Baptism of Fire (The Witcher, #3)

by Andrzej Sapkowski

“Everyone has some kind of debt,” replied Eithné. “Such is life, Maria Barring. Debts and liabilities, obligations, gratitude, payments… Doing something for someone. Or perhaps for ourselves? For in fact we are always paying ourselves back and not someone else. Each time we are indebted we pay off the debt to ourselves. In each of us lies a creditor and a debtor at once and the art is for the reckoning to tally inside us. We enter the world as a minute part of the life we are given, and from then on we are ever paying off debts. To ourselves. For ourselves. In order for the final reckoning to tally.”

I adore men and I cannot imagine life without them. But… after a moment’s reflection… yours is actually a reasonable proposal. Men are psychologically unstable, too prone to emotions; not to be relied upon in moments of crisis.”

Ambition is the undoing of men. They always want what they know to be impossible and unattainable. And they are unaware of the attainable.”

“She’s even got a cat,” Keira Metz whispered. “And I bet it’s black…”

In those paper wars everything worked, everything functioned, everything was clear and everything was in exemplary order. That’s how it has to be, explained the military men. The army represents discipline and order above all. The army cannot exist without discipline and order. So it is all the stranger that real wars—and I have seen several real wars—have as much in common with discipline and order as a whorehouse with a fire raging through it.

The crystalline clear water of the Ribbon brimmed over the edge of the drop in a smooth, gentle arc, falling in a soughing and frothing cascade among boulders as black as onyx. It broke up on them and vanished in a white foam, from where it spilt into a wide pool which was so transparent that every pebble and every green strand of waterweed swaying in the current could be seen in the variegated mosaic of the riverbed.

“Of course, what else? Know what? Let’s think up a name for my elven nag. Mmm…” “Why not Roach?” mocked the troubadour. “Roach,” agreed the Witcher. “Nice.” “Geralt?” “Yes.” “Have you ever had a horse that wasn’t called Roach?” “No,” answered the Witcher after a moment’s thought. “I haven’t.

“I’m getting old,” he mumbled some time later, after Roach had caught up with Milva’s black. “I’m starting to develop scruples.” “Aye, it can happen with old ’uns,” said the archer, looking at him in sympathy. “A decoction of lungwort can help. But for now put a cushion on your saddle.” “Scruples,” Dandelion explained gravely, “are not the same as piles, Milva. You’re confusing the terms.”

“Unbridled altruism is a huge vice of mine,” he explained. “I simply have to do good. I am a sensible dwarf, however, and know that I’m unable to do everyone good. Were I to attempt to be good to everyone, to the entire world and to all the creatures living in it, it would be a drop of fresh water in the salt sea. In other words, a wasted effort. Thus, I decided to do specific good; good which would not go to waste. I’m good to myself and my immediate circle.”

without taking a breather played Barrel, their favourite card game, which they devoted every spare minute to, including the previous wet evenings.

The challenge you have in front of you is the same one we face: to survive and stay alive. In order for this noble mission to continue. Or live an ordinary life, but so as not to be ashamed at the hour of death. You think you’ve changed. That the world has changed. But look; the world’s the same as it’s always been. Quite the same. And you’re the same as you used to be. Don’t fret.

“Fuuuckiiin’ ’ell!” Field Marshal Windbag screeched.

“O,” Zoltan stated. “What? Where?” Dandelion asked, standing up in his stirrups and looking down into the ravine in the direction the dwarf was pointing. “I can’t see anything!” “O.” “Don’t drivel like your parrot! What do you mean ‘oh’?” “It’s a stream,” Zoltan calmly explained. “A right-bank tributary of the Chotla. It’s called the O.” “Ey…” “Not a bit of it!” Percival Schuttenbach laughed. “The A joins the Chotla upstream, some way from here. That’s the O, not the A.”

“I saw it!” the gnome said indignantly. “I saw it hopping about among the stones! It was skinny and dressed all in black like a tax collector…”

“I’m not certain,” Regis said, smiling through pursed lips, “that you’re treating the right illness. I’d also like to remind you that one should treat causes, not symptoms.”

“That’s right,” he said. “It’s easy to adopt an affected style and start using words like that every day. Then people take the speaker for an arrogant buffoon.”

“Or a witcher,” Dandelion snorted, “who’s read a lot to impress a certain enchantress. Nothing attracts enchantresses like an elaborate tale, gentlemen. Am I right, Geralt? Go on, spin us a yarn…”

“It’s time you gave up your secrets, Geralt,” Zoltan grimaced. “Dandelion hasn’t told us much we didn’t know. You can’t help it if you’re a walking legend.

“Every sentient creature on this earth, when it falls into want, poverty and misfortune, usually cleaves to his own. Because it’s easier to survive the bad times in a group, helping one another. But you, humans, you just wait for a chance to make money from other people’s mishaps. When there’s hunger you don’t share out your food, you just devour the weakest ones. This practice works among wolves, since it lets the healthiest and strongest individuals survive. But among sentient races selection of that kind usually allows the biggest bastards to survive and dominate the rest. Come to your own conclusions and make your own predictions.”

“That’s enough, darn it,” the Witcher hissed,

“It only concerns you,” Dandelion repeated slowly. “You don’t need anybody. Company impedes you and slows down your journey. You don’t expect help from anybody and you have no intention of relying on anybody. Furthermore, you love solitude. Have I forgotten anything?”

A baptism of fire, I’d say. You’ll pass through fire, which burns, but also purges. And you’ll do it alone. For were someone to support you in this, help you, take on even a scrap of that baptism of fire, that pain, that penance, they would, by the same token, impoverish you. They would deprive you of part of the expiation you desire, which would be owed to them for their involvement. After all, it should be your exclusive expiation. Only you have a debt to pay off, and you don’t want to run up debts with other creditors at the same time. Is my logic correct?”

“Ignorance”—Regis smiled—“is no justification for ill-conceived actions. When one doesn’t know or has doubts it’s best to seek advice…”

“That’s him all over,” Milva said, pouting. “He’s all talk. If he doesn’t know what to do, he just talks and gets offended. Haven’t you lot caught on yet?”

The world is full of evil, so it’s sufficient to stride ahead, and destroy the Evil encountered on the way, in that way rendering a service to Good. The rest takes care of itself. To put it another way: being in motion is everything, the goal is nothing.”

That cauldron of soup was the result of cooperation. Of teamwork. The joint efforts of a fellowship united by a common goal. Get it, friend?”

“But I do keep hoping he’ll finally decide to strain his grey matter. Perhaps he’ll come to some useful conclusions. Perhaps he’ll realise the only activity that’s worth doing alone is wanking.”

“Ask not me for mercy, but those whom you wronged with your magic. You had the courage to commit those deeds, now have courage when your pursuers and justice are close at hand. It is not in my power to pardon your sins.”

‘He doesn’t drink? Don’t invite him, he’ll spoil the party!’

Ysgith means mud hole. “Stink hole” would be more appropriate.

Life, it turns out, isn’t poetry! And do you know why? Because it’s so resistant to criticism!”

In this rotten world, Zoltan Chivay, goodness, honesty and integrity become deeply engraved in the memory.”

“I mean, they call you Geralt of Rivia.” “A slight correction,” he replied coldly. “I call myself that to make my name sound fancier. It’s an addition that inspires more trust in my clients.”

“I drew sticks, marked with various grand-sounding names. My witcher preceptor suggested that method to me, although not initially. Only after I’d insisted on adopting the name Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde. Vesemir thought it was ridiculous; pretentious and idiotic. I dare say he was right.”

“Do you think we’re savages, Nilfgaardian? Primitive tribes, obeying some sort of shamanic taboo? It’s obvious that only the woman can make a decision like that. It’s her inalienable right.

“Thome thon-of-a-bitch thmacked me right in the fathe. A trifle.”

“You held the bridge with tholdierth of Rivia, valiant Geralt of nowhere. It jutht theemed to happen, ha, ha. Well, it hath come to me to give you a predicate for that deed: Geralt of Rivia. Ha, ha.”