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bored.
'You nasty rhymester. You runt. You scum. You arrogant nobody. You tried to run from me?
No one has escaped me yet. We haven't finished our conversation, you clown, you sheep's
head. I asked you a question under much pleasanter circumstances than these. Now you are
going to answer all my questions, and in far less pleasant circumstances. Am I right?'
Dandilion nodded eagerly. Only now did Rience smile and make a sign. The bard squealed
helplessly, feeling the rope tighten and his arms, twisted backwards, cracking in their joints.
You can't talk,' Rience confirmed, still smiling loathsomely, 'and it hurts, doesn't it? For the
moment, you should know I'm having you strung up like this for my own pleasure just
because I love watching people suffer. Go on, just a little higher.'
Dandilion was wheezing so hard he almost choked.
'Enough,' Rience finally ordered, then approached the poet and grabbed him by his shirt
ruffles. 'Listen to me, you little cock. I'm going to lift the spell so you can talk. But if you try
to raise your charming voice any louder than necessary, you'll be sorry.'
He made a gesture with his hand, touched the poet's cheek with his ring and Dandilion felt
sensation return to his jaw, tongue and palate.
'Now,' Rience continued quietly, 'I am going to ask you a few questions and you are going to
answer them quickly, fluently and comprehensively. And if you stammer or hesitate even for
a moment, if you give me the slightest reason to doubt the truth of your words, then . . . Look
down.'
Dandilion obeyed. He discovered to his horror that a short rope had been tied to the knots
around his ankles, with a bucket full of lime attached to the other end.
'If I have you pulled any higher,' Rience smiled cruelly, 'and this bucket lifts with you, then
you will probably never regain the feeling in your hands. After that, I doubt you will be
capable of playing anything on a lute. I really doubt it. So I think you'll talk to me. Am I
right?'
Dandilion didn't agree because he couldn't move his head or find his voice out of sheer fright.
But Rience did not seem to require confirmation.
'It is to be understood,' he stated, 'that I will know immediately if you are telling the truth, if
you try to trick me I will realise straight away, and I won't be fooled by any poetic ploys or
vague erudition. This is a trifle for me - just as paralysing you on the stairs was a trifle. So I
advise you to weigh each word with care, you piece of scum. So, let's get on with it and stop
wasting time. As you know, I'm interested in the heroine of one of your beautiful ballads,
Queen Calanthe of Cintra's granddaughter, Princess Cirilla, endearingly known as Ciri.
According to eye-witnesses this little person died during the siege of the town, two years ago.
Whereas in your ballad you so vividly and touchingly described her meeting a strange, almost
legendary individual, the . . . witcher . . . Geralt, or Gerald. Leaving the poetic drivel about
destiny and the decrees of fate aside, from the rest of the ballad it seems the child survived the
Battle of Cintra in one piece. Is that true?'
'I don't know . . .' moaned Dandilion. 'By all the gods, I'm only a poet! I've heard this and that,
and the rest . . .'
'Well?'
XI
'The rest I invented. Made it up! I don't know anything!' The bard howled on seeing Rience
give a sign to the reeking man and feeling the rope tighten. 'I'm not lying!'
'True.' Rience nodded. 'You're not lying outright, I would have sensed it. But you are beating
about the bush. You wouldn't have thought the ballad up just like that, not without reason.
And you do know the witcher, after all. You have often been seen in his company. So talk,
Dandilion, if you treasure your joints. Everything you know.'
'This Ciri,' panted the poet, 'was destined for the witcher. She's a so-called Child Surprise . . .
You must have heard it, the story's well known. Her parents swore to hand her over to the
witcher '
'Her parents are supposed to have handed the child over to that crazed mutant? That
murderous mercenary? You're lying, rhymester. Keep such tales for women.'
'That's what happened, I swear on my mother's soul,' sobbed Dandilion. 'I have it from a
reliable source . . . The witcher '
'Talk about the girl. For the moment I'm not interested in the witcher.'
'I don't know anything about the girl! I only know that the witcher was going to fetch her from
Cintra when the war broke out. I met him at the time. He heard about the massacre, about
Calanthe's death, from me . . . He asked me about the child, the queen's granddaughter . . . But
I knew everyone in Cintra was killed, not a single soul in the last bastion survived '
'Go on. Fewer metaphors, more hard facts!'
'When the witcher learned of the massacre and fall of Cintra he forsook his journey. We both
escaped north. We parted ways in Hengfors and I haven't seen him since . . . But because he
talked, on the way, a bit about this . . . Ciri, or whatever-her-name-is . . . and about destiny . . .
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