hear them.
Geralt stopped his horse to let Niedamir's archers through. Behind them, a little way off, Borch rode slowly and right behind him, bringing up the rear guard, the Zerricanians. Geralt waited for them. He positioned his mare next to Borch's horse. They rode on in silence.
"Witcher," Three Jackdaws said suddenly. "I'd like to ask you a question."
"Ask away."
"Why don't you turn back?"
The witcher looked at him in silence for a while.
"You really want to know?"
"Yes," replied Three Jackdaws, turning to him.
"I walk in the column because I'm only a servile golem, only a strand of oakum carried by the wind on the highway. Where should I go? Tell me. For what purpose? In this company there are plenty of people to talk to. Some don't even cut short their conversations when I approach them. Those that don't like me tell me to my face, rather than talking behind my back. I accompany them for the same reason that I went with you in the bargemen's inn. Because it's all the same to me. I'm not expected to be anywhere in particular. There's nothing for me at the end of the road."
Three Jackdaws cleared his throat.
"At the end of every path, there is a goal, a purpose. Everybody has one. Even you, in spite of your difference."
"It is now my turn to ask you a question."
"Go for it."
"Do you see a goal at the end of your path?"
"I see one."
"Lucky."
"It's not a question of luck, Geralt. It's all a matter of what you believe and to what you devote yourself. Nobody can know this better than... What witcher?"
"Nobody stops talking about their ambitions today," murmured Geralt. "The ambition of Niedamir consists of conquering Malleore. That of Eyck of Denesle to protect the humans from dragons. Dorregaray feels called to accomplish a diametrically opposite purpose. Yennefer cannot fulfil her ambition owing to the changes to which her body has been subjected, and it upsets her. By the devil, only the Reavers and the dwarves seem not to need ambition. They simply want to make a packet. Perhaps that's why they appeal to me. "
"No, Geralt of Rivia, it is not they who appeal to you. I'm neither blind nor deaf. You didn't take out your purse to the soft music of their name. It seems to me that..."
"It's in vain," the witcher said without anger.
"I'm sorry."
"No need to apologise."
They stopped their mounts to avoid a collision with the archers of Caingorn who had stopped at the head of the column.
"What's happened?" Geralt stood up in his stirrups. "Why have we stopped?"
"I don't know," replied Borch, looking around.
Vea uttered something, looking strangely worried.
"I'm going to the front," declared the witcher. "I'll find out."
"Wait."
"Why?"
Three Jackdaws remained silent, staring at the ground.
"Why?" repeated Geralt.
"On second thought, go," Borch said finally. "I think perhaps it will be better to."
"Why will it be better?"
"Go."
The bridge linking up both edges of precipice seemed solid. It had been constructed with imposing logs of pine resting on a square pillar against which the current broke with crash in long rivulets of foam.
"Hey, Ripper!" shouted Boholt, approaching the wagon. "Why have you stopped?"
"I'm not sure about this bridge."
"Why are we going this way?" Gyllenstiern asked, going up to them. "I'm not keen on crossing this bridge with the wagons. Hey! Shoemaker! Why go this way? The track goes on farther westward!"
The heroic poisoner of Holopole went up to him and took off his sheepskin hat. He cut a comical air in his frockcoat covered with an old-fashioned breast-plate dating from at least the time of King Sambuk.
"This way is shorter, noble lord," he replied not to the chancellor but directly to Niedamir, whose face still expressed deathly boredom.
How's that?" demanded Gyllenstiern, his face contorted.
Niedamir did not deign to look at the shoemaker.
"Well," explained Kozojed, indicating the three jagged summits dominating the area. "Over there are Chiava, Big Kestrel and
Geralt stopped his horse to let Niedamir's archers through. Behind them, a little way off, Borch rode slowly and right behind him, bringing up the rear guard, the Zerricanians. Geralt waited for them. He positioned his mare next to Borch's horse. They rode on in silence.
"Witcher," Three Jackdaws said suddenly. "I'd like to ask you a question."
"Ask away."
"Why don't you turn back?"
The witcher looked at him in silence for a while.
"You really want to know?"
"Yes," replied Three Jackdaws, turning to him.
"I walk in the column because I'm only a servile golem, only a strand of oakum carried by the wind on the highway. Where should I go? Tell me. For what purpose? In this company there are plenty of people to talk to. Some don't even cut short their conversations when I approach them. Those that don't like me tell me to my face, rather than talking behind my back. I accompany them for the same reason that I went with you in the bargemen's inn. Because it's all the same to me. I'm not expected to be anywhere in particular. There's nothing for me at the end of the road."
Three Jackdaws cleared his throat.
"At the end of every path, there is a goal, a purpose. Everybody has one. Even you, in spite of your difference."
"It is now my turn to ask you a question."
"Go for it."
"Do you see a goal at the end of your path?"
"I see one."
"Lucky."
"It's not a question of luck, Geralt. It's all a matter of what you believe and to what you devote yourself. Nobody can know this better than... What witcher?"
"Nobody stops talking about their ambitions today," murmured Geralt. "The ambition of Niedamir consists of conquering Malleore. That of Eyck of Denesle to protect the humans from dragons. Dorregaray feels called to accomplish a diametrically opposite purpose. Yennefer cannot fulfil her ambition owing to the changes to which her body has been subjected, and it upsets her. By the devil, only the Reavers and the dwarves seem not to need ambition. They simply want to make a packet. Perhaps that's why they appeal to me. "
"No, Geralt of Rivia, it is not they who appeal to you. I'm neither blind nor deaf. You didn't take out your purse to the soft music of their name. It seems to me that..."
"It's in vain," the witcher said without anger.
"I'm sorry."
"No need to apologise."
They stopped their mounts to avoid a collision with the archers of Caingorn who had stopped at the head of the column.
"What's happened?" Geralt stood up in his stirrups. "Why have we stopped?"
"I don't know," replied Borch, looking around.
Vea uttered something, looking strangely worried.
"I'm going to the front," declared the witcher. "I'll find out."
"Wait."
"Why?"
Three Jackdaws remained silent, staring at the ground.
"Why?" repeated Geralt.
"On second thought, go," Borch said finally. "I think perhaps it will be better to."
"Why will it be better?"
"Go."
The bridge linking up both edges of precipice seemed solid. It had been constructed with imposing logs of pine resting on a square pillar against which the current broke with crash in long rivulets of foam.
"Hey, Ripper!" shouted Boholt, approaching the wagon. "Why have you stopped?"
"I'm not sure about this bridge."
"Why are we going this way?" Gyllenstiern asked, going up to them. "I'm not keen on crossing this bridge with the wagons. Hey! Shoemaker! Why go this way? The track goes on farther westward!"
The heroic poisoner of Holopole went up to him and took off his sheepskin hat. He cut a comical air in his frockcoat covered with an old-fashioned breast-plate dating from at least the time of King Sambuk.
"This way is shorter, noble lord," he replied not to the chancellor but directly to Niedamir, whose face still expressed deathly boredom.
How's that?" demanded Gyllenstiern, his face contorted.
Niedamir did not deign to look at the shoemaker.
"Well," explained Kozojed, indicating the three jagged summits dominating the area. "Over there are Chiava, Big Kestrel and
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