Season of Storms (The Witcher, #6)

by Andrzej Sapkowski

‘It has reached our ears,’ he puffed angrily, ‘that the Honourable Madam Neyd makes magical concoctions available to womenfolk who don’t want children. And helps those who are already pregnant to abort the foetus. We, here in Kerack, consider such a practice immoral.’ ‘What a woman has a natural right to,’ replied Coral, dryly, ‘cannot – ipso facto – be immoral.’

There was no problem for the boys rejected by Ban Ard – they joined the diplomatic service, the army, navy or police while politics was left for the stupidest.

They are both – I had the impression – as slippery as turds in mayonnaise. If you know what I mean.’

The Witcher sighed. He’d happened to observe the effects of the safe functioning teleportals more than once and he’d also helped sorting the remains of people who’d used teleportals. Which was why he knew that declarations about their safety could be classified along with such statements as: ‘my little dog doesn’t bite’, ‘my son’s a good boy’, ‘this stew’s fresh’, ‘I’ll give you the money back the day after tomorrow at the latest’, ‘he was only getting something out of my eye’, ‘the good of the fatherland comes before everything’, and ‘just answer a few questions and you’re free to go’.

Indeed, they’re one step away from creating a woman with a perfectly flat back, so you can fuck her from behind and have somewhere to put a glass of champagne and play solitaire at the same time.

She was short and slightly built. It didn’t deceive the Witcher. He was aware, because he had experienced it, that in life – as at a post station – even very hideous things could be delivered in quite unspectacular packages.

‘I came from Cidaris on a stagecoach and await a transfer. Time is dragging, so the honourable witcher and I are sitting together, conversing and converting beer into urine.’

‘Leave him, officer,’ Addario Bach said freely. ‘He’s my servant, employed by me. He’s a halfwit, an errant imbecile. It’s a family affliction. By great fortune his younger siblings are normal. Their mother finally understood she shouldn’t drink from the puddles outside a plague house when pregnant.’ Trent opened his mouth even wider, lowered his head, grunted and groaned. Ligenza also grunted and made a movement as though to stand up. The dwarf laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t get up, lad. And keep quiet, keep quiet. I know the theory of evolution, I know what creature humans evolved from, you don’t have to keep reminding me. Let him off, too, commandant, sir. He’s also my servant.’

Why, in the fervour, I exaggerated a tiny bit. She probably isn’t one of those you can get away with slapping on the bottom and calling a whore. She’s liable to return, and I’d prefer not to be here when she does.

‘“A story is a largely false account, of largely trivial events, fed to us by historians who are largely idiots”,’ smiled the Witcher.

‘Someone once rightly listed the three most beautiful sights in the world,’ said Addario Bach, staring at the spectacle. ‘A ship in full sail, a galloping horse and you know . . . a naked woman lying in bed.’ ‘Dancing.’ A faint smile played around the Witcher’s lips. ‘A woman dancing, Addario.’ ‘If you say so,’ the dwarf agreed. ‘A naked woman dancing. And that little boat, ha, you have to admit, looks lovely on the water.’

‘You struck him too hard.’ ‘That was my intention,’ said Geralt, wiping the sword blade with a napkin taken from the table. ‘Dandelion, how are you? Everything in order? Can you stand?’ ‘I’m good, I’m good,’ gibbered Dandelion. ‘I’m feeling better. Much better . . .’ ‘You don’t look like someone who’s feeling better.’ ‘Dammit, I’ve barely escaped with my life!’ said the poet, getting to his feet and holding on to a bureau. ‘For fuck’s sake, I’ve never been so afraid . . . I felt like the insides were falling out of my arse. And that everything would drop out of me, teeth included. But when I saw you I knew you’d save me. I mean, I didn’t, but I was counting strongly on it . . . How much sodding blood there is . . . How it stinks in here! I think I’m going to puke again . . .’

‘Here’s the wine,’ said the innkeeper, putting an earthenware jug on the table. ‘Apple wine from Rivia, as requested. My wife asked me to ask you how you’re finding the pork.’ ‘We’re finding it among the kasha,’ replied Dandelion. ‘From time to time. Not as often as we’d like to.’ The tavern they had reached at the end of the day was, as the colourful sign announced, The Wild Boar and Stag. But the sign was the only game offered by the establishment; you wouldn’t find it on the menu.

My gleam penetrates the darkness, my brightness disperses the gloom.