‘That’s ’er. But ordinary she is not. Had she been ordinary, we’d have found her dead.’
‘It was a close thing. There’s no doubt the rain saved her. The oldest grandfathers can’t recall rain in the Frying Pan, dammit. Clouds always pass by Korath . . . Even when it rains in the valleys, not a single drop falls there!’
‘Look at her wolfing down that food. It’s as if she’d had nothing in her gob for a week . . . Hey, you, slut! Like that pork fat? And that dry bread?’
‘Ask her in Elven. Or in Nilfgaardian. She doesn’t understand Common Speech. She’s some kind of elven spawn . . .’
‘She’s a simpleton, not right in the head. When I lifted her onto the horse this morning, it was like holding a wooden doll.’
‘Don’t you have eyes?’ asked the powerful, balding one they called Skomlik, baring his teeth. ‘What kind of Trappers are you, if you haven’t rumbled her yet? She’s neither stupid, nor simple. She’s pretending. She’s a strange and cunning little bird.’
‘So why’s she so important to Nilfgaard? They’ve promised a reward. There are patrols rushing around all over the place . . . Why?’
‘That I don’t know. Though it might be an idea to ask her . . . A whip across the back might encourage her . . . Ha! Did you mark how she looked at me? She understands everything, she’s listening carefully. Hey, wench! I’m Skomlik, a hunter. Also called a Trapper. And this, look here, is a whip. Also called a knout! Want to keep the skin on your back? Then let’s hear it—’
‘Enough! Silence!’
A loud, stern order, tolerating no opposition, came from another campfire, where a knight and his squire were sitting.
‘Getting bored, Trappers?’ asked the knight menacingly. ‘Then get down to some work. The horses need grooming. My armour and weapons need cleaning. Go to the forest for wood. And do not touch the girl! Do you understand, you churls?’
‘Indeed, noble Sir Sweers,’ muttered Skomlik. His comrades looked sheepish.
‘To work! Carry out my orders!’
The Trappers made themselves busy.
‘Fate has really punished us with that arsehole,’ muttered one of them. ‘Oh, that the prefect put us under the command of that fucking knight—’
‘Full of himself,’ muttered another quietly, glancing around stealthily. ‘And, after all, it was us Trappers what found the girl . . . We had the hunch to ride into the Suchak valley.’
‘Right enough. We deserve the credit, but His Lordship will take the bounty. We’ll barely see a groat . . . They’ll toss us a florin. “There you go, be grateful for your lord’s generosity, Trapper”.’
‘Shut your traps,’ hissed Skomlik. ‘He might hear you . . .’
Ciri found herself alone by the fire. The knight and squire looked at her inquisitively, but said nothing.
The knight was a middle-aged but still robust man with a scarred face. When riding, he wore a helmet with birds’ wings, but they were not the wings Ciri had first seen in her nightmares and later on the Isle of Thanedd. He was not the Black Knight of Cintra. But he was a Nilfgaardian knight. When he issued orders, he spoke the Common Speech fluently, but with a marked accent, similar to that of the Elves. However, he spoke with his squire (a boy not much older than Ciri) in a language resembling the Elder Speech, but harder and less melodious. It had to be Nilfgaardian. Ciri, who spoke the Elder Speech well, understood most of the words. But she didn’t let on that she understood. The Nilfgaardian knight and his squire had peppered her with questions during the first stop, at the edge of the desert known as the Frying Pan or Korath. She hadn’t answered then, because she had been indifferent and stupefied. Befuddled. A few days into the ride, when they had left the rocky ravines and rode down into green valleys, Ciri had already fully recovered her faculties. At last she began to notice the world around her and react to it, albeit apathetically. But she continued to ignore questions, so the knight stopped speaking to her at all. He appeared not to pay her any attention. Only the ruffians – the ones calling themselves Trappers – took an interest in her. And they also tried to question her. Aggressively.
But the Nilfgaardian in the winged helmet swiftly took them to task. It was clear who was the master and who was the servant.
Ciri pretended to be a simple mute, but she listened intently. She slowly began to understand her situation. She had fallen into Nilfgaard’s hands. Nilfgaard had hunted her and found her, no doubt having located the route the chaotic portal in Tor Lara had transported her along. The winged knight and the Trappers had achieved what neither Yennefer nor Geralt had been able to do.