Анджей Сапковский - Lesser Evil

"Geralt," said Stregobor. "When we listened to Eltibald, many of us had their doubts. Yet we decided to choose the lesser evil. Now I am asking you for a similar choice."

"Evil is evil, Stregobor," said the hexer solemnly, raising from his seat. "Lesser, greater, average, it doesn't matter, proportions are debatable and the boundaries are blurred. I am not a saintly hermit and it is not only good that I have done in my life. But if I am to choose between one evil and another, I prefer to make no choice at all. Time for me. We'll see each other tomorrow."

"Maybe," said the sorcerer. "If you make it on time."

The Golden Manor, the representative inn of the town, was crowded and noisy. Patrons, locals and travellers alike, were mostly busy with doing things typical for their nations or professions. Very professional merchants were haggling with dwarves about the prices of goods or interests from loans. Not very professional merchants kept pinching the bottoms of the girls carrying around beer and pork stew. Local fools pretended to be well informed. Girlies were trying to look agreeable to those who had money, at the same time discouraging those who had none.

Coachmen and fishermen drank as if tomorrow a ban on hops was to be introduced. Sailors were singing a song praising sea waves, courage of captains, and the beauty of mermaids — the last being described in stimulating detail.

"Cudgel thy brains some more, Centurion — said Caldemeyn to the keeper, leaning over the bar, so that he could be heard in the general humdrum. — Six lads and a minx, black clad in silver studded leather, as is the fashion in Novigrad. I saw them at the toll-gates. Are they staying here or at the Tuna?

Wrinkles could be seen on the bulging forehead of the inn-keeper busily wiping a mug with his striped apron.

"Here, riff," — he eventually said. — "They spake that they arrived for the fair, yet all at swords, even the damsel. Black, as thou speakest, clad.

"Well," the riff nodded. "Where are they now? I can't see them here."

"In the lesser alcove. They paid in gold."

"I'll go there alone." said Geralt. "There's no point in making it an official case, at least not yet, and not with all of these present. I'll get here to here.

"It may be a right thing to do. But be careful! I want no turmoil here."

"I shall be careful."

"Judging by the increasing concentration of obscenities, the sailors' song was already close to its great finale. Geralt lifted the curtain covering the entrance to the alcove — stiff and clammy with dirt.

There were six men at the table in the alcove. She whom he expected to see was not there.

"What?" yelled the one who noticed him first, thinning on top, with his face disfigured by a scar running across the left brow, base of the nose and the right cheek.

"I want to see the Shrike."

Two identical people stood up from the table. Their faces were identically immobile, fair hair reaching their shoulders was identically dishevelled; they were clad in the same tight black leather clothes, glistening with silver ornaments. With the same type of movement, the twins raised their identical swords from the bench.

"Easy, Vyr. Sit down, Nimir." That was said by the man with the scar, who placed his elbows on the table. "Who's that, that you say, you want to see, brother? Who is that Shrike?"

"You know well who I mean."

"Who's he?" asked the half-naked roughneck, sweating and crossbelted, with spiked gauntlets on his forearms. "D'you know him, Nohorn?"

"I don't." Replied the man with the scar.

"Must be an albino," giggled a slim dark-haired man sitting beside Nohorn. Delicate features, huge black eyes and sharply-tipped ears were unmistakable signs of a half-elf. "An albino, a mutant, a prank of mother nature. Why are the likes of him allowed in an inn, among decent folks."

"I Must have seen him already somewhere," said the stout weatherbeaten fellow with plaited hair, scanning Geralt with an evil stare of his half-closed eyes.

"It doesn't matter where you've seen him, Tavik." Nohorn said. "Just listen, brother. Civril has dreadfully offended you a moment ago. Won't you challenge him? Such a boring evening."

"No," said the hexer calmly.

"And will you challenge me, if I pour this fish soup on your noddle? the half-naked one chuckled.

"Easy, Fifteen," said Nohorn. "No means no, and he said it. Well, brother, say what you've got to say and out you are!. It's your chance to go out by yourself. If you don't jump at it, the staff will carry you out."

"I have nothing to tell you. I want to see the Shrike. Renfri."

"Have you heard, lads?" Nohorn looked round at the company. "He wants to see Renfri. And why is that so, brother, if one may know, eh?"

"One may not."

Nohorn raised his head and looked at the twins, they took a step forward, the silver buckles of their high boots jingling.

"I know," said the one with the plait suddenly. "Now I remember where I saw him!"

"What are you muttering, Tavik?"

"In front of the riff's house. He brought some kind of a dragon for sale, such a cross between a spider and a crocodile. People thought him to be a hexer."

"What is a hexer?" asked Fifteen, the naked one. "Eh? Civril?"

"A hired witch," answered the half-elf. "A trickster for a handful of silver coins. Told you he was a prank of mother nature. An abhorrence in the eyes of gods and people. Such as him should be burnt."

"We don't like witches, Tavik grinned, unrelentingly scanning Geralt with his half-closed bloodshot eyes. - Something tells me, Civril, that we'll have more work in this dump than we thought we would. There must be more than one of them, and they are known to keep company."

"Birds of a feather flock together," the half-caste grinned. "How can earth bear the likes of you? Who spawns you, freaks?"

"More tolerance, if you could," said Geralt calmly. "Your mother, as far as I can see must have used to walk in the forest often enough for you to have reasons to reflect over your own ancestry."

"That may be," answered the half-elf without losing his smile. "But I at least knew my mother. As a hexer you cannot say it about yourself."

Geralt went slightly pale and bit his lips. Nohorn, who didn't fail to notice that, laughed loudly."

"Uh, brother! An offence like this! You just can't let it pass. What you've got on your back seems to be a sword. So? Will you go out with Civril? The evening's so boring."

The hexer did not react.

"A shitting chicken!" Tavik hissed.

"What has he said about Civril's mother?" Nohorn continued monotonously, resting his chin on clasped hands. - Something horrible gross, as far as I am concerned. That she was smutty, or whatnot? Hey, Fifteen, does it become to listen how some rover offends the mother of a companion? Mother's motherfirkng holy!"

Fifteen eagerly stood up, unbuckled the sword and hurled it onto the table. He inhaled and adjusted the his silver-studded gauntlets on the forearms, spat and took one step forward.

"If you've got any doubts," said Nohorn. "Fifteen is just challenging you to a fist-fight. I told you you'd be carried out. Make room."

Fifteen got closer, raising his fists. Geralt placed his hand on the handle of the sword.

"Beware," he said. "One more step, and you'll be looking for your hand on the floor."

Nohorn and Tavik sprang to their feet, clutching their swords. The silent twins unsheathed theirs with identical motions. Fifteen backed.

Only Civril made no move.

"Dammit! What's going on in here? Can't you just be left alone for a moment?"

Geralt turned back very slowly and looked into the eyes of the colour of sea water.

She was nearly as tall as he. Her hair, of the colour of straw, she had cut unevenly just over the ears. She was standing with one hand leaning against the door, in a short tight velvet doublet, girdled tightly by an ornamented belt. Her skirt was uneven, asymmetrical: on the left it reached the calf, and on the right it exposed a strong thigh over the bootleg of a high boot made of elk skin. There was a sword at her left side, and a dagger with a large ruby in the pommel at the right.