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working towards it for over a hundred. You want to know why I entered King Henselt's
service, why I made such a decision? I can't allow all that work to go to waste. For over a
hundred years we've been trying to come to terms with the humans. The halflings, gnomes,
us, even the elves  I'm not talking about rusalkas, nymphs and sylphs, they've always been
savages, even when you weren't here. Damn it all, it took a hundred years but, somehow or
other, we managed to live a common life, next to each other, together. We managed to
partially convince humans that we're not so very different '
'We're not different at all, Yarpen.'
The dwarf turned abruptly.
'We're not different at all,' repeated Ciri. 'After all, you think and feel like Geralt. And like . . .
like I do. We eat the same things, from the same pot. You help Triss and so do I. You had a
grandmother and I had a grandmother . . . My grandmother was killed by the Nilfgaardians. In
Cintra.'
And mine by the humans,' the dwarf said with some effort. 'In Brugge. During the pogrom.'
*
'Riders!' shouted one of Wenck's advance guards. 'Riders ahead!'
The commissar trotted up to Yarpen's wagon and Geralt approached from the other side.
'Get in the back, Ciri,' he said brusquely. 'Get off the box and get in the back! Stay with Triss.'
'I can't see anything from there!'
'Don't argue!' growled Yarpen. 'Scuttle back there and be quick about it! And hand me the
martel. It's under the sheepskin.'
'This?' Ciri held up a heavy, nasty-looking object, like a hammer with a sharp, slightly curved
hook at its head.
'That's it,' confirmed the dwarf. He slipped the handle into the top of his boot and laid the axe
on his knees. Wenck, seeming calm, watched the highway while sheltering his eyes with his
hand.
'Light cavalry from Ban Glean,' he surmised after a while. 'The so-called Dun Banner - I
recognise them by their cloaks and beaver hats. Remain calm. And stay sharp. Cloaks and
beaver hats can be pretty quick to change owners.'
The riders approached swiftly. There were about ten of them. Ciri saw Paulie Dahlberg, in the
wagon behind her, place two readied crossbows on his knee and Regan covered them with a
cloak. Ciri crept stealthily out from under the canvas, hiding behind Yarpen's broad back.
Triss tried to raise herself, swore and collapsed against her bedding.
'Halt!' shouted the first of the riders, no doubt their leader. Who are you? From whence and to
where do you ride?'
Who asks?' Wenck calmly pulled himself upright in the saddle. 'And on whose authority?'
'King Henselt's army, inquisitive sir! Lance-corporal Zyvik asks, and he is unused to asking
twice! So answer at the double! Who are you?'
'Quartermaster's service of the King's army.'
'Anyone could claim that! I see no one here bearing the King's colours!'
'Come closer, lance-corporal, and examine this ring.'
'Why flash a ring at me?' The soldier grimaced. 'Am I supposed
to know every ring, or something? Anyone could have a ring like that. Some significant sign!'
Yarpen Zigrin stood up in the box, raised his axe and with a swift move pushed it under the
soldier's nose.
'And this sign,' he snarled. 'You know it? Smell it and remember how it smells.'
The lance-corporal yanked the reins and turned his horse.
'Threaten me, do you?' he roared. 'Me? I'm in the king's service!'
'And so are we,' said Wenck quietly. 'And have been for longer than you at that, I'm sure. I
warn you, trooper, don't overdo it.'
'I'm on guard here! How am I to know who you are?'
'You saw the ring,' drawled the commissar. 'And if you didn't recognise the sign on the jewel
then I wonder who you are. The colours of your unit bear the same emblem so you ought to
know it.'
The soldier clearly restrained himself, influenced, no doubt, equally by Wenck's calm words
and the serious, determined faces peering from the escort's carts.
'Hmm . . .' he said, shifting his fur-hat towards his left ear. 'Fine. But if you truly are who you
claim to be, you will not, I trust, have anything against my having a look to see what you
carry in the wagons.'
'We will indeed.' Wenck frowned. 'And very much, at that. Our load is not your business,
lance-corporal. Besides, I do not understand what you think you may find there.'
'You do not understand.' The soldier nodded, lowering his hand towards the hilt of his sword.
'So I shall tell you, sir. Human trafficking is forbidden and there is no lack of scoundrels
selling slaves to the Nilfgaardians. If I find humans in stocks in your wagons, you will not
convince me that you are in the king's service. Even if you were to show me a dozen rings.'
'Fine,' said Wenck dryly. 'If it is slaves you are looking for then look. You have my
permission.'
The soldier cantered to the wagon in the middle, leaned over from the saddle and raised the
canvas.
'What's in those barrels?'
'What do you expect? Prisoners?' sneered Yannick Brass, sprawled in the coachman's box.
'I am asking you what's in them, so answer me!'
'Salt fish.' [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]