Geralt was standing in the cemetery with three scoia'tael archers when Iorveth returned. The elf showed no sign that he was coming from the resting place of his former friend, or lover. His face was all hard lines and tight muscles, and his shoulders were set like a stone wall.
"Is the path clear?" he asked. His voice was no longer liquid. It was as hard as the ground beneath Geralt's feet, and perhaps harder, because someone had managed to break through the ground with a shovel.
One of the archers nodded. "The rioting has sent most of those in Flotsam into hiding. Those who remain outside belong to Loredo. Soldiers, all of them. They appear to be stationed throughout the town, probably under the guise of keeping peace."
Iorveth snorted. "Bloede dh'oine. I suppose they're all guarding the barge. Ah, well. We'll have to go through them."
Geralt looked between scoia'tael and asked, "Are you planning to break the prisoners out of the barge?"
"No," Iorveth said. "We're planning to break ourselves into it. We can get to Aedirn more quickly on water, and we'll bring everyone on the barge to safer territory."
"There are many soldiers on the docks, Iorveth," a scoia'tael woman added. "A fight may not end in our favor."
"Then we won't fight them," Iorveth replied, strolling around the nearby graves with one hand resting on the hilt of the sword attached to his hip. "There's more than one way to cross a river."
Geralt raised an eyebrow. He supposed that was an elfish saying.
"We could put on another ruse," the witcher suggested. "Seemed to work pretty well last time."
Iorveth nodded slowly, considering. "That will get the two of us on the barge. When we've secured it, we can circle around and pick up the rest of the scoia'tael before heading for Aedirn."
The story for this ruse was similar to that of the last: Geralt would lead Iorveth to the barge as his prisoner, claiming that Loredo had instructed him to put Iorveth with the rest of the captives. Unfortunately, no one had thought to pick up the manacles from where Iorveth had dropped them during the battle at the rose garden.
"We could go back for them," Geralt offered. He and Iorveth had arrived at the gate to the town, leaving the other scoia'tael to wait at the rendezvous point on the river.
"Not enough time," Iorveth said. "The barge will leave while we're smelling the roses."
"In that case, come here," Geralt said, and he took a strip of warn leather from his bag.
Iorveth looked at the leather with no little amusement. "And I thought the handcuffs were kinky."
The elf turned his back and held his arms out to Geralt for the second time that afternoon. Geralt wrapped the softened hide around each wrist individually and then once around both. He traced along the edge of the leather with his fingertip. "Too tight?"
"Nnnh," Iorveth hummed.
Geralt took that as a no and cinched it tighter, like a corset. He brought his lips to Iorveth's ear. "How about now?"
The elf opened his mouth, but the only sound that came out was a soft gush of air. Geralt watched the rise and fall of Iorveth's chest become quick and shallow, as though he were waiting for the witcher's next move. He was putting Geralt in control. He tied off the leather, leaving it tight.
Geralt opened the gate and pushed Iorveth through. If he was going to pretend to be a cruel captor, he would do it with gusto. Iorveth was taken by surprise and would have stumbled into the guard inside the wall had the man not jumped for fear upon seeing the face of the scoia'tael commander.
"What is this?" the guard demanded.
"This is Iorveth," Geralt said. "I'm taking him to the barge under Loredo's orders."
"Don't let me stop you," the guard said as he ushered them into the town square, keeping his distance.
I won't, Geralt thought.
He edged up to Iorveth's back and took hold of his forearms to steer him through the crowd that had gathered to glimpse the most feared man in Flotsam. Iorveth's face was flushed pink, and he kept his gaze straight ahead, never making eye contact with his audience. His breathing was still short and hot. The people of Flotsam didn't get close—Iorveth's apparent arrest hadn't made them quite so brave as that—and so Geralt could talk in the elf's ear without attracting attention.
"I think you like this," he whispered.
He could see part of Iorveth's scowl out of the corner of his eye. "What do you mean, vatt'ghern? That I enjoy seeing how the dh'oine fear me? I would prefer to see them dead."
"I mean being tied up and paraded through town like some sort of exhibition. It turns you on to be powerless—even more so to have an audience." He gave the leather around Iorveth's wrists a rough tug, making the elf stumble backward into him. They stayed like that for a moment, with Iorveth pressed up against Geralt's chest, feeling the witcher's hardness at the small of his back. "This is how you get your kicks. You give up your control."
Iorveth gritted his teeth as they began moving again. "What madness would lead me to enjoy my own humiliation? My only consolation is that I'll have the last laugh when I take the barge."
Geralt smiled behind Iorveth's back, knowing this wasn't true. Iorveth was the commander of a small guerrilla army, wearing skin almost as thick as his leather armor. He kept his face covered, both with his scarf and with his rage, and he bowed to no one. He didn't have a choice. Surrendering dominance in public—truly surrendering dominance, not merely pretending, as he was now—would have dimmed his followers' respect and sullied his cause. And so he remained stoic, always a figure of authority, never showing weakness with a tear or a laugh. Geralt could only imagine the strain of this constant strength. It must have been a relief for Iorveth to relinquish all power and responsibility during the short walk to the barge. To be controlled instead of being in control. To let go.