‘I do. Too great a respect to listen to idiots mocking it. Have you ever thought about your own death, Codringher?’
The lawyer coughed heavily and looked for a long time at the handkerchief in front of his mouth. Then he raised his eyes.
‘Of course,’ he said quietly. ‘I have. Intensively, at that. But my thoughts are nothing to do with you, Witcher. Will you ride to Anchor?’
‘I will.’
‘Ralf Blunden, a.k.a. the Professor. Heimo Kantor. Little Yaxa. Do those names mean anything to you?’
‘No.’
‘All three are pretty handy with a sword. Better than the Michelets. So I would suggest a more reliable, long-range weapon. These Nilfgaardian throwing stars, for example. I’ll sell you a few if you like. I’ve plenty of them.’
‘No thanks. They’re impractical. Noisy in flight.’
‘The whistling has a psychological element. They’re capable of paralysing their victim with fear.’
‘Perhaps. But they can also warn them. I’d have time to dodge it.’
‘If you saw it being thrown at you, you could. I know you can dodge an arrow or a quarrel . . . But from behind—’
‘From behind as well.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Let’s try a wager,’ said Geralt coldly. ‘I’ll turn my face to the portrait of your dullard of a father, and you throw an orion at me. Should you hit me, you win. Should you not, you lose. Should you lose, you’ll decipher those elven manuscripts. You’ll get hold of information about the Child of the Elder Blood. Urgently. And on credit.’
‘And if I win?’
‘You’ll still get that information but you’ll pass it on to Yennefer. She’ll pay. You won’t be left out of pocket.’
Codringher opened the drawer and took out another orion.
‘You don’t expect me to accept the wager.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘No,’ smiled the Witcher. ‘I’m sure you’ll accept it.’
‘A daredevil, I see. Have you forgotten? I don’t have any scruples.’
‘I haven’t forgotten. After all, the time of contempt is approaching, and you keep up with progress and the zeitgeist. But I took your accusations of anachronistic naivety to heart, and this time I’ll take a risk, though not without hope of profit. What’s it to be then? Is the bet on?’
‘Yes.’ Codringher took hold of the steel star by one of its arms and stood up. ‘Curiosity always won out over good sense in me, not to mention unfounded mercy. Turn around.’
The Witcher turned around. He glanced at the face on the portrait riddled with holes and with the orion sticking into it. And then he closed his eyes.
The star whistled and thudded into the wall four inches from the frame of the portrait.
‘Damn and blast!’ roared Codringher. ‘You didn’t even flinch, you whoreson!’
Geralt turned back and smiled. Quite hideously.
‘Why should I have flinched? I could hear you aiming to miss.’
The inn was empty. A young woman with dark rings under her eyes sat on a bench in the corner. Bashfully turned away to one side, she was breastfeeding a child. A broad-shouldered fellow, perhaps her husband, dozed alongside, his back resting against the wall. Someone else, whose features Aplegatt couldn’t make out in the gloom of the inn, sat in the shadows behind the stove.
The innkeeper looked up, saw Aplegatt, noticed his attire and the badge with the arms of Aedirn on his chest, and his face immediately darkened. Aplegatt was accustomed to welcomes like that. As a royal messenger he was absolute entitled to a mount. The royal decrees were explicit – a messenger had the right to demand a fresh horse in every town, village, inn or farmyard – and woe betide anyone who refused. Naturally, the messenger left his own horse, and signed a receipt for the new one; the owner could appeal to the magistrate and receive compensation. But you never knew. Thus a messenger was always looked upon with dislike and anxiety; would he demand a horse or not? Would he take our Golda, never to be seen again? Or our Beauty, reared from a foal? Our pampered Ebony? Aplegatt had seen sobbing children clinging to their beloved playmate as it was being led out of the stable, saddled, and more than once had looked into the faces of adults, pale with the sense of injustice and helplessness.
‘I don’t need a fresh horse,’ he said brusquely. It seemed to him the innkeeper sighed with relief.
‘I’ll only have a bite to eat; the road’s given me an appetite,’ added the messenger. ‘Anything in the pot?’
‘There’s some gruel left over. I’ll serve you d’reckly. Sit you down. Needing a bed? Night’s falling.’