The contessa had offered him two thousand orens, an astronomical sum, and he was sorely tempted to accept; yet he was certain that if he tried to impersonate her dead husband, he would be quickly found out. How would he know what to say? What did he know about decorations, balls, the lot of it?
Such were Thyssen's thoughts as he stabled his horse on the outskirts of Oxenfurt, having just returned from the contessa's estate, and began making his way back to his room along the city's cobblestone streets. It had grown dark in the meanwhile and the spring evening seemed particularly beautiful, the bright shopwindows casting what seemed like magical lights onto the dusky streets.
He stopped next to a store that had maps of the northern kingdoms in its windows, all beautifully handcrafted. He paused to admire them, but, looking at the price tag, it turned out they were quite far out of his price range. Still, he opened the door and stepped inside.
It was a bookshop he had stepped into and its inside felt like a different world. The sweet scent of incense pervaded the air; luxurious Zerrikanean rugs covered the walls; books were stacked all over each other, occasionally spilling over to the floor. Thyssen picked up a book at random. A Treatise on the Magical Resonances of Nightshades. He picked up another one, but it had a title in the elven language he could not read. The next one was entitled, A History of the Northern Kingdoms between the Ninth and Twelth Centuries, and he opened it somewhere at random and began to read.
History does not record, reader, which part of Count Montpessier's acclaimed History of the Northern Kingdoms caught Thyssen's eye just then, but is it too much for me to think it might have been an account of the First Battle of the Pontar Delta? I am, of course, well aware that the indolent youth of our age throw orens around as if they were confetti but would not recognize a book if it hit them on the head; and thus I cannot take for granted that you, reader, are aware of what transpired at that battle. It was the time when the forces of Vestibor the Proud, the tragic and ruler of a state that long later became our great Redanian commonwealth, were betrayed by his Temerian allies to gain advantage in the ever-continuing tussle for supremacy amongst our kingdoms. I'd like to think that, just then, Thyssen burned with outrage at the Temerian capacity for treachery and betrayal as he read.
In any case, whatever it was that he read impressed him enough that he decided to spare a few orens and purchase the book; and so he made his way to the counter where, it turned out, a heated argument was in progress.
"Third edition, I've said, third edition! T-h-i-r-d! This is worse than useless to me."
"My good sir, there is no third edition."
"There is no…," the speaker, n lanky awkaward looking youth in the robe of a mage, took a sharp intake of breath. "Of course, there is a third edition of Mancini! De Lancy refers to it in his beast catalogue, as does Clermont in his history."
"I know nothing of that," said the shopkeeper, "I assure you I have made the most thorough of inquiries. The second edition is the very latest."
The mage uttered a sigh of exasperation. "It is not, I tell you. The third edition of Mancini has a map of all the monster lairs in Redania; De Lancy praises it at great length. Damn it…." The mage waved his hands in the air in apparent frustration. "If you haven't got what I asked for, then give me my money back."
The shopkeeper smiled. "But my good sir, I have already spent your deposit acquiring this volume. I haven't the money back to give you. Come, take the volume which you have paid for, and let us part amicably."
"Part amicably? Why you scoundrel, I ought to…"
"Need I remind you," the shopkeeper said, his tone turning instantly from obsequious to cold, "of the penalties meted out by our great lord, Radovid to Stern, to mages who do not behave as they ought? I believe we've had a demonstration in the town square not a week ago."
The mage bit his lip. Thyssen thought back to the event the shopkeeper was describing, a giant pyre in the middle of town that caused him some delay as he made his way home that evening. He had overheard that a mage was being burned, presumably for some crime, but had not spent any time learning more about it.
"I would think carefully what you say, my good sir." The shopkeeper's tone now dripped with sarcasm. "I could report you to the city guard if you dare make any threats against me. So, I tell you again: take the volume for which you have paid and let us part amicably."
The mage looked coldly at the shopkeeper, but said nothing. Without replying, he pushed the volume off the counter onto the floor, and left, slamming the door. This outcome seemed to serve the shopkeeper just as well: looking perfectly pleased, he picked up the discarded book, and, shelving it, looked solicitously towards Thyssen.
Reader, there are times in life in which the most insignificant decisions can, in retrospect, turn out to have been the most consequential. A wrong turn may cause a man to bump into the woman who will become his wife. A chemical left bubbling in a cauldron by mistake behaves in a surprising way, and the resulting inquiries spark a scientific revolution. Thyssen had made just such a decision when he put down the history book in his hands, and quickly made his way of the store, and catching up with the mage.
"You know," he said conversationally, as he matched the mage's pace- which, in truth, was not easy, as the latter had rather long legs and was taking great big strides in his anger - "that map in the third edition of Mancini is rather useless. Mancini had compiled it based on second-hand accounts. Peasant's tales."
The mage glanced at him with interest. "And who might you be?"
Thyssen took an over-elaborate bow. "Thyssen, lately of Oxenfurt, previously of Kaer Morhen. Now I've never attempted to verify Mancini's maps for myself, but I've talked with people who had. They were invariably disappointed."
This was, in fact, completely true, for if there was one thing that Thyssen knew as well as any other witcher, it was the sort of knowledge that could be obtained at Kaer Morhen through conversation.
The mage stopped short. "You're a witcher."
"Indeed I am. Now if you wish to tell me what you needed that map for, I may be able to point you in the right direction."
The mage rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Why don't I buy you a beer," he said finally and beckoned Thyssen to follow him.
"A dragon egg," Thyssen said in disbelief.
Natan nodded. "I have six weeks. I've already one and a half on research with little to show for it." He shook his head. "Here we are, supposedly in one of the great centres of learning in the world; and yet, procuring books with reliable information is not easy. All the sources I've consulted flatly contradict each other."
As it turned out, neither of them was drinking a beer. Thyssen ordered some kind of bluish concoction with a minty smell, while Natan ordered a bright tea that smelled of spices. I make a note of this, reader, as this is a feature of the male psyche that persists to the present day; whenever a group of men go out, the invitation is invariably to have a beer in each other's company, regardless of the drinks consumed. Centuries have passed and still, no man will invite another to have a herbal tea together.
"A dragon egg," Thyssen repeated.
"Yes."
"Is this sort of thing normal in your school?"
"Not really."
"I've never heard of a mage looking for dragon eggs. It seems downright sadistic."
"They have no practical use, at least as far as I know." Natan said. "I believe I'm the first to be asked to procure one."
Natan sipped his tea in silence for a few moments.
"The worst thing," he said, looking out the window - the two of them were seated together at the corner of a tavern close to the shore - "is that I think they want me to steal it."
"Steal it!?"
Natan nodded. "Be creative, they told me when I graduated. I swear I saw a wink in the eye of one of the examiners."
"You could get in some serious trouble."
"There are, in fact, several collectors in Novigrad with fossilized dragon eggs. I've made inquiries. But have you seen what's happening lately?"
Thyssen looked at him blankly.
"The pyres in the middle of the city square. These are not good times to be a mage. If I'm even suspected…" Natan pursed his lips. "I do not plan to throw my life away."
For the second time that day, Thyssen reflected how little he knew about Oxenfurt. He had been there for some months now but between his booming ghost business and the vain efforts he had put into courting the fairer sex, he had done little mingling with the local residents. He had always heard some vague patter about the mages being up to no good but paid little attention to it, thinking it nothing more than jealosy towards those whom nature had blessed with talent.
"There's an ominous feeling in the air," Natan continued. "It is hard to describe. I can feel it even though I don't go out very much. You've heard how that shopkeeper talked to me. Even five years ago that would have been unthinkable. "
They sat in an uncomfortable silence.
"You know," Thyssen said slowly, "stealing a dragon egg may not be all that difficult."
Natan looked at him askance.
"Do you know how to teleport?"
"Of course. Who do you take me for?"
"In principle, then, the task should be simple. Go somewhere where there's a dragon. Wait for the dragon to fly away to hunt and teleport up to its nest. Take an egg, and teleport out. Unfortunately…."
"Wait a second," Natan interjected. "How exactly would I find a ploughing dragon?"
"There are twelve mountain peaks within the Northern Kingdoms where lairs are known to reside. I can draw you a diagram. They are all quite far apart, but you could teleport there. No need to search very much for the dragon - just stand around under some cover until you see a dragon flying about. They're difficult to miss and they do have to venture out to hunt at least every few days. "
Natan looked at him carefully.
"I don't mean to be rude," he said, "but I am about to risk my life here. I can't help noticing you are...on the young side, shall we say. Do you really know what you are doing?"
Thyssen was about to take offense when he paused. In the months he spent in the city, he had formed no strong connections here. Perhaps that was due to his own somewhat awkward age - most boys born the same year as him were either educated by private tutors if they were nobles or working the fields if they were peasants. But perhaps part of it was because he was a witcher, and as such seemed to inspire either revulsion or admiration. The man in front of him seemed to face the same. Thyssen found himself wanting very much to help him.
All-in-all, it was a reasonable question.
"I do know what I'm doing," he said slowly, "but my knowledge is, shall we say, theoretical."
"Hmmph? What in the blazes does that mean?"
"It is based on books and the conversation of other witchers. It would not surprise you to learn that I've never seen a dragon."
"I'll put it to you this way," Thyssen continued. "Do you know the Duke of Bann Glean? The tavern?"
"Yeah," Natan said, "the one with the big red banner."
"That banner advertises my services, for which you'll have to pay top coin. Now put yourself in my place: imagine yourself a witcher. Would you rather live in comfortable rooms in Oxenfurt,and service the whims of the nobility - or would you rather sleep in bogs and fields as you hunt kikimoras and rotfiends?"
It was, of course, a half-truth; Thyssen could not fight kikimoras or rotfiends if he wanted to; but he was not about to reveal the secret of his success, and the half-truth sufficed perfectly for the moment.
"I take your point," Natan said. "So, then, you do not hunt any dangerous monsters? If you make top coin then it is a very comfortable niche you've found."
"It is," Thyssen agreed. "Much better, frankly, than any other witcher I know, who are, without exception, on the poorer side. But I did spend years at Kaer Morhen. As far as monsters go, I've read every book there is, and then some. I've heard witchers talk endlessly, so I know which books are reliable and which aren't."
Natan looked at him carefully. "All right," he said, after a pause. "Let's say I trust you. So it's as easy as teleporting in and grabbing an egg?"
"Almost."
"Almost?"
"Yes."
"How so?"
"You see, the dragon will find you and kill you," Thyssen helpfully explained.
"That is a pretty big almost."
"It is."
"What if I teleport far away?"
"The dragon will fly all over the continent looking for you. Dragons can keep vendetta's that last centuries. De Persi's Collected Remarks on the Southern Draconids tells the story of a dragon…"
"So is the whole idea useless?"
"Not quite."
"Oh?"
"The thing is," Thyssen said, "you've got to time things right. Most of the time, the dragons in a clutch will kill each other upon birth. That's why dragons have so few children. You want to steal an egg just before they hatch. The mother will probably not look for you then."
"Probably?"
"Yes."
"Probably?"
"Yes."
"I don't find myself entirely reassured."
"Nor should you be," said Thyssen. "Let me put it this way. How many people have tried to steal an egg from a dragon?"
"I haven't the foggiest idea."
"Neither do I. But would zero be a plausible answer?"
"It would."
"Some amount of guesswork is inevitable, then. But imagine it. Suppose you are a dragon."
"All right," Natan said. "I'm supposing."
"You fly away one day and bring back a nice sheep to feast on. Meanwhile, your clutch has hatched, and they are all either dead, or perhaps one survives. Are you going to examine the broken egg shells and consider just how many eggs those shells are consistent with?"
"I suppose not," Natan said. "But then I am a dragon. Who knows what I would do?"
"Who knows indeed."
"All right," Natan said. "It sounds like a better plan that any I've come up with. But the timing is tricky. I've got to find the dragon just as the clutch is about to hatch. Besides, the dragon has to be away during the hatching itself, which is quite a coincidence."
"It's the right season for this," Thyssen said. "All sources are unanimous: the eggs hatch in late spring. Besides, as I said there are over a dozen sites where you should be able to find dragons, if you can teleport all over the nothern kingdoms. You have decent odds of getting lucky."
"Hmmm," said Natan. "I'm not terribly convinced. But that might be as good of a plan as I'm likely to find. But there's a slight problem you've overlooked."
"And what is that?"
"The teleport. Fourteen sites...an experienced mage, someone a tad below a hundred years old, could pull that off. My mana reserves are not nearly high enough to teleport that many times in a span of weeks."
"Oh," said Thyssen. "But is there…"
"Of course, I could use mana stones," Natan went on, ignoring the interruption. "But I'll need at least five. And at 400 orens per stone, I'm nowhere close to being able to afford them. Even if someone will give me a bulk discount - and even if I can get a part of the purchase on credit…"
"As it happens," Thyssen said, making sure his voice cut across Natan's monologue, "I know of a good opportunity to make a large amount of money fairly quickly."
"And the drapes?" The contessa gestured towards her windows. "I've been having second thoughts about them. Are they too pink, perhaps?"
The count's shadow fluttered unsteadily in the candelight. Looking at it felt a bit like having the man back in her presence: the aristocratic nose, the whiskers of hair on the otherwise bald head, his way of slightly stooping forward as he considered. Unfortunately, the shadow kept moving. The witcher and his assistant explained to her that communicating with ghosts was tricky business. She was not able to make out the finer features of his face, which she would have liked very much.
"I believe he likes them," the witcher said. "I'm not sure if I'm getting it correctly, but I think he suggests it is more neutral than pink."
The contessa clasped her hands in delight. "Exactly so! It is a very soft hue. Exactly what I thought you might say, Frasie."
She pointed towards the onyx table in the middle of the room. "And what of this? Is it too ostentatious?"
The witcher paused as if deep in thought. "Not at all," he said. "I believe your husband says it has a mid-century feel to it."
A mid-century feel? Indeed, as she looked at it now, she did detect some similarities to the royal tables in the court of Vizima some decades ago. It was a shame that Frasie's words were filtered through the witcher. It had been explained to her that Frasie's emotions and thoughts would be felt by the witcher who would have to turn them into words on his own - for she was sure that, if Frasie was here, he would explain exactly what he meant. Did he have the Viziman court aesthetic in mind, or something else?
No matter; this was something to think about later. For now, she needed to use this opportunity to go through the house room by room.
And so it went. For an hour they went through the walls of his castle; and for an hour, Thyssen repeated the responses that Natan projected as whispers into his mind. On his own, he would have been utterly helpless, not knowing what to say. Fortunately, Natan was able to help.
It was common for the city's nobility to mingle with mages at some of their grand events. Even though Natan had never liked to attend these events, h was often forced to, along with some of the other older students at the academy. Invariably, the events were boring, spent by the nobles gossiping about people he had never heard of. Occasionally, he would be asked a question about magic, always a very naive one, the sort of question one could find the answer to in innumerable books. But it was at these events that he developed some familiarity with the way the nobility spoke.
"Besides," he explained to Thyssen, "if she tries to test us somehow, I should be able to detect it. I'm not strong enough to read minds, unlike some of the older mages; but if I expend a good amount of mana, I should at the very least be able to detect when she's not being entirely fortright."
Once or twice, he thought he did detect a bit of trickery on the part of the contessa, an opinion asked for without the uncertainty that usually accompanies a question. On those times, he demurred, having Thyssen reply that the count had strong opinions on the object in question, very strong indeed, and those strong opinions interefered with the transmission of thoughts.
"Strong positive or strong negative opinions?" The contessa glared at him.
"Impossible to say, your ladyship," Thyssen answered. "I apologize but this is all an art rather than an exact science."
The first time she answered this way, she looked a little skeptical; but, by the third such answer, she seemed entirely satisfied. It seems that, even if they did not have the right answers, at least they wereat least able to pin-point the objects on which the count could be expected to have definite opinions, which was good enough to smolder the spark of doubt that remained within her.
"There is nothing so easy," explained Thyssen to him earlier, "as fooling someone who wants to be fooled."
"He likes the tobacco feel of the leather," Thyssen said. "He thinks it has character."
It was as she expected: Frasie approved of most of her choices, with only a few small exceptions. She would fix the errors and would throw the best ball that had been thrown in Novigrad this season. She would do it in his honor, for he deserved nothing less.
She gave the witcher his payment and dismissed him. He had done well. She had always suspected that Frasie was not gone; that he was looking over her in some way, that he cared deeply about what she was doing. She was, after all, continuing his legacy, his enduring conviction that beauty in one form will produce beauty in another; that a beautiful ball will inspire love, kindedness, and everything else that was good in mankind.
Now she knew: he was not gone, he was right there besides her; and saying this was not hope, was not religion, it was fact. That night she slept better than she had in years.