The Witcher: A Deep Mark
Chapter 5.
Ciri, Mangler and the elf got into a nice, large boat; it could have supported up to six people, but there was no need for that. Mangler handed out the oars, and sat in the back to watch for the directions ahead. Ciri sat in the middle, before him, and the elf occupied the other end, laying his bow and a few arrows beside himself in case trouble would stir. The Sun was sinking lower and lower on the horizon; they kept rowing at a steady pace, downstream along the gently rolling waves, with Mangler dictating shifts, leaving the shoreline behind and closing in on the opposite side of the riverbed slowly, gradually.
Ciri wasn't too outspoken. And the elf's sudden appearence raised plenty of questions - few of which would be answered, she wagered. No wonder Mangler agreed to unchain here then and there; he was counting on this archer to be there when he needed, so she couldn't just slip away from this point on. That elf looked battle-seasoned, and his behaviour was not unlike that of a Scoia'tael fighter. And yet, he appearently not merely agreed to meet up with Mangler, but was acting wholly cooperative. Why would an armed, independent elf - or just about any elf - agree to be subservient to a human? Has Mangler let him in on his plans, or merely bribed him for a mercenary job to help escort her? They seemed to know one another, for whatever that was worth.
As they rowed the boat about, she could make out a few tall, walled-off buildings in the far-off distance, barely at the edge of her sight. - "Oh... I know where we are!" - she muttered. - "That's Oxenfurt's southern district in the distance, isn't it?"
"Yes it is." - Mangler admitted. - "Good observation. But we have no business there. We won't rest until we reach our destination. Further down south, we'll reach the river delta. There, we'll turn westwards, and land near an abandoned ferrying station shortly after."
"Do you always let your victims in on your plans, dh'oine?" - the elf questioned him, none too fond of how talkative Mangler was.
"Only when they are foolish enough to place their trust in me." - he answered.
"Oh, rest assured, I do not trust either of you. As much as I appreciate you killing those wannabe rapists, you are still kidnappers for hire." - Ciri lectured them cynically. - "I'm just saving your decapitation for when you and your cohorts will all be neatly standing next to one another."
"Your subtlelty is as astounding as your overconfidence." - the elf remarked with a great load of sarcasm. - "Then again, what should I expect from a mongrel of elder blood? The mere concept of your being is sickening, let alone the fact that our ancients' heritage is stuffed inside a dh'oine's body."
Ciri let out a bemused chuckle. - "Is someone here jealous, or is it just me?"
"Mind your tone, your majesty." - Mangler told her. - "Whom you adress is no ordinary elf. Does the name 'Iorveth' sound familiar to you?"
Ciri stopped rowing for a few seconds, gazing behind herself awkwardly. The elf put a vicious, closed-mouthed smile on display. She has heard of him, alright - if from nobody else, then Geralt and Vernon Roche. Leader of some of the most cunning and bloodthirsty bands of scoia'tael, slayer of multiple special force commanders in the north, aide to the Kingslayer, Letho of Gulet. Ciri bit her lip, before speaking out again: - "I thought... no, not just me, almost everyone thought you died a while ago."
"Died? No." - Iorveth said. - "Wasted away as a nameless refugee in Novigrad for over a year and a half, eventually winding up amongst theatre performers? Yes."
"He was playing himself in a re-enaction of Upper Aedirn's dramatic fall. I happened to have bought a ticket, because it seemed an intriguing play." - Mangler added. - "He pulled it off very believably. A bit too believably. Hence how I found him."
Ciri grimaced at the unlikelyness of the claim. - "You expect me to believe this? Someone playing himself on-stage in the most well-patrolled and densely populated free city in the entire north, and nobody notices? Permit me to be just a bit skeptical."
"Precisely! Just think of the sheer audacity of it! Who would presume someone so infamous would play a lead role about himself out in the open?" - Mangler grinned. - "It's not like he was the first to do something like that. You might want to ask Geralt about it."
"So why are the two of you working together, anyway?" - Ciri shifted to a more relevant matter.
"We made a deal." - Iorveth said. - "While in Novigrad, I had plenty of time to think over the things I did, as well as what others did to me. I fought this war of mine for years, decades, centuries. You do not truly know despair until you are a scoia'tael. But did it make the north any better for my species? No." - he paused briefly, lowering his face, not looking Ciri in the eyes. - "Then I met someone who had a dream. A dream I wanted to share in, even if I lacked the courage to speak it aloud. But she... she is lost to me now."
Ciri glimpsed at Mangler, who kept silent. She saw something resembling sympathy in his usually cold eyes, before turning to Iorveth again. - "For what it is worth, you have my condolences."
"Keep your pity." - Iorveth raised his gaze up to meet hers. - "I had more than my fair share of that in Novigrad. I wanted more than that, and that damn play only reminded me of it. When Mangler approached me off-stage and uncovered me, I drew a knife first. But when he explained himself, he made an offer which I could have refused. But didn't want to. A chance for revenge..." - he said, and there was some sadistic glitter in his eyes. - "Finally, I got to slaughter that white owl witch."
"White owl witch?" - Ciri asked back, only to realize a second later what he meant. - "Philippa!"
"She was on your trail, you know." - Mangler leaned closer, prompting Ciri to face him. - "She was dangerously close to pinpoint your movements, if her excessive notes are any indication. Had she succeeded, your kindly father would have apprehended that witcher and his sorceress friend for lying to him about your demise, and extort you to obey him lest they face execution. You should be grateful that we saved you from that ordeal."
Ciri stared blankly at her feet, wordless. Nothing about these two men's motives made sense anymore. - "So instead, I'm merely stuck with a couple of serial killers with an unclear agenda who are planning my foster father's death anyhow." - she sighed. - "Marvelous."
"No need to thank us." - Mangler said cheekily. - "But sincerely, for someone who is hiding from the world's largest empire and its extensive system of spies, informers and scrying mages, you are woefully inept at staying undercover." - he pointed at her with both index fingers extended. - "I'm not sure you noticed, but you are the only ashen-haired female in the entire north who claims to be a witcher, doesn't wear any worthwhile armor while doing it, and fights by, to quoting a peasant I met: 'jumping about like fanged lightning'. You cannot gain acknowledgement for your work without building up a reputation as a side effect, girl. Seriously, how long did you expect this whole charade to last?"
Ciri opened her mouth, but was unable to come up with anything witty as a comback, so she momentarily settled for a mere "Screw you." If she's going to make it through this adventure alive and all, she's going to have to seriously revise her work methodology. For now, she attempted to shift the topic. - "Aren't you going to ask me that question of yours?"
Mangler raised an eyebrow in curiosity. - "I thought you've already forgotten about it. Glad you didn't. But I prefer if you answered it in private, and after you grabbed some sleep. This was a long day."
She had to agree with him in that regard. They each fell silent, rowing onwards, the wind and currents lending their support to their yet unknown cause, hastening their journey. At some point, Mangler started silently singing that aged, uncomfortable lullaby of his, befitting the time of day as the Sun finally vanished and the Moon took dominion on the sky: - "Birds are silent for the night, cows turned in as daylight dies..."
"Cut it out." - Ciri interrupted - "I hate that song. It's sickening and wrong on so many degrees." - she explained.
"Insofar my experience with witchers is concerned, I think it's fairly accurate." - Iorveth stated. - "I'd sing myself, but my favourite songs involve the massacre of your kind."
"I don't understand elvish, anyhow." - Mangler shrugged. - "Alright, let's try something different. What will we do with the drunken sailo-"
"No." - Ciri told him off. - "I got a better one." - she took a deep breath from the salty air, raising her voice ever so mildly, like a birdsong: - "Row, row, row your boat, gently down the-"
"Absolutely not!" - Iorveth and Mangler exclaimed together.
Ciri sighed in vexation. - "Ugh. I hope we'll reach that ferry spot soon..."
...
Yennefer's meeting with Keira and Triss was prolonged for hours, but was ultimately inconclusive. They came up with dozens upon dozens of theories as to who the mystery man who outsmarted Philippa and her investigation partners could be. Without any visual display, deducing his identity was a hopeless proposition. The elf who walked in the scene secondly posed no such challenge, thanks to Philippa's megascope miraculously fixing up itself at the last moment; he was Iorveth, a scoia'tael marauder, wanted dead or alive in pretty much the entire north for suspected involvement with the Kingslayer murders, and atrocities against humankind in general. If the mysterious first intruder is in league with such a person, maybe he was an elf himself? It was a possibility. But then why would he resort to using a public service, such as post delivery? A city elf would be unlikely to work with a scoia'tael, for fear of retribution by human authorities. And it certainly didn't sound like he was an underling, but the mastermind. Yet someone like Iorveth wouldn't just agree to work for a human easily... would he?
Another matter of debate was the mysterious stranger's ability to seemingly nullify magic. Triss had listened to the megascope recording time and again before meeting with Yen and Keira, to the point that she could remember Philippa being consequetively stabbed 37 times in total, in the faint hope of uncovering some clue as to the man's methods. Smoke bombs with dimeritium powder mixed in? Some extremely complex dispelling magic she hasn't heard of? There was no hint of such things in the recorded dialogue. In fact, there was nothing to work with at all.
Upon deeper inspection, the man didn't seem to be after the Lodge in particular, though; provided that he was as forthright as he presented himself, he was specifically looking for information, and had no quarrel with Fringilla and Margarita - just wanted them out of the picture for good, without having to kill them. This only added to the confusion of the whole case.
Only one thing was certain: if the man wanted Philippa's and the others' notes, as he claimed, he had something big planned. And if Philippa was tracking Ciri, the man would find out about it. Such a discovery meant nothing good - not for Ciri, not for anyone else.
They managed to calm Triss down a bit, and briefly discussed about a few gaudy baubles that they were willing to part with to lend to Ewald Borsodi's auction. When Triss informed him, he was quite openly jolly that he managed to coerce three of the north's most renowned sorceresses into participating in his humble establishment's activities, blissfully unaware - or unmindful - that none of them could care less.
Yennefer didn't walk, but rather, teleported back to the room she and Geralt rented at the inn, taking a deep breath to immediately start explaining herself... but she had to realize there was nobody left inside to enlighten. - "Geralt?" - she asked out loudly, hoping for a response. There was none, so she had to conclude Geralt wasn't home. She walked around, looking for clues. - "Alright, witcher." - she muttered to herself - "If you can play investigator, so can I. I will find you."
Stains on the floor from muddy boots and wine droplets, empty bottles, chairs not left at the table as they were supposed to be, the stench of alcohol lingering in the air... "Ugh. Typical all-male party leftovers." - she cringed. Zoltan came by, of that she was certain. She looked to the table, seeing a few cards of gwent scattered about, along with a short notification. Geralt's horrendous letters were easy enough to recognize.
"Went out with Zoltan and Lambert... took contract... and they left gwent cards out in the open?" - she put a hand on her hip, pouting in incredulity. That last detail was the most suspicious of all. Geralt never let her fiddle around with his cards, always hiding them away like a kid would with his most precious toys, fearing that someone would want to ruin or take them away from him. It didn't really matter to her all that much - it was just a dumb card game. But now, this carelessness implied Geralt left in haste. This is not even getting into the fact that the odds of Geralt and Lambert tackling a contract together, like good brethren putting aside their competitive streak, was simply unlikely at best, and laughably absurd at worst.
She looked at the cards, more out of curiosity than to find out anything of importance. The carefully hand-pained little pictures were quite lively and, admittedly, artistic, with small numbers and symbols on their sides, probably related to game rules. She tilted her head in meager amusement; what was about this game that Geralt was so ashamed of in front of her?
Then she discovered that not all of the cards were depicting monsters, soldiers or the like. Matter of fact, a disproportionate number of the stonger cards were starring renowned women. Including Triss, and of other ladies from the Lodge, plenty of whom Geralt slept with in the past.
"Why you...!" - Yen flustered, crumpling the cards and throwing them away, sighing in annoyance. She shook her head a bit, clearing it out; the matters at hand were deadly serious. After a bit of pondering, she decided she would teleport to the municipal office next, to see whether Geralt or Lambert have indeed taken contracts or not.
Unbeknonwst to her, they were already far away.
...
Geralt and Lambert were busy riding miles away from Oxenfurt, well ahead of Zoltan, who followed after them once he somehow managed to rally together two wagons' worth of mean, hard-handed dwarves, ready to pick a bone with whoever was dastardly enough to have laid their filthy hands on Cirilla. Some, he has hired from the money he was given by Dandelion, that 20% discount deal on the storehouse be damned; others were acquaintances who owed him a favour or two, and this seemed like the best of any and all opportunities to call in on those. Their transports were rolling steadily, pulled by great workhorses accustomed to ploughs and massive haycarts. Pebbles were crackling and crunching under the heavy, ironed wheels, as twenty or so swarthy, stocky bearded men were polishing maces and combat picks, and sharpening axes, swords, boltheads and speartips with great vigour, singing of the faces they were going to smash in to save a fair young maiden.
"Spirited, aren't they?" - Lambert noted, glimpsing behind him. - "I think whoever sent that message is going to be running for the hills when he sees Zoltan's bunch."
"In all honesty, that occured to me as well." - Geralt admitted. - "Hanged Man's Tree is on wide open ground. No concealment for miles apart from the occasional rocks and bushes. Ill-fitting for an ambush attempt if they are operate with a larger warband. Don't you think that's suspicious?"
"They are preparing to take on someone who can be tied to the murder of kings." - Lambert said. - "At least the way I see it, you didn't exactly earn many friends with your involvement in higher circles. Honestly, those were some of Vesemir's first lessons-"
"Never dabble in politics, always tread with neutrality. I know." - Geralt nodded, averting his gaze. - "No need to remind me."
"Someone has to." - Lambert chided him. - "Especially since you are horribly incapable of sticking to it. If either Nilfgaard or some northern resistance group turns out to behind this, the responsibility is on your shoulders, Geralt. You didn't tell Emhyr about Ciri's survival, and it was you who destroyed Redenia's leadership, and thus any chances of them winning the war or reaching a stalemate with the black ones."
Geralt turned back, a flicker of anger in his eyes.
"Oh, I'm sorry, forgot how sensitive you are." - Lambert grimaced. - "You can call me a prick or whatever else, Geralt, but that's the fucking truth. Ciri could be in danger because of you."
"All the more reason we should not dawdle." - Geralt cut the arguement short. - "I'd hate to keep the whoresons waiting."
Lambert nodded, not feeling up to opening the wound on Geralt's conscience any further. - "So, which path are we taking? Straight to Mulbrydale down the southwest road, then up north?"
"No." - Geralt stated. - "Last thing I heard, that trail was getting infested by monsters. Ghouls, most prominently. Normally wouldn't mind, but with Zoltan and his fellows, we have to be mindful." - he explained himself - "Instead, we'll undertake the northwest road, move past Codgers' Quarry, approach directly from north. Much less debris and coverage in the way. If trouble stirs, we'll see it coming in good time."
"Alright." - the fellow witcher acknowledged. - "I'll tell Zoltan. You scout ahead a bit in the meantime." - and with that said, he turned his horse about, gently trotting to Zoltan's group.
Geralt grasped his medallion tightly. Much as he didn't like Lambert's brutally outspoken honesty, he had a good point. If Ciri's identity was uncovered, there were many, many powerful groups who'd be taking interest in her. They may not necessarily have to subdue her with force or magic - just keep some people hostage whom she cares about, and extort her. If that was the case... it was better to not think about it at all. - "I'm coming, Ciri." - he mumbled to himself. - "I will find you. I will help you. Just stay safe."