Анджей Сапковский - Lesser Evil

"You lost speech?"

"This is a hexer," Nohorn ventured.

"So what?"

"He wanted to talk to you."

"So what?"

"He's a witch," thundered Fifteen.

"We don't like witches, growl Tavik.

"Easy, boys," said the girl. "He wants to talk to me, and that's no crime. You, go on with having fun on your own. And no disturbance.

Tomorrow's a fair day. You can't possibly want your pranks to spoil the fair, it's such an important event in the life of this nice little town?"

In the silence that followed a silent, nasty snigger could be heard.

Civril, still carelessly sprawling on his bench, was laughing."

"Eh, you, Renfri," the half-caste grumbled. "Important…… event!"

"Shut up, Civril. This instant!"

Civril stopped laughing. In an instant. Geralt wasn't surprised.

There was a very peculiar note sounding in Renfri's voice. Something that could be associated with red reflections of a fire on the blades, yells of the murdered, neighing of horses and the smell of blood. Others must have had similar associations, as there was paleness creeping even over Tavik's weather-beaten kisser.

"Well, chalkhaired," Renfri broke the silence. "Let's go into a larger room, let's join the riff, with whom you came here. He must be willing to talk to me as well."

As soon as he noticed them Caldemeyn, waiting at the bar, broke his silent dialogue with the inn-keeper, stood straight and crossed his hands on the chest.

"Listen, ma'am," he said harshly, losing no time for exchanging brief cordialities. - I know from the Rivian hexer present here, what brings you to here, to Blaviken. Allegedly, you bear our sorcerer a grudge."

"I may. So what?" asked Renfri quietly, also in not too polite a manner.

"So that for such grudges we have either borough or castellan's courts. And ho wants to use iron to avenge a grudge here, in the Baycoves, is oft considered a common thug. And also that either early in the morning you leave Blaviken together with your black company, or I'll put you into the hole, pre… How d'you say that, Geralt?

"Preventively."

"That's it. Got it, lass?

Renfri reached into the purse she had at her belt, and fished out a folded parchment.

"Just read that riff, if you're literate. And call me 'lass' no more."

Caldemeyn took the parchment and having read it for a long while, he passed it to Geralt without a word.

"'To my barons, knights and free subjects,'" the hexer read aloud.

"'I am making it known to all and the sundry that Renfri, the Duchess of Creyden, at our service remains and is pleasant to our eyes, therefore our anger shall follow the one who should raise difficultys to her. Audoen, the king…' 'Difficulties' spells differently. Though the seal looks authentic."

"For it is authentic," said Renfri, wrenching the parchment from his hands. "It was sealed by Audoen, your graceful sire. Therefore I would advise raising me no difficulties whatsoever. However you spell it, the results may be pitiful for you. You will not, my riff, put me into the hole. Nor address me as 'lass'. I have not disobey any law. For now."

"If you violate it even an inch," Caldemeyn looked as if he wanted to spit. "I'll have you in the hole together with the parchment. I swear by all gods, lass. Come, Geralt."

"With you, hexer," Renfri touched Geralt's arm "one more word."

"Don't be late for supper," said the riff over his shoulder. "Because Libushe will be furious."

"I won't be late."

Geralt leaned against the bar. Playing with the medallion with wolf's head that was hanging on his neck, he was looking in the blue-green eyes of the girl.

"I've heard about you," she said. "You are Geralt of Rivia, the white-haired hexer. Stregobor's your friend?"

"No."

"This makes the matter easier."

"Not too much. I'm not going to watch it idly."

Renfri's eyes narrowed.

"Stregobor will die tomorrow," she said quietly, casting her unevenly cut hair off the forehead. "It would be a lesser evil if only he died."

"If, or rather before Stregobor dies, a few other people will. I see no other way out."

"A few, hexer, is an understatement."

"I need more than words to be alarmed, Shrike."

"Don't call me Shrike. I don't like it. The thing is that I see other ways out. They'd be worth a talk, but — well — Libushe's waiting. Is she at least pretty, that Libushe?"

"Is that all you've had to tell me?"

"No. But now go. Libushe's waiting."

Someone was in his little room in the attic. Geralt knew it before he approached the door, he understood it from the hardly perceptible vibration of the medallion. He extinguished the oil lamp, which he had used to light the stairs. He got a dagger out of his bootleg, and stuck it behind the belt on the back. He pressed the handle. It was dark in the room. Not for a hexer.

Purposefully, he stepped casually over the threshold, closing the door behind him at a leisurely pace. Next second, he took a mighty push, made one long leap, and landed on the someone sitting on his bed, pressing the person into the bedding; thrusting his left forearm under the man's chin, he reached for the dagger. He did not draw it. Something was wrong.

"Quite well begun," she said in a muffled voice, lying motionless under him. "I took this into consideration, but I did not think we'll land in bed so soon. Please, take this hand off my throat, if you could."

"That's you."

"That's me. Listen: there are two things we can do. The first is: you go off me and we have a chat. The other: we remain in this position, but you will at least let me take my boots off."

The hexer chose the first option. The girl sighed, stood up, and adjusted her hair and skirt.

"Light a candle," she said. "I cannot see in darkness like you, and I like seeing the man I talk to."

She approached the table, tall, slender, and nimble, and sat down, stretching her legs in high boots in front of her. She had no weapons visible.

"Got something to drink here?"

"Nope."

"In that case, it's good I have brought some," she laughed, placing a travel wineskin and two leather cups on the table.

"It's almost midnight," said Geralt coldly. "May we proceed to the matter?"

"In a while. Take it, drink. Your health, Geralt."

"Same to you, Shrike."

"Shit! My name's Renfri," she tossed her head. "I let you skip the ducal title, but stop calling me Shrike!"

"Hush, or you'll wake all the house up. Will I finally learn what you stole into here through the window for?"

"How dumb you are, hexer. I want to save Blaviken from a slaughter.

And to discuss that with you I crept along roofs, like a tabby cat in March. Just you appreciate it!

"I do," said Geralt. "Yet I know not what such a discussion may yield. Everything's fair. Stregobor is in his sorcerer's tower, in order to get him you would have to besiege him there. If you do so, your writ will be of no help. Audoen will not be protecting you if you openly break the law. The riff, the guards, all of Blaviken will stand against you.

"If all of Blaviken do so, they will be seriously sorry they had not." Renfri smiled, presenting her predatory white teeth. "Have you had a good look at my boys? I guarantee they know their craft well. Can you imagine what will happen if there is a fight between them and those numskulls from the guard, who trip on their halberds with every step they make?"

"And do you, Renfri, imagine that I will be standing and idly watching such a fight? As you see, I am staying at the riff's. In case of need it would become to stand at his side."

"And I do not doubt that you would," Renfri became serious. "You, probably alone, as all the rest will be hiding in the cellars. There is no warrior in this world who would manage against seven swordsmen. No man can accomplish this. But, chalkhaired, let's stop frightening each other. I said: slaughter and bloodshed can be prevented. Namely, there are two people who can achieve that."