Time of Contempt(70)

‘He can’t see you, Phil,’ said Dijkstra nonchalantly. ‘He can’t see anything and didn’t see anything. The one with the beautiful hair blinded him.’

He heard Philippa’s breath and sensed every one of her movements but moved his head around awkwardly, simulating helplessness. The enchantress was not to be fooled.

‘Don’t bother pretending, Geralt. Triss may have darkened your eyes but she didn’t take away your mind. How the hell did you end up here?’

‘I dropped in. Where’s Yennefer?’

‘Blessed are they who do not know,’ said Philippa, in a voice devoid of mockery. ‘For they will live longer. Be grateful to Triss. It was a soft spell; the blindness will soon pass. And you didn’t see anything you weren’t meant to. Guard him, Dijkstra. I’ll be right back.’

There was a disturbance again. And voices. Keira Metz’s resonant soprano, Radcliffe’s nasal bass. The clatter of heavy Redanian boots. And Tissaia de Vries’s raised voice.

‘Let her go! How could you? How could you do that to her?’

‘She’s a traitress!’ responded Radcliffe’s nasal voice.

‘I will never believe that!’

‘Blood’s thicker than water,’ said Philippa Eilhart, coldly. ‘And Emperor Emhyr has promised the elves freedom. As well as their own, independent state. Here, in these lands. After the humans have been slaughtered, naturally. And that was sufficient for her to betray us without a second thought.’

‘Answer!’ said Tissaia de Vries forcefully. ‘Answer her, Enid!’

‘Answer, Francesca.’

The clinking of dimeritium handcuffs. The singsong, elven lilt of Francesca Findabair, the Daisy of the Valleys, the most beautiful woman in the world.

‘Va vort a me, Dh’oine. N’aen te a dice’n.’

‘Will that suffice, Tissaia?’ barked Philippa. ‘Will you believe me now? You, me, all of us, are – and always were – Dh’oine, humans, to her. And she, Aen Seidhe, has nothing to say to humans. And you, Fercart? What did Vilgefortz and Emhyr promise you, that made you choose treachery?’

‘Go to hell, you debauched slut.’

Geralt held his breath, but this time didn’t hear the sound of brass knuckles hitting bone. Philippa was more composed than Keira. Or she didn’t have any brass knuckles.

‘Radcliffe, take the traitors to Garstang! Detmold, give your arm to Arch-Mistress de Vries. Go. I’ll join you soon.’

Footsteps. The scent of cinnamon and muskroot.

‘Dijkstra.’

‘I’m here, Phil.’

‘Your men are no longer needed here. They may return to Loxia.’

‘Are you absolutely sure—’

‘To Loxia, Dijkstra!’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’ There was scorn in the spy’s voice. ‘The lackeys can leave. They’ve done their bidding. Now it is a private matter for the mages. And thus I, without further ado, will leave Your Grace’s beautiful presence. I didn’t expect gratitude for my help or my contribution to your putsch, but I am certain that Your Grace will keep me in her gracious memory.’

‘Forgive me, Sigismund. Thank you for your help.’

‘Not at all. It was my pleasure. Hey, Voymir, get your men. I want five to stay with me. Take the others downstairs and board The Spada. But do it quietly, on tiptoe, without any fuss, commotion or fireworks. Use side corridors. Don’t breathe a word of this in Loxia or in the harbour. That’s an order!’

‘You didn’t see anything, Geralt,’ said Philippa Eilhart in a whisper, wafting cinnamon, muskroot and baking soda onto the Witcher. ‘You didn’t hear anything. You never spoke to Vilgefortz. Dijkstra will take you to Loxia now. I’ll try to find you when . . . when it’s all over. I promised you as much yesterday and I’ll keep my word.’

‘What about Yennefer?’

‘I’d say he’s obsessed,’ said Dijkstra, returning and shuffling his feet. ‘Yennefer, Yennefer . . . It’s getting tedious. Don’t bother yourself with him, Phil. There are more important things to do. Was the expected item found on Vilgefortz?’

‘Indeed. Here, this is for you.’

‘Oh!’ The rustle of paper being unwrapped. ‘Oh my, oh my! Excellent! Duke Nitert. Splendid! Baron—’

‘Discreetly; no names. And please don’t start the executions immediately after your return to Tretogor. Don’t incite a premature scandal.’

‘Don’t worry. The lads on this list – so greedy for Nilfgaardian gold – are safe. At least for the moment. They’ll become my sweet little puppets. I’ll be able to pull their strings, and later we’ll put those strings around their sweet little necks . . . Just out of curiosity, were there any other lists? Any traitors from Kaedwen, from Temeria, from Aedirn? I’d be delighted to take a look. Just a glimpse . . .’