Анджей Сапковский: Lesser Evil

As usual, cats and children were the first to notice him. A tabby tomcat sleeping on a pile of logs warmed by the sun, twitched and raised his round head, pulled its ears back, spat and made away among the nettle.

Three-year-old Drogomir, son of Trigla the fisherman, who was doing his best to stain his flimsy tunic, already smudged and filthy, on the doorstep of their cottage, fell a-screaming, fixing his tearful eyes on the horseman passing by.

The hexer was riding slowly, not attempting to take over the hayladen wagon which hogged the narrow street. Behind him, with its neck stretched, trotted an overladen donkey every now and then strongly tautening the strap, attached to the pommel horn of his saddle. Apart from the usual saddle-bags the beast was lugging a conspicuous form wrapped in a saddle-cloth on its back. One of the donkey's greyish-white sides was covered in black streaks of coagulated gore.

Eventually, the wagon turned into a side street, leading to a granary and wharf, from where breeze blew the smell of tar and ox urine. Geralt sped up. He did not react to the muffled cry of the vegetable stallholder wenches, her gaze fixed at the bony, clawed paw sticking from under the saddle-cloth, swinging to the rhythm of the donkey's steps. He did not look back at the growing rabble following him, moving there and back in anxiety.

There were plenty of carts and wagons in front of the riff's house.

Geralt alighted from his saddle, adjusted the sword on his back, tossed the reins over a wooden balustrade. The crowd following him stood in a semicircle round the donkey.

Shouting of the riff could already be heard some distance from the entrance.

"I'm telling you, It's not allowed! Not allowed, dammit! Don't you understand common, you thickwit?"

Geralt entered. In front of the little pot-bellied riff, red with anger, there was a peasant standing and holding a struggling goose by the neck.

"What… By all the gods! Is that you Geralt? Don't my eyes deceive me?" and then turning to the peasant, "Off with it, you villain! You deaf, or what?"

"They said," mumbled the peasant squinting at the goose, "that something must be brought to you, sir… or else…"

"Who said? shouted the sheriff, "Who? Meaning what? That I can be greased? I do not allow, I'm telling you! Off, I'm telling you! Welcome, Geralt."

"Welcome, Caldemeyn."

Shaking the hexer's hand, the sheriff gave him a tap on the arm with the other hand.

"You must have been away for two years, Geralt. Eh? Must you be such a rolling stone. Where are you coming from? Well, to hell with it, what difference does it make, where from. Ho there! Someone bring a mug of ale!

Sit down, Geralt, take a seat. We've got some commotion here, for it's the fair tomorrow. what's business like How's things with you! Tell me!"

"Later, let's go out first."

Outside, the crowd must have doubled but the free space around the donkey did not reduce. Geralt lifted the blanket energetically. The crowd gasped and backed. Caldemeyn opened his mouth wide.

"By all the gods, Geralt! What is that?"

"Kikimore. Isn't there a reward to be got for it, Mr Sheriff?"

Caldemeyn moved his weight from one foot to the other, looking at the spidery form, covered by dried black hide, at the glassy eye with a vertical pupil, at the needle-like fangs inside the blood-stained jaws.

"Where… Where from did…"

"Up on the dike, four miles away from the town. On the marches.

Caldemeyn, people must have been getting killed there. Children."

"Well, so it's been. But no one… Who could presume… Hey, folks, go home, go to work! This is not a circus! cover it, Geralt. It's gathering flies."

Back in the chamber and without a word, the sheriff got hold of the tankard of ale and drank it dry, without taking it away from his lips. He sighed deeply, and sniffed.

"There is no reward," he said cheerlessly "No one even supposed that something like that could be dwelling in those salt marshes. True, a few people disappeared thereabouts but… There weren't many to wander over that dike. And how did you get there? Why didn't you follow the main road?"

"It's difficult for me to find business on the main roads, Caldemeyn."

"I forgot," the sheriff muffled a belch by blowing his cheeks, "And such a quiet place it used to be. Even the pixies didn't frequently piss into milk, here. And there it is! A stone's throw to that kinky mare.

Looks like I would have to thank you. For to pay, I cannot. I've got no funds.

"Bad luck. Some cash would come in handy for spending the winter," the hexer took a gulp from the tankard, and the froth from his mouth. — I'm planning to be off to Yspaden but I don't know if I'll have made it by the time snow blocks the roads. I may get stuck in one of the fortified boroughs along the Luton road.

"Will you tarry long in Blaviken?"

"Not long. I'm short of time to tarry. Winter is coming."

"Where are you going to stay? How about my place? There's a free room in the attic, why should you let yourself be ripped off by those thieving inn-keepers. We will talk, you'll tell me the news of the wide world."

"With pleasure. But what will your Libushe say? Last time, one could notice that she is not too fond of me."

"In my home, women don't have their say. But, between me, you and the doorpost, in her presence don't do what you did last time during supper again."

"D'you mean throwing the fork at a rat?"

"No, I mean hitting it though it was dark."

"I thought it would be funny."

"It was but do not do it in Libushe's presence. Listen, and that… whatchummacallit… Kiki…"

"Kikimore."

"D'you need it for anything?"

"Pry, what for? If there is no reward you may have it thrown into the dung."

"I quite like the idea. Hey, you, Karelka, Borg, Carrypebble! Anybody there?"

A town guard entered, the partisan resting against his shoulder, its blade loudly catching on the door-frame.

"Carrypebble," said Caldemeyn. "Get someone to help you, take the donkey that's in front of the cottage together with that shit wrapped in a blanket, take it behind the sties and drown in cow dung. Got it?

"Following your order. But… Master riff… "

"What?"

"Mabbe, before the horror is to be drowned… "

"Well…"

"Shan't we show it to Master Irion. Chance be that he may need it for something."

Caldemeyn slapped his forehead with an open palm.

"You're not that dumb, Carrypebble. Listen, Geralt, maybe our local sorcerer kick something back for that carcass. Fishermen carry various bizzarfish, octopi, clabatres or nerdfish; many a fisherman got rewarded for that. Come, let's take a stroll to the tower."

"You've come by a sorcerer? For good, or for a while?"

"For good. Master Irion. Has lived in Blaviken for a year. A mighty mage, Geralt, you can tell it just by the way he looks."

"I doubt if a mighty mage will pay for a kikimore," Geralt made a wry face. "As far as I know, he needs it for making no potions. Quite likely your Irion will only abuse me. We, the hexers, are not fond of sorcerers."

"I've never heard Master Irion to abuse anyone. I cannot swear he will pay but trying won't do any harm. There may be more of such kikimoros in the marshes, and what then? Let the wizard have a look at the creature, and just in case cast some spell on the marsh, or what."

The hexer considered it for a little while.

"Point for you, Caldemeyn. Well, let us risk a meeting with Master Irion. Shall we be going?"

"We are. Carrypebble, chase these brats away and take the beast by the strap. Where's my cap?"

The tower, built from smooth-hewn granite blocks, with crenellated battlements, looked impressively, towering over the broken roof-tiles of the houses and caved-in thatched roofs of the cottages.