly in his hand.

She tossed her head as if waking up, and blinked several times, surprised. For a very brief moment she looked frightened.

You've won,' she said sharply. You win, witcher. Tomorrow morning I'll leave Blaviken and never return to this rotten town. Never. Now pass me the wine-skin.'

Her usual derisive smile returned as she put her empty tumbler back on the table. 'Geralt?'

'I'm here.'

'That bloody roof is steep. I'd prefer to leave at dawn than fall and hurt myself in the dark. I'm a princess and my body's delicate. I can feel a pea under a mattress - as long as it's not well-stuffed with straw, obviously. How about it?'

'Renfri,' Geralt smiled despite himself, 'is that really befitting of a princess?'

'What do you know about princesses, dammit? I've lived as one and the joy of it is being able to do what you like. Do I have to tell you straight out what I want?'

Geralt, still smiling, didn't reply.

'I can't believe you don't find me attractive.' Renfri grimaced. 'Are you afraid you'll meet the freeman's sticky fate? Eh, white-hair, I haven't got anything sharp on me. Have a look for yourself.'

She put her legs on his knees. 'Pull my boots off. A high boot is the best place to hide a knife.'

Barefoot, she got up, tore at the buckle of her belt. 'I'm not hiding anything here, either. Or here, as you can see. Put that bloody candle out.'

Outside, in the darkness, a cat yawled.

'Renfri?'

'What?'

'Is this cambric?'

'Of course it is, dammit. Am I a princess or not?'

'Daddy,' Marilka nagged monotonously, 'when are we going to the market? To the market, Daddy!'

'Quiet, Marilka,' grunted Galdemeyn, wiping his plate with his bread. 'So what were you saying, Geralt? They're leaving?'

'Yes.'

'I never thought it would end so peacefully. They had me by the throat with that letter from Audoen. I put on a brave face but, to tell you the truth, I couldn't do a thing to them.'

'Even if they openly broke the law? Started a fight?'

'Even if they did. Audoen's a very touchy king. He sends people to the scaffold on a whim.

I've got a wife, a daughter, and I'm happy with my office. I don't have to worry where the bacon will come from tomorrow. It's good news that they're leaving. But how, and why, did it happen?'

'Daddy, I want to go to the market!'

'Libushe! Take Marilka away! Geralt, I asked Centurion, the Golden Court's innkeeper, about that Novigradian company. They're quite a gang. Some of them were recognised.'

'Yes?'

'The one with the gash across his face is Nohorn, Abergard's old adjutant from the so-called Free Angren Company - you'll have heard of them. That hulk they call Fifteen was one of theirs too and I don't think his nickname comes from fifteen good deeds. The half-elf is Civril, a brigand and professional murderer. Apparently, he had something to do with the massacre at Tridam.'

'Where?'

'Tridam. Didn't you hear of it? Everyone was talking about it three . . . Yes, three years ago.

The Baron of Tridam was holding some brigands in the dungeons. Their comrades - one of whom was that half-blood Civril - seized a river ferry full of pilgrims during the Feast of Nis.

They demanded the baron set those others free. The baron refused, so they began murdering pilgrims, one after another. By the time the baron released his prisoners they'd thrown a dozen pilgrims overboard to drift with the current - and following the deaths the baron was in danger of exile, or even of execution. Some blamed him for waiting so long to give in, and others claimed he'd committed a great evil in releasing the men, in setting a pre— precedent or something. The gang should have been shot from the banks, together with the hostages, or attacked on the boats; he shouldn't have given an inch. At the tribunal the baron argued he'd had no choice, he'd chosen the lesser evil to save more than twenty-five people — women and children - on the ferry.'

'The Tridam ultimatum,' whispered the witcher. 'Renfri—'

'What?'

'Caldemeyn, the marketplace.'

'What?'

'She's deceived us. They're not leaving. They'll force Stregobor out of his tower as they forced the Baron of Tridam's hand. Or they'll force me to . . . They're going to start murdering people at the market, it's a real trap!'

'By all the gods— Where are you going? Sit down!'

Marilka, terrified by the shouting, huddled, keening, in the corner of the kitchen.

'I told you!' Libushe shouted, pointing to the witcher. 'I said he only brings trouble!'

'Silence, woman! Geralt? Sit down!'

'We have to stop them. Right now, before people go to the market. And call the guards. As the gang leaves the inn seize them and hold them.'

'Be reasonable. We can't. We can't touch a hair of their heads if they've done nothing wrong.

They'll defend themselves and there'll be bloodshed. They're professionals, they'll slaughter my people, and it'll be my head for it if word gets to Audoen. I'll gather the guards, go to the market and keep an eye on them there—'

'That won't achieve anything, Caldemeyn. If the crowd's already in the square you can't prevent panic and slaughter. Renfri has to be stopped right now, while the marketplace is empty.'

'It's illegal. I can't permit it. It's only a rumour the half-elf was at Tridam. You could be wrong, and Audoen would flay me alive.'

'We have to take the lesser evil!'

'Geralt, I forbid it! As Alderman, I forbid it! Leave your sword! Stop!'

Marilka was screaming, her hands pressed over her mouth.

Shading his eyes with his hand, Civril watched the sun emerge from behind the trees. The marketplace was coming to life. Waggons and carts rumbled past and the first vendors were already filling their stalls. A hammer was banging, a cock crowing and seagulls screeched loudly overhead.

'Looks like a lovely day,' Fifteen said pensively.

Civril looked at him askance but didn't say anthing.

'The horses all right, Tavik?' asked Nohorn, pulling on his gloves.

'Saddled and ready. But, there's still not many of them in the marketplace.'

'There'll be more.'

'We should eat.'

'Later.'

'Dead right. You'll have time later. And an appetite.'

'Look,' said Fifteen suddenly.

The witcher was approaching from the main street, walking between stalls, coming straight towards them.

'Renfri was right,' Civril said. 'Give me the crossbow, Nohorn.' He hunched over and, holding the strap down with his foot, pulled the string back. He placed the bolt carefully in the groove as the witcher continued to approach. Civril raised the crossbow.