The Last Wish (16 page)

The witcher had a knife at his throat.

He was wallowing in a wooden tub, brimful of soapsuds, his head thrown back against its slippery rim. The bitter taste of soap lingered in his mouth as the knife, blunt as a doorknob, scraped his Adam's apple painfully and moved towards his chin with a grating sound.

The barber, with the expression of an artist who is conscious that he is creating a masterpiece, scraped once more for form's sake, then wiped the witcher's face with a piece of linen soaked in tincture of angelica.

Geralt stood up, allowed a servant to pour a bucket of water over him, shook himself and climbed from the tub, leaving wet footmarks on the brick floor.

'Your towel, sir.' The servant glanced curiously at his medallion.

'Thanks.'

'Clothes,' said Haxo. 'Shirt, underpants, trousers and tunic. And boots.'

'You've thought of everything. But can't I go in my own shoes?'

'No. Beer?'

'With pleasure.'

He dressed slowly. The touch of someone else's coarse, unpleasant clothes against his swollen skin spoilt his relaxed mood.

'Castellan?'

'Yes, Geralt?'

'You don't know what this is all about, do you? Why they need me here?'

'It's not my business,' said Haxo, squinting at the servants. 'My job is to get you dressed—'

'Dressed up, you mean.'

'—get you dressed and take you to the banquet, to the queen. Put the tunic on, sir. And hide the medallion beneath it.'

'My dagger was here.'

'It isn't anymore. It's in a safe place, like your swords and your possessions. Nobody carries arms where you're going.'

The witcher shrugged, pulling on the tight purple tunic.

'And what's this?' he asked indicating the embroidery on the front of his outfit.

'Oh yes,' said Haxo. 'I almost forgot. During the banquet you will be the Honourable Ravix of Fourhorn. As guest of honour you will sit at the queen's right hand, such is her wish, and that, on the tunic, is your coat of arms. A bear passant sable, damsel vested azure riding him, her hair loose and arms raised. You should remember it — one of the guests might have a thing about heraldry. It often happens.'

'Of course I'll remember it,' said Geralt seriously. 'And Fourhorn, where's that?'

'Far enough. Ready? Can we go?'

'We can. Just tell me, Haxo, what's this banquet in aid of?'

'Princess Pavetta is turning fifteen and, as is the custom, contenders for her hand have turned up in their dozens. Queen Calanthe wants her to marry someone from Skellige; an alliance with the islanders would mean a lot to us.'

'Why them?'

'Those they're allied with aren't attacked as often as others.'

'A good reason.'

'And not the sole one. In Cintra women can't rule. King Roegner died some time ago and the queen doesn't want another husband: our Lady Calanthe is wise and just, but a king is a king.

Whoever marries the princess will sit on the throne, and we want a tough, decent fellow. They have to be found on the islands. They're a hard nation. Let's go.'

Geralt stopped halfway down the gallery surrounding the small inner courtyard and looked around.

'Castellan,' he said under his breath, 'we're alone. Quickly, tell me why the queen needs a witcher. You of all people must know something.'

'For the same reasons as everyone else,' Haxo grunted. 'Cintra is just like any other country.

We've got werewolves and basilisks and a manticore could be found, too, if you looked hard enough. So a witcher might also come in useful.'

'Don't twist my words, Castellan. I'm asking why the queen needs a witcher in disguise as a bear passont, with hair loose at that, at the banquet.'

Haxo also looked around, and even leant over the gallery balustrade.

'Something bad's happening, Geralt,' he muttered. 'In the castle. Something's frightening people.'

'What?'

'What usually frightens people? A monster. They say it's small, hunchbacked, bristling like a Urcheon. It creeps around the castle at night, rattles chains. Moans and groans in the chambers.'

'Have you seen it?'

'No,' Haxo spat, 'and I don't want to.'

'You're talking nonsense, Castellan,' grimaced the witcher. 'It doesn't make sense. We're going to an engagement feast. What am I supposed to do there? Wait for a hunchback to jump out and groan? Without a weapon? Dressed up like a jester? Haxo?'

'Think what you like,' grumbled the castellan. 'They told me not to tell you anything, but you asked. So I told you. And you tell me I'm talking nonsense. How charming.'

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you, Castellan. I was simply surprised . . .'

'Stop being surprised.' Haxo turned away, still sulking. 'Your job isn't to be surprised. And I strongly advise you, witcher, that if the queen orders you to strip naked, paint your arse blue and hang yourself upside down in the entrance hall like a chandelier, you do it without surprise or hesitation. Otherwise

you might meet with a fair amount of unpleasantness. Have you got that?'

'I've got it. Let's go, Haxo. Whatever happens, that bath's given me an appetite.'

Apart from the curt, ceremonious greetings with which she welcomed him as 'Lord of Fourhorn', Queen Calanthe didn't exchange a single word with the witcher. The banquet was about to begin and the guests, loudly announed by the herald, were gathering.

The table was huge, rectangular, and could seat more than forty men. Calanthe sat at the head of the table on a throne with a high backrest. Geralt sat on her right and, on her left, a grey-haired bard called Drogodar, with a lute. Two more chairs at the head of the table, on the queen's left, remained empty.

To Geralt's right, along the table, sat Haxo and a voivode whose name he'd forgotten. Beyond them were guests from the Duchy of Attre - the sullen and silent knight Rainfarn and his charge, the chubby twelve-year-old Prince Windhalm, one of the pretenders to the princess's hand. Further down were the colourful and motley knights from Cintra, and local vassals.

'Baron Eylembert of Tigg!' announced the herald.

'Coodcoodak!' murmured Calanthe, nudging Drogodar. 'This will be fun.'

A thin and whiskered, richly attired knight bowed low, but his lively, happy eyes and cheerful smirk belied his subservience.

'Greetings, Coodcoodak,' said the queen ceremoniously. Obviously the baron was better known by his nickname than by his family name. 'We are happy to see you.'

'And I am happy to be invited,' declared Coodcoodak, and sighed. 'Oh well, I'll cast an eye on the princess, if you permit, my queen. It's hard to live alone, ma'am.'

'Aye, Coodcoodak,' Calanthe smiled faintly, wrapping a lock of hair around her finger. 'But you're already married, as we well know.'

'Aaahh.' The baron was miffed. 'You know yourself, ma'am, how weak and delicate my wife is, and smallpox is rife in the neighbourhood. I bet my belt and sword against a pair of old slippers that in a year I'll already be out of mourning.'

'Poor man, Coodcoodak. But lucky, too,' Calanthe's smile grew wider. 'Lucky your wife isn't stronger. I hear that last harvest, when she caught you in the haystack with a strumpet, she chased you for almost a mile with a pitchfork but couldn't catch you. You have to feed her better, cuddle her more and take care that her back doesn't get cold during the night. Then, in a year, you'll see how much better she is.'

Coodcoodak pretended to grow doleful. 'I take your point. But can I stay for the feast?'

'We'd be delighted, Baron.'

'The legation from Skellige!' shouted the herald, becoming increasingly hoarse.

The islanders — four of them, in shiny leather doublets trimmed with seal fur and belted with chequered woollen sashes - strode in with a sprightly, hollow step. They were led by a sinewy warrior with a dark face and aquiline nose and, at his side, a broad-shouldered youth with a mop of red hair. They all bowed before the queen.

'It is a great honour,' said Calanthe, a little flushed, 'to welcome such an excellent knight as Eist Tuirseach of Skellige to my castle again. If it weren't for your well-known disdain for marriage, I'd be delighted to think you're here to court my Pavetta. Has loneliness got the better of you after all, sir?'

'Often enough, beautiful Calanthe,' replied the dark-faced islander, raising his glistening eyes to the queen. 'But my life is too dangerous for me to contemplate a lasting union. If it weren't for that . . . Pavetta is still a young girl, an unopened bud, but I can see . . .'

'See what?'

'The apple does not fall far from the tree,' smiled Eist Tuirseach, flashing his white teeth. 'Suffice it to look at you, my queen, to know how beautiful the princess will be when she reaches the age at which a woman can please a warrior. In the meantime, it is young men who ought to court her. Such as our King Bran's nephew here, Crach an Craite, who travelled here for exactly that purpose.'

Crach, bowing his red head, knelt on one knee before the queen.

'Who else have you brought, Eist?'

A thickset, robust man with a bushy beard, and a strapping fellow with bagpipes on his back, knelt by Crach an Craite.

'This is the gallant druid Mousesack, who, like me, is a good friend and advisor to King Bran.

And this is Draig Bon-Dhu, our famous skald. And thirty seamen from Skellige are waiting in the courtyard, burning with hope to catch a glimpse of the beautiful Calanthe of Cintra.'

'Sit down, noble guests. Tuirseach, sir, sit here.'

Eist took the vacant seat at the narrower end of the table, only separated from the queen by Drogodar and an empty chair. The remaining islanders sat together on the left, between Marshal Vissegerd and the three sons of Lord Strept, Tinglant, Fodcat and Wieldhill.

'That's more or less everyone.' The queen leant over to the marshal. 'Let's begin, Vissegerd.'

The marshal clapped his hands. The servants, carrying platters and jugs, moved towards the table in a long line, greeted by a joyful murmur from the guests.

Calanthe barely ate, reluctantly picking at the morsels served her with a silver fork. Drogodar, having bolted his food, kept strumming his lute. The rest of the guests, on the other hand, laid waste to the roast piglets, birds, fish and molluscs on offer — with the red-haired Crach an Craite in the lead. Rainfarn of Attre reprimanded the young Prince Windhalm severely, even slapping his hand when he reached for a jug of cider. Coodcoodak stopped picking bones for a moment and entertained his neighbours by imitating the whistle of a mud turtle. The atmosphere grew merrier

by the minute. The first toasts were being raised, and already becoming less and less coherent.

Calanthe adjusted the narrow golden circlet on her curled ash-grey hair and turned to Geralt, who was busy cracking open a huge red lobster.