Blood Of Elves (32 page)

The man with the scar did not reply. Toublanc looked at his brothers sitting motionless and stiff on the bench. Rizzi, Flavius and Lodovico, as usual, said nothing. In the team they formed, it was they who killed, Toublanc who talked. Because only Toublanc had attended the Temple school. He was as efficient at killing as his brothers but he could also read and write. And talk.

‘And in order to kill such an ordinary dunce, Master Rience, you’re hiring not just any old thug from the port but us, the Michelet brothers? For a hundred Novigrad crowns?’

‘That is your usual rate,’ drawled the man with the scar, ‘correct?’

‘Incorrect,’ contradicted Toublanc coldly. ‘Because we’re not for the killing of ordinary fools. But if we do . . . Master Rience, this fool you want to see made a corpse is going to cost you two hundred. Two hundred untrimmed, shining crowns with the stamp of the Novigrad mint on them. Do you know why? Because there’s a catch here, honourable sir. You don’t have to tell us what it is, we can manage without that. But you will pay for it. Two hundred, I say. You shake on that price and you can consider that no-friend of yours dead. You don’t want to agree, find someone else for the job.’

Silence fell in the cellar reeking of mustiness and soured wine. A cockroach, briskly moving its limbs, scudded along the dirt floor. Flavius Michelet, moving his leg in a flash, flattened it with a crunch – hardly changing his position and not changing his expression in the least.

‘Agreed,’ said Rience. ‘You get two hundred. Let’s go.’

Toublanc Michelet, professional killer from the age of fourteen, did not betray his surprise with so much as the flicker of an eyelid. He had not counted on being able to bargain for more than a hundred and twenty, a hundred and fifty at the most. Suddenly he was sure that he had named too low a price for the snag hidden in his latest job.

Charlatan Myhrman came to on the floor of his own room. He was lying on his back, trussed up like a sheep. The back of his head was excruciatingly painful and he recalled that, in falling, he had

thumped his head on the door-frame. The temple, where he had been struck, also hurt. He could not move because his chest was being heavily and mercilessly crushed by a high boot fastened with buckles. The old fraud, squinting and wrinkling up his face, looked up. The boot belonged to a tall man with hair as white as milk. Myhrman could not see his face – it was hidden in a darkness not dispersed by the lantern standing on the table.

‘Spare my life . . .’ he groaned. ‘Spare me, I swear by the gods . . . I’ll hand you my money . . . Hand you everything . . . I’ll show you where it’s hidden . . .’

‘Where’s Rience, Myhrman?’

The charlatan shook at the sound of the voice. He was not a fearful man; there were not many things of which he was afraid. But the voice of the white-haired man contained them all. And a few others in addition.

With a superhuman effort of the will, he overcame the fear crawling in his viscera like some foul insect.

‘Huh?’ He feigned astonishment. ‘What? Who? What did you say?’

The man bent over and Myhrman saw his face. He saw his eyes. And the sight made his stomach slip right down to his rectum.

‘Don’t beat about the bush, Myhrman, don’t twist up your tail.’ The familiar voice of Shani, the medical student came from the shadows. ‘When I was here three days ago, here, in this high-backed chair, at this table, sat a gentleman in a cloak lined with musk-rat. He was drinking wine, and you never entertain anybody -only the best of friends. He flirted with me, brazenly urged me to go dancing at the Three Little Bells. I even had to slap his hand because he was starting to fondle me, remember? And you said: “Leave her alone, Master Rience, don’t frighten her, I needs must be on good terms with the little academics and do business”. And you both chuckled, you and your Master Rience with the burned face. So don’t start playing dumb now because you’re not dealing with someone dumber than yourself. Talk while you’re still being asked politely.’

Oh, you cocksure little student, thought the charlatan. You treach-

erous creep, you red-haired hussy, I’m going to find you and pay you back . . . Just let me get myself out of this.

‘What Rience?’ he yelped, writhing, trying in vain to free himself from the heel pressing down on his breast-bone. ‘And how am I to know who he is and where he is? All sorts come here, what am I—?’

The white-haired man leaned over further, slowly pulling the dagger from his other boot while pressing down harder on the charlatan’s chest with his first.

‘Myrhman,’ he said quietly, ‘believe me or don’t — as you like. But if you don’t immediately tell me where Rience is … If you don’t immediately reveal how you contact him . . . Then I will feed you, piece by piece, to the eels in the canal. Starting with your ears.’

There was something in the white-haired man’s voice which made the charlatan believe his every word. He stared at the stiletto blade and knew that it was sharper than the knives with which he punctured ulcers and boils. He started to shake so hard that the boot resting on his chest bounced nervously. But he did not say anything. He could not say anything. Not for the time being. Because if Rience were to return and ask why he had betrayed him, Myhrman would have to be able to show him why. One ear, he thought, one ear I have to endure. Then I’ll tell him . . .

‘Why waste time and mess about with blood?’ A woman’s soft alto suddenly resounded from the semi-darkness. ‘Why risk him twisting the truth and lying? Allow me to take care of him my way. He’ll talk so fast he’ll bite his own tongue. Hold him down.’

The charlatan howled and struggled against his fetters but the white-haired man crushed him to the floor with his knee, grabbed him by the hair and twisted his head. Someone knelt down next to them. He smelled perfume and wet bird feathers, felt the touch of fingers on his temple. He wanted to scream but terror choked him – all he managed was a croak.

‘You want to scream already?’ The soft alto right next to his ear purred like a cat. ‘Too soon, Myhrman, too soon. I haven’t started yet. But I will in a moment. If evolution has traced any groove at

all in your brain then I’m going to plough it somewhat deeper. And then you’ll see what a scream can really be.’

‘And so,’ said Vilgefortz, having heard the report, ‘our kings have started to think independently. They have started to plan independently, in an amazingly short time evolving from thinking on a tactical level to a strategic one? Interesting. Not so long ago -at Sodden - all they could do was gallop around with savage cries and swords raised at the van of their company without even looking around to check their company hadn’t by chance been left behind, or wasn’t galloping in an entirely different direction. And today, there they are - in Hagge Castle - deciding the fate of the world. Interesting. But to be honest, I expected as much.’

‘We know,’ confirmed Artaud Terranova. ‘And we remember, you warned us about it. That’s why we’re telling you about it.’

‘Thank you for remembering,’ smiled the wizard, and Tissaia de Vries was suddenly sure that he had already been aware of each of the facts just presented to him, and had been for a long time. She did not say a word. Sitting upright in her armchair, she evened up her lace cuffs as the left fell a little differently from the right. She felt Terranova’s unfavourable gaze and Vilgefortz’s amused eyes on her. She knew that her legendary pedantism either annoyed or amused everybody. But she did not care in the least.

‘What does the Chapter say to all this?’

‘First of all,’ retorted Terranova, ‘we would like to hear your opinion, Vilgefortz.’

‘First of all,’ smiled the wizard, ‘let us have something to eat and drink. We have enough time – allow me to prove myself a good host. I can see you are frozen through and tired from your journeys. How many changes of portals, if I may ask?’

‘Three.’ Tissaia de Vries shrugged.

‘It was nearer for me,’ added Artaud. ‘Two proved enough. But still complicated, I must admit.’

‘Such foul weather everywhere?’

‘Everywhere.’

‘So let us fortify ourselves with good fare and an old red wine from Cidaris. Lydia, would you be so kind?’

Lydia van Bredevoort, Vilgefortz’s assistant and personal secretary, appeared from behind the curtain like an ethereal phantom and smiled with her eyes at Tissaia de Vries. Tissaia, controlling her face, replied with a pleasant smile and bow of her head. Artaud Terranova stood up and bowed with reverence. He, too, controlled his expression very well. He knew Lydia.

Two servants, bustling around and rustling their skirts, swiftly lay out the tableware, plates and platters. Lydia van Bredevoort, delicately conjuring up a tiny flame between her thumb and index finger, lit the candles in the candelabras. Tissaia saw traces of oil paint on her hand. She filed it in her memory so later, after supper, she could ask the young enchantress to show her her latest work. Lydia was a talented artist.

They supped in silence. Artaud Terranova did not stint himself and reached without embarrassment for the platters and – probably a little too frequently, and without his host’s encouragement clanged the silver top of the carafe of red wine. Tissaia de Vries ate slowly, devoting more attention to arranging her plates, cutlery and napkins symmetrically – although, in her opinion, they still lay irregularly and hurt her predilection for order and her aesthetic sensibility – than to the fare. She drank sparingly. Vilgefortz ate and drank even more sparingly. Lydia, of course, did not drink or eat at all.

The candle flames undulated in long red and golden whiskers of fire. Drops of rain tinkled against the stained glass of the windows.

‘Well, Vilgefortz,’ said Terranova finally, rummaging in a platter with his fork in search of an adequately fatty piece of game. ‘What is your position regarding our monarchs’ behaviour? Hen Gedymdeith and Francesca sent us here because they want to know your opinion. Tissaia and I are also interested. The Chapter wants to assume a unanimous stand in this matter. And, should it come to action, we also want to act unanimously. So what do you advise?’

‘It flatters me greatly’    with a gesture, Vilgefortz thanked Lydia,

who was offering to put more broccoli on his plate – ‘that my opinion in this matter should be decisive for the Chapter.’

‘No one said that.’ Artaud poured himself some more wine. ‘We’re going to make a collective decision anyway, when the Chapter meets. But we wish to let everybody have the opportunity to express themselves beforehand so we can have an idea of all the various views. We’re listening, therefore.’

If we’ve finished supping, let us go through into the workshop, Lydia proposed telepathically, smiling with her eyes. Terranova looked at her smile and quickly downed what he had in his chalice. To the dregs.

‘Good idea.’ Vilgefortz wiped his fingers on a napkin. ‘We’ll be more comfortable there. My protection against magical eavesdropping is stronger there, too. Let us go. You can bring the carafe, Artaud.’

‘I won’t say no. It’s my favourite vintage.’

They went through to the workshop. Tissaia could not stop herself from casting an eye over the workbench weighed down with retorts, crucibles, test-tubes, crystals and numerous magical utensils. All were enveloped in a screening spell, but Tissaia de Vries was an Archmage – there was no screen she could not penetrate. And she was a little curious as to what the mage had been doing of late. She worked out the configuration of the recently used apparatus in a flash. It served for the detection of persons who had disappeared while enabling a psychic vision by means of the ‘crystal, metal, stone’ method. The wizard was either searching for someone or resolving a theoretical, logistical problem. Vilgefortz of Roggeveen was well known for his love of solving such problems.

They sat down in carved ebony armchairs. Lydia glanced at Vilgefortz, caught the sign transmitted by his eye and immediately left. Tissaia sighed imperceptibly.

Everyone knew that Lydia van Bredevoort was in love with Vilgefortz of Roggeveen, that she had loved him for years with a silent, relentless and stubborn love. The wizard, it is to be understood, also knew about this but pretended not to. Lydia made it easier for him by never betraying her feelings to him     she never

took the slightest step or made the slightest gesture, transmitted no sign by thought and, even if she could speak, would never have said a word. She was too proud. Vilgefortz, too, did nothing because he did not love Lydia. He could, of course, simply have have made her his lover, tied her to him even more strongly and, who knows, maybe even made her happy. There were those who advised him to do so. But Vilgefortz did not. He was too proud and too much a man of principle. The situation, therefore, was hopeless but stable, and this patently satisfied them both.

‘So.’ The young wizard broke the silence. ‘The Chapter are racking their brains about what to do about the initiatives and plans of our kings? Quite unnecessarily. Their plans must simply be ignored.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Artaud Terranova froze with the chalice in his left hand, the carafe in his right. ‘Did I understand you correctly? We are to do nothing? We’re to let—’

‘We already have,’ interrupted Vilgefortz. ‘Because no one asked us for our permission. And no one will. I repeat, we ought to pretend that we know nothing. That is the only rational thing to do.’

‘The things they have thought up threaten war, and on a grand scale at that.’

‘The things they have thought up have been made known to us thanks to enigmatic and incomplete information, which comes from a mysterious and highly dubious source. So dubious that the word “disinformation” stubbornly comes to mind. And even if it were true, their designs are still at the planning stage and will remain so for a long while yet. And if they move beyond that stage . . . Well, then we will act accordingly.’

‘You mean to say,’ Terranova screwed up his face, ‘we will dance to the tune they play?’

‘Yes, Artaud.’ Vilgefortz looked at him and his eyes flashed. ‘You will dance to the tune they play. Or you will take leave of the dance-floor. Because the orchestra’s podium is too high for you to climb up there and tell the musicians to play some other tune. Realise that at las!. II you think another solution is possible, you