Caldemeyn. What the heck, we'll risk a meeting with Master Irion. Shall we go?'
'We're off. Carrypebble, chase the kids away and bring the floppyears. Where's my hat?'
II
The tower, built from smoothly hewn blocks of granite and crowned by tooth-like battlements, was impressive, dominating the broken tiles of homesteads and dipping-roofed thatched cottages.
'He's renovated it, I see,' remarked Geralt. 'With spells, or did he have you working at it?'
'Spells, chiefly.'
'What's he like, this Irion?'
'Decent. He helps people. But he's a recluse, doesn't say much. He rarely leaves the tower.'
On the door, which was adorned with a rosace inlaid with pale wood, hung a huge knocker in the shape of a flat bulging-eyed fish-head holding a brass ring in its toothed jaws. Caldemeyn, obviously well-versed with the workings of its mechanics, approached, cleared his throat and recited:
'Alderman Caldemeyn greets you with a case for Master Irion. With him greets you, Witcher Geralt, with respect to the same case.'
For a long moment nothing happened, then finally the fish-head moved its toothed mandibles and belched a cloud of steam.
'Master Irion is not receiving. Leave, my good people.'
Caldemeyn waddled on the spot and looked at Geralt. The witcher shrugged. Carrypebble picked his nose with serious concentration.
'Master Irion is not receiving,' the knocker repeated metallically. 'Go, my good—'
'I'm not a good person,' Geralt broke in loudly. 'I'm a witcher That thing on the donkey is a kikimora, and I killed it not far
from town. It is the duty of every resident wizard to look after the safety of the neighbourhood. Master Irion does not have to honour me with conversation, does not have to receive me, if that is his will. But let him examine the kikimora and draw his own conclusions. Carrypebble, unstrap the kikimora and throw it down by the door.'
'Geralt,' the alderman said quietly. 'You're going to leave but I'm going to have to—'
'Let's go, Caldemeyn. Carrypebble, take that finger out of your nose and do as I said.'
'One moment,' the knocker said in an entirely different tone. 'Geralt, is that really you?'
The witcher swore quietly.
'I'm losing patience. Yes, it's really me. So what?'
'Come up to the door,' said the knocker, puffing out a small cloud of steam. 'Alone. I'll let you in.'
'What about the kikimora?'
'To hell with it. I want to talk to you, Geralt. Just you. Forgive me, Alderman.'
'What's it to me, Master Irion?' Caldemeyn waved the matter aside. 'Take care, Geralt. We'll see each other later. Carrypebble! Into the cesspool with the monster!'
As you command.'
The witcher approached the inlaid door, which opened a little bit - just enough for him to squeeze through - and then slammed shut, leaving him in complete darkness.
'Hey!' he shouted, not hiding his anger.
'Just a moment,' answered a strangely familiar voice.
The feeling was so unexpected that the witcher staggered and stretched out his hand, looking for support. He didn't find any.
The orchard was blossoming with white and pink, and smelled of rain. The sky was split by the many-coloured arc of a rainbow, which bound the crowns of the trees to the distant, blue chain of mountains. The house nestled in the orchard, tiny and modest, was drowning in hollyhocks. Geralt looked down and discovered that he was up to his knees in thyme.
'Well, come on, Geralt,' said the voice. 'I'm in front of the house.'
He entered the orchard, walking through the trees. He noticed a movement to his left and looked round. A fair-haired girl, entirely naked, was walking along a row of shrubs carrying a basket full of apples. The witcher solemnly promised himself that nothing would surprise him anymore.
'At last. Greetings, witcher.'
'Stregobor!' Geralt was surprised.
During his life, the witcher had met thieves who looked like town councillors, councillors who looked like beggars, harlots who looked like princesses, princesses who looked like calving
'We're off. Carrypebble, chase the kids away and bring the floppyears. Where's my hat?'
II
The tower, built from smoothly hewn blocks of granite and crowned by tooth-like battlements, was impressive, dominating the broken tiles of homesteads and dipping-roofed thatched cottages.
'He's renovated it, I see,' remarked Geralt. 'With spells, or did he have you working at it?'
'Spells, chiefly.'
'What's he like, this Irion?'
'Decent. He helps people. But he's a recluse, doesn't say much. He rarely leaves the tower.'
On the door, which was adorned with a rosace inlaid with pale wood, hung a huge knocker in the shape of a flat bulging-eyed fish-head holding a brass ring in its toothed jaws. Caldemeyn, obviously well-versed with the workings of its mechanics, approached, cleared his throat and recited:
'Alderman Caldemeyn greets you with a case for Master Irion. With him greets you, Witcher Geralt, with respect to the same case.'
For a long moment nothing happened, then finally the fish-head moved its toothed mandibles and belched a cloud of steam.
'Master Irion is not receiving. Leave, my good people.'
Caldemeyn waddled on the spot and looked at Geralt. The witcher shrugged. Carrypebble picked his nose with serious concentration.
'Master Irion is not receiving,' the knocker repeated metallically. 'Go, my good—'
'I'm not a good person,' Geralt broke in loudly. 'I'm a witcher That thing on the donkey is a kikimora, and I killed it not far
from town. It is the duty of every resident wizard to look after the safety of the neighbourhood. Master Irion does not have to honour me with conversation, does not have to receive me, if that is his will. But let him examine the kikimora and draw his own conclusions. Carrypebble, unstrap the kikimora and throw it down by the door.'
'Geralt,' the alderman said quietly. 'You're going to leave but I'm going to have to—'
'Let's go, Caldemeyn. Carrypebble, take that finger out of your nose and do as I said.'
'One moment,' the knocker said in an entirely different tone. 'Geralt, is that really you?'
The witcher swore quietly.
'I'm losing patience. Yes, it's really me. So what?'
'Come up to the door,' said the knocker, puffing out a small cloud of steam. 'Alone. I'll let you in.'
'What about the kikimora?'
'To hell with it. I want to talk to you, Geralt. Just you. Forgive me, Alderman.'
'What's it to me, Master Irion?' Caldemeyn waved the matter aside. 'Take care, Geralt. We'll see each other later. Carrypebble! Into the cesspool with the monster!'
As you command.'
The witcher approached the inlaid door, which opened a little bit - just enough for him to squeeze through - and then slammed shut, leaving him in complete darkness.
'Hey!' he shouted, not hiding his anger.
'Just a moment,' answered a strangely familiar voice.
The feeling was so unexpected that the witcher staggered and stretched out his hand, looking for support. He didn't find any.
The orchard was blossoming with white and pink, and smelled of rain. The sky was split by the many-coloured arc of a rainbow, which bound the crowns of the trees to the distant, blue chain of mountains. The house nestled in the orchard, tiny and modest, was drowning in hollyhocks. Geralt looked down and discovered that he was up to his knees in thyme.
'Well, come on, Geralt,' said the voice. 'I'm in front of the house.'
He entered the orchard, walking through the trees. He noticed a movement to his left and looked round. A fair-haired girl, entirely naked, was walking along a row of shrubs carrying a basket full of apples. The witcher solemnly promised himself that nothing would surprise him anymore.
'At last. Greetings, witcher.'
'Stregobor!' Geralt was surprised.
During his life, the witcher had met thieves who looked like town councillors, councillors who looked like beggars, harlots who looked like princesses, princesses who looked like calving
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