Анджей Сапковский - Lesser Evil

"Renewed it, as I see," said Geralt. "With magic, or did he get you to work?"

"With magic, mostly."

"What is he like — this Irion of yours?"

"Decent. Helps people. But he's a recluse and a man of few words.

Hardly leaves the tower."

On the door, adored with a rosette intarsiated in light wood, there hung a giant knocker, shaped into a flat bulge-eyed head of a fish holding a brass ring in its toothed mouth. Caldemeyn, obviously knowing how the mechanism worked, approached, cleared his throat and recited:

"Greetings from Caldemeyn the riff, having a supplication to Master Irion. Together with him, greets hexer Geralt of Rivia, also having a supplication."

For a long while nothing happened, eventually the fish head moved its toothed jaw and discharged a puff of steam.

"Master Irion sees no man. Go in peace, good men."

Caldemeyn moved his feet uneasily, and looked at Geralt. The hexer shrugged his arms. Carrypebble, now solemn and concentrated, was picking his nose.

"Master Irion sees no man," repeated the knocker metallically, "Go in peace, good…"

"I am not a good man," interrupted Geralt loudly, "I am a hexer. The thing on the donkey is a kikimore, I killed by the town. It is a duty of every resident sorcerer to care for security of his whereabouts. Master Irion does not have to honour me with a talk, and does not have to entertain me, if that's his will. Yet, let him see the kikimore and draw conclusions. Carrypebble, unstrap the kikimore and dump it here, by the very door."

"Geralt, said the riff silently, "You'll leave and, I'll have to… here…"

"Let's go, Caldemeyn. Carrypebble, get your finger out of your nose and do as you've been told."

"One moment," answered the knocker in a totally different voice, "Is that really you, Geralt?"

The hexer swore under his breath.

"I'm losing my patience. Yes, it is I, indeed. And what does it change that it is I, indeed?"

"Come closer to the door," said the knocker, letting out a puff of smoke, "Just you. I shall let you in."

"What about the kikimore?"

"Screw the kikimore. I want to talk to you, Geralt. Only with you.

Please forgive, Sheriff."

"What do I care, Master Irion?" Caldemeyn made a dismissive gesture with his hand, "Take care, Geralt. See you later. Carrypebble! Get the monster into cow dung!"

"You say!"

The hexer approached the intarsiated door, which opened slightly — just enough for him to squeeze through — and immediately slammed shut, leaving him in complete darkness.

"Hey!" he shouted, not concealing his anger.

"Just a minute," answered a strangely familiar voice.

The sensation was so unexpected, that the hexer reeled and stretched out his hand to find a support. He found none.

The orchard was in white and pink bloom, and smelled of rain. The sky was crossed by the multicolour arc of the rainbow, joining the crowns of the trees with the faraway deep-blue mountain range. The house in the middle of the orchard — little and modest — was bathed in mallows. Geralt looked under his feet and decided that he was standing up to his knees in wild thyme.

"Just come on, Geralt," said a voice. "I'm in front of the house."

He walked into the orchard, among the trees. He notice a movement on the left, and turned. A fair-haired girl, totally naked was walking along a row of bushes, carrying a basket full of apples. The hexer promised himself earnestly never to wonder again.

"At last! Welcome, hexer."

"Stregobor!?" Geralt was amazed.

In his life, the hexer used to meet thieves looking like town councillors; town councillors, looking like ragged beggars, harlots looking like princesses; princesses looking like cows about to calve and kings looking like thieves. But Stregobor always looked like, according to all standards and beliefs, a sorcerer should. He was tall, thin and slouching. He had huge, grey, bushy eyebrows and a long, crooked nose.

What is more, he was wearing a black flowing robe with incredibly wide sleeves, and in his hand he was holding a longish stave with a crystal orb. None of the sorcerers known to Geralt looked like Stregobor. What was even more weird: Stregobor was actually a sorcerer."

They sat in wicker armchairs on a porch surrounded by mallows, by a table made of a slab of white marble. A naked blonde, carrying a basketful of apples, approached them, smiled, turned round and returned to the orchard, rocking and swaying her hips.

"Is that also an illusion?" asked Geralt, admiring the sway.

"Also. As everything around here. But it is, my dear, a first-class illusion. The blossom smells, you can eat the apples, the bees may sting you, and her," the sorcerer pointed at the blonde, "you can…"

"Maybe later."

"Well said. What are you doing here, Geralt? Are you still into killing the members of dying species for money? How much did you get for this kikimore? Presumably nothing: otherwise you wouldn't have come here.

And just think that there are people who do not believe in predestination!

Unless you knew about me… Did you? "

"No, I didn't. This is the last place where I'd expect to meet you.

As far as I can remember you used to live in a similar tower in Kovir, in the olden times."

"Much has changed since then."

"Like what they call you. You are said to be Master Irion."

"That was the name of the builder of this tower, He passed away some two hundred years ago. I decided he deserved being honoured in some way, when taking his seat over. I am on a residency here. Most of the locals live off the sea and, as you may remember, apart from illusions, weather has been my cup of fish. Sometimes I calm a storm, sometimes I start another, sometimes with the western wind I'd drive the shoals of whiting and cods closer to the shore. You can make a living. That is," he added bitterly, "you could".

"Why 'could'? And where's all that change of the name from?"

"Destiny has got many faces. Mine is beautiful on the outside, and horrible inside. And it has stretched its blood-dripping claws out towards me…"

"You haven't changed an inch, Stregobor," Geralt made a wry face.

"You're talking gibberish, making wise and meaningful faces at the same time. Can't you just speak plainly?"

"I can," sighed the sorcerer, "if this is to make you happy, I can. I reached this faraway place hiding and escaping from a horrible creature, which wants to murder me. The flight was to no avail: she found me. All probabilities considered, she will try to kill me tomorrow, or at furthest the day after.

"A-ha," said the hexer with no emotions. "Now I understand."

"It seems to me, pending death does not impress you much?"

"Stregobor," said Geralt. "That's what the world is like. You see plenty travelling. Two peasants keep killing each other for the footpath in the middle of the field that tomorrow will be trampled by the horses of the knights of two barons trying to kill each other. Along the roads, up on the trees, the hanged are dangling; and in the woods highwaymen slash merchants' throats. With every step you take in the cities, you trip on corpses in sewers. In palaces they stab one another with daggers, and at feasts every now and then someone crashes under the table, pallid from poison. I got used to. Why, then, the threat of death should impress me, especially if it threatens you?"

"Especially if it threatens me," repeated Stregobor ironically, "And I considered you a friend. I counted on your aid."

"Our last meeting," said Geralt "took place at the court of king Idi in Kovir. I came to collect the reward for killing the amphisbena which used to browbeat the neighbourhood. Then you and your confrere Zavist, vying with each other, started calling me a charlatan, a thoughtless murdering machine and — if I recall well — a carrion crow. As a result not only did Idi fail to pay me a penny but he granted me twelve hours to leave Kovir as well. And as his hour-glass was out of order, I hardly managed. And now, you say that you're counting on my help. You say there is a monster after you. What are you afraid of, Stregobor? If it gets you, tell it that you like monsters, you protect them, and pay attention that no carrion-eating hexer disturbs their peace. Indeed, it will turn out to be horribly ungrateful on the part of the monster, if it guts and devours you."