face on the portrait riddled with holes and with the orion sticking into it. And then he closed his eyes.
The star whistled and thudded into the wall four inches from the frame of the portrait.
‘Damn and blast!’ roared Codringher. ‘You didn’t even flinch, you whoreson!’
Geralt turned back and smiled. Quite hideously.
‘Why should I have flinched? I could hear you aiming to miss.’
The inn was empty. A young woman with dark rings under her eyes sat on a bench in the corner. Bashfully turned away to one side, she was breastfeeding a child. A
broad-shouldered fellow, perhaps her husband, dozed alongside, his back resting against the wall. Someone else, whose features Aplegatt couldn’t make out in the gloom of the inn, sat in the
shadows behind the stove.
The innkeeper looked up, saw Aplegatt, noticed his attire and the badge with the arms of Aedirn on his chest, and his face immediately darkened. Aplegatt was accustomed to welcomes like that. As
a royal messenger he was absolute entitled to a mount. The royal decrees were explicit – a messenger had the right to demand a fresh horse in every town, village, inn or farmyard – and
woe betide anyone who refused. Naturally, the messenger left his own horse, and signed a receipt for the new one; the owner could appeal to the magistrate and receive compensation. But you never
knew. Thus a messenger was always looked upon with dislike and anxiety; would he demand a horse or not? Would he take our Golda, never to be seen again? Or our Beauty, reared from a foal? Our
pampered Ebony? Aplegatt had seen sobbing children clinging to their beloved playmate as it was being led out of the stable, saddled, and more than once had looked into the faces of adults, pale
with the sense of injustice and helplessness.
‘I don’t need a fresh horse,’ he said brusquely. It seemed to him the innkeeper sighed with relief.
‘I’ll only have a bite to eat; the road’s given me an appetite,’ added the messenger. ‘Anything in the pot?’
‘There’s some gruel left over. I’ll serve you d’reckly. Sit you down. Needing a bed? Night’s falling.’
Aplegatt thought it over. He had met Hansom two days before. He knew the messenger and they had exchanged messages as ordered. Hansom took the letters and the message for King Demavend and
galloped off through Temeria and Mahakam to Vengerberg. Aplegatt, meanwhile, having received the messages for King Vizimir of Redania, rode towards Oxenfurt and Tretogor. He had over three hundred
miles to cover.
‘I’ll eat and be on my way,’ he declared. ‘The moon is full and the road is level.’
‘As you will.’
The gruel he was served was thin and tasteless, but the messenger paid no attention to such trifles. At home, he enjoyed his wife’s cooking, but on the road he made do with whatever came
his way. He slowly slurped it, clumsily gripping the spoon in fingers made numb from holding the reins.
A cat that had been snoozing on the stove bench suddenly lifted its head and hissed.
‘A royal messenger?’
Aplegatt shuddered. The question had been asked by the man sitting in the shadows, who now emerged to stand beside him. His hair was as white as milk. He had a leather band stretched across his
forehead and was wearing a silver-studded leather jacket and high boots. The pommel of the sword slung across his back glistened over his right shoulder.
‘Where does the road take you?’
‘Wherever the royal will sends me,’ answered Aplegatt coldly. He never answered any other way to questions of that nature.
The white-haired man was silent for some time, looking searchingly at the messenger. He had an unnaturally pale face and strange, dark eyes.
‘I imagine,’ he finally said, in an unpleasant, somewhat husky voice, ‘the royal will orders you to make haste? Probably in a hurry to get off, are you?’
‘What business is it of yours? Who are you to hasten me?’
‘I’m no one,’ said the white-haired
The star whistled and thudded into the wall four inches from the frame of the portrait.
‘Damn and blast!’ roared Codringher. ‘You didn’t even flinch, you whoreson!’
Geralt turned back and smiled. Quite hideously.
‘Why should I have flinched? I could hear you aiming to miss.’
The inn was empty. A young woman with dark rings under her eyes sat on a bench in the corner. Bashfully turned away to one side, she was breastfeeding a child. A
broad-shouldered fellow, perhaps her husband, dozed alongside, his back resting against the wall. Someone else, whose features Aplegatt couldn’t make out in the gloom of the inn, sat in the
shadows behind the stove.
The innkeeper looked up, saw Aplegatt, noticed his attire and the badge with the arms of Aedirn on his chest, and his face immediately darkened. Aplegatt was accustomed to welcomes like that. As
a royal messenger he was absolute entitled to a mount. The royal decrees were explicit – a messenger had the right to demand a fresh horse in every town, village, inn or farmyard – and
woe betide anyone who refused. Naturally, the messenger left his own horse, and signed a receipt for the new one; the owner could appeal to the magistrate and receive compensation. But you never
knew. Thus a messenger was always looked upon with dislike and anxiety; would he demand a horse or not? Would he take our Golda, never to be seen again? Or our Beauty, reared from a foal? Our
pampered Ebony? Aplegatt had seen sobbing children clinging to their beloved playmate as it was being led out of the stable, saddled, and more than once had looked into the faces of adults, pale
with the sense of injustice and helplessness.
‘I don’t need a fresh horse,’ he said brusquely. It seemed to him the innkeeper sighed with relief.
‘I’ll only have a bite to eat; the road’s given me an appetite,’ added the messenger. ‘Anything in the pot?’
‘There’s some gruel left over. I’ll serve you d’reckly. Sit you down. Needing a bed? Night’s falling.’
Aplegatt thought it over. He had met Hansom two days before. He knew the messenger and they had exchanged messages as ordered. Hansom took the letters and the message for King Demavend and
galloped off through Temeria and Mahakam to Vengerberg. Aplegatt, meanwhile, having received the messages for King Vizimir of Redania, rode towards Oxenfurt and Tretogor. He had over three hundred
miles to cover.
‘I’ll eat and be on my way,’ he declared. ‘The moon is full and the road is level.’
‘As you will.’
The gruel he was served was thin and tasteless, but the messenger paid no attention to such trifles. At home, he enjoyed his wife’s cooking, but on the road he made do with whatever came
his way. He slowly slurped it, clumsily gripping the spoon in fingers made numb from holding the reins.
A cat that had been snoozing on the stove bench suddenly lifted its head and hissed.
‘A royal messenger?’
Aplegatt shuddered. The question had been asked by the man sitting in the shadows, who now emerged to stand beside him. His hair was as white as milk. He had a leather band stretched across his
forehead and was wearing a silver-studded leather jacket and high boots. The pommel of the sword slung across his back glistened over his right shoulder.
‘Where does the road take you?’
‘Wherever the royal will sends me,’ answered Aplegatt coldly. He never answered any other way to questions of that nature.
The white-haired man was silent for some time, looking searchingly at the messenger. He had an unnaturally pale face and strange, dark eyes.
‘I imagine,’ he finally said, in an unpleasant, somewhat husky voice, ‘the royal will orders you to make haste? Probably in a hurry to get off, are you?’
‘What business is it of yours? Who are you to hasten me?’
‘I’m no one,’ said the white-haired
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