‘Children,’ sighed Tissaia de Vries, shaking her head. ‘Cover yourself, Ciri.’
The officer came in, but the enchantresses’ prank misfired. The officer wasn’t embarrassed at the sight of them, and didn’t blush, gape or goggle, because the officer was a woman. A tall, slender woman with a thick, black plait and a sword at her side.
‘Madam,’ said the woman stiffly, her hauberk clanking as she gave Tissaia de Vries a slight bow, ‘I report the execution of your instructions. I would like to ask for permission to return to the garrison.’
‘You may,’ replied Tissaia curtly. ‘Thank you for the escort and your help. Have a safe journey.’
Yennefer sat up on her lounger, looking at the black, gold and red rosette on the soldier’s shoulder.
‘Do I know you?’
The warrior bowed stiffly and wiped her sweat-covered face. It was hot in the bathhouse, and she was wearing a hauberk and leather tunic.
‘I often used to visit Vengerberg, Madam Yennefer,’ she said. ‘My name is Rayla.’
‘Judging by the rosette, you serve in King Demavend’s special units.’
‘Yes, madam.’
‘Your rank?’
‘Captain.’
‘Very good.’ Margarita Laux-Antille laughed. ‘I note with pleasure that Demavend’s army has finally begun to award commissions to soldiers with balls.’
‘May I withdraw?’ said the soldier, standing up straight and resting her hand on the hilt of her sword.
‘You may.’
‘I sensed hostility in your voice, Yenna,’ said Margarita a moment later. ‘What do you have against the captain?’
Yennefer stood up and took two goblets from the table.
‘Did you see the posts by the crossroads?’ she asked. ‘You must have seen them, must have smelled the stench of rotting corpses. Those posts are their idea and their work. She and her subordinates from the special units. They’re a gang of sadists!’
‘There’s a war on, Yennefer. Rayla must have seen her comrades-in-arms falling, alive, into the Squirrels’ clutches many times. Then hung by their arms from trees as target practice. Blinded, castrated, with their feet burnt in campfires. Falka herself wouldn’t have been ashamed of the atrocities committed by the Scoia’tael.’
‘The methods of the special units are remarkably similar to those of Falka. But that’s not the point, Rita. I’m not getting sentimental about the fate of elves and I know what war is. I know how wars are won, too. They’re won by soldiers who fight for their countries and homes with conviction and sacrifice. Not by soldiers like her, by mercenaries fighting for money who are unable and unwilling to sacrifice themselves. They don’t even know what sacrifice is. And if they do, they despise it.’
‘To hell with her, her dedication and her contempt. What does it matter to us? Ciri, throw something decent on, pop upstairs and fetch us another carafe. I feel like getting drunk today.’
Tissaia de Vries sighed, shaking her head. It didn’t escape Margarita’s attention.
‘Fortunately,’ she giggled, ‘we aren’t at school any longer, mistress dear. We can do what we want now.’
‘Even in the presence of a future novice?’ asked Tissaia scathingly. ‘When I was rectoress at Aretuza—’
‘We remember, we remember,’ interrupted Yennefer with a smile, ‘and even if we’d prefer to forget, we never will. Go and fetch that carafe, Ciri.’
Upstairs, waiting for the carafe, Ciri witnessed the officer depart with her squad of four soldiers. She watched their posture, expressions, clothing and arms in fascination and admiration. Right then Rayla, the captain with the black plait, was arguing with the innkeeper.
‘I’m not going to wait until daybreak! And I couldn’t give a damn if the gates are locked. I want to leave immediately. I know the inn has its own postern in the stables. I order it to be opened!’
‘But the regulations—’
‘I don’t give a damn about the regulations! I’m carrying out the orders of Arch-Mistress de Vries!’
‘All right, all right, captain. Don’t shout. I’ll open up . . .’
The postern, it turned out, was in a narrow, securely gated passageway, leading straight beyond the city walls. Before Ciri took the carafe from the servant’s hands, she saw the postern being opened and Rayla and her unit riding out, into the night.
Ciri was deep in thought.
‘Oh, at last,’ said Margarita cheerfully, though it was unclear whether she was referring to the sight of Ciri or the carafe she was carrying. Ciri put the carafe on the table – very clearly wrongly, because Tissaia de Vries repositioned it at once. When Yennefer poured, she spoiled the entire arrangement too, and Tissaia had to put it right again. Imagining Tissaia as a teacher filled Ciri with dread.