chsdbacks Chapter 21 Triss's Thoughts
Chapter 21 Triss's Thoughts
Triss didn't have a good impression of this colleague who came to ruin her and Geralt's rare time alone.
In recent days, secret letters from the meeting place have been flying into her tent one after another like tireless carrier pigeons.
Foltest's stubbornness was like the rusty rivets on the walls of Vigema that refused to loosen. No matter how earnestly she explained the pros and cons, the emperor always managed to show that "my mind is made up" smile at the most crucial moment.
Adding to her worries about Geralt's safety—that white-haired fool habitually pushed himself to the closest possible spot to danger, as if that was the only place where he felt comfortable—all of this had exhausted her. She hadn't had a proper rest for three days in a row, and even her reflection in the vanity mirror looked somewhat haggard; the faint bluish tinge under her eyes couldn't be concealed by even the strongest rose oil.
So when the soldiers outside the tent reported that "another witcher" was requesting an audience, her first reaction was to frown.
She assumed the man outside the tent was a wanderer looking for business at the camp, or worse, some opportunist trying to get a piece of the pie after hearing that the royal treasury was about to open its doors wide due to a siege. These days, there were plenty of imposters posing as witchers; in the slums of Vizima, there were people who specialized in selling counterfeit school badges—five crowns for a silver one, two for a bronze.
"Don't be so harsh, Triss."
Geralt, with his white hair, leaned against a gilded screen, his posture relaxed like a wolf dozing. He deliberately adjusted his stance, making a soft "click" as the hilt of his silver sword struck his breastplate. This was a unique way for a witcher to express helplessness when faced with unreasonable accusations—more restrained than a sigh, less strenuous than a rebuttal, and less likely to ignite a new round of argument in front of the sorceress.
His amber eyes appeared exceptionally deep under the dim light of the oil lamp inside the tent. The pupils were dilated to almost a circle due to the weak light, leaving only the outermost ring of golden irises visible. That was a typical feature of a witcher after mutation, and one of the few times Triss couldn't take her eyes off his face.
"Hunting water ghosts is a respectable and ancient profession," he said slowly, as if lecturing an apprentice just entering academy. "If no one cleans the riverbeds, the farmers in the La Valéry estate dare not go to the river to fetch water. If they die, where will the wheat that is used to make exquisite pastries for you nobles and black bread for the soldiers grow next year? Water ghosts live in broods of seven or eight, hiding under the ice in winter and coming out in spring so hungry that they will even gnaw on bloated horse carcasses. Last month on the lower reaches of the Mahakam River, a washerwoman lost her child simply because she bent over a little too much."
"Oh?" Triss raised an eyebrow, a mocking smile playing on her lips. "Looks like the steel swords of the North have now learned to engrave their school's emblem on gilded toilets? You've got a knack for political rhetoric these days, Geralt. In a few months, shouldn't you consider seeking a seat in the Redanian Council? I heard Radovid is currently in dire need of a spokesperson who knows how to package slaughtering as a public service."
The sorceress turned around, her fingertips unconsciously entwining the jade necklace Geralt had given her before the chaos on Xenide Island last year. It was a cheap piece she had picked up at the stall of a dead merchant whose name she had long forgotten; the silver chain was already somewhat tarnished, and the jade's cut was ridiculously rough, but she always wore it, even though any of her colleagues in the meeting hall would secretly laugh at her taste.
As her emotions fluctuated, the chaotic energy rippled with visible green waves on the surface of the gemstone, even causing faint static crackling sounds in the air. The flame of the oil lamp in the corner of the tent swayed from side to side due to the invisible airflow, and the elongated shadow on the canvas wall seemed to come alive and twist.
“You know I’m not worried about a witcher who likes to kill water ghosts for a few pitiful crowns…” Triss took a step forward, the hem of her silk dress brushing against the Persian carpet. “Or has that shrewd Foltest finally realized that hiring ten witchers who roll in the mud is far more profitable than supporting a ‘clumsy sorceress’ who’s always nagging him? After all, witchers won’t object in strategy meetings, nor will they slam the door when he decides to sell his bastard to the Nilfgaardians. They just take the money, kill, and disappear. What perfect subjects.”
"I bet Foltest's treasurer did indeed do the math late at night." Geralt's lips curled into a self-deprecating smile. He stepped away from the screen, walked to the table, poured himself a glass of strong liquor, and concluded that the commission from ten witchers would just be enough to buy a sufficient quantity of valerian potion to keep his sorcerer advisor quiet for three days. However, he probably also did another calculation—ten witchers together could empty his wine cellar, devour all the cured meat in his kitchen, and even fight over the distribution of a certain ghoul in the arena on some dark and stormy night. So in the end, he'll still choose to keep a sorceress. Economics, Triss, is a profound subject. You can ask me anytime if you have any questions.
"No wonder the ghouls in the southwest corner of the camp have stopped eating corpses and started collecting the gilded tableware from the officers' tents. Perhaps they're rehearsing court etiquette for their audience with our great Emperor?" Triss chuckled coldly, her sweet tone carrying an icy sarcasm that mercilessly pierced the witchers. "Perhaps they're rehearsing court etiquette for their audience with our great Emperor? Next week at the military council, they should be able to solemnly announce the declaration of war against Nilfgaard, wearing stolen officer uniforms and banging their rotting claws on the table. It seems these monsters have learned quite a bit about surviving in the court from you witchers."
“I only occasionally take things that nobles don’t really use, you know, sometimes their payment isn’t enough.” Geralt paused, his hand holding the wine glass trembling, and sighed helplessly. “A silver box for tobacco, or a knife so ornate it’s impractical. Their wardrobes are crammed with these things; taking one or two won’t even get the butler’s attention. As for ghouls… they’re more honest than nobles; at least their greed is written on their faces, not hidden behind smiles.”
His tone was flat, almost a statement of fact, but Triss knew what lay behind it: the Witcher's pay was indeed frequently withheld. Employers were always in the habit of making generous promises before the monster's corpse was dragged back, only to find, once the corpse was laid out before them, that a certain clause in the contract "needed to be reinterpreted." Geralt had already earned a place on the blacklists of at least three lords for this.
"But let's get back to the point," Triss's smile faded, her eyes turning serious and stern. "I suggest you have the guards remove him. The atmosphere in the camp is bad enough already. Roche's Blue Iron Guard arrested two messengers suspected of being Nilfgaardian informants last night, and the blood on the execution platform this morning hasn't even dried yet. At a time like this, if a strange witcher walks openly outside the King's Chief Sorcerer's tent, do you think anyone will suspect anything? Unless... you're planning to convince Foltest that this new witcher is capable enough to take over your position as royal bodyguard, so that he'll have the mercy to let you go."
"I could have left already, Triss." Geralt put down his glass, walked up to the sorceress, and looked directly into her worried eyes. Up close, he could see the tiny golden specks in her irises, a characteristic that appears in the eyes of all high-ranking sorceresses after long-term use of magic, like marks left by chaotic energy in their bodies.
"Once this damned siege is over, once Foltest has reclaimed his bastard son, our Emperor will allow me to leave. That's the agreement we made."
He paused, his gaze shifting towards the tent entrance, his tone softening slightly: "However, since our kind have already come knocking, perhaps we can have a chat. There aren't many of us left in this line of work. The number of demon hunters you can name in the entire north wouldn't exceed two hands. Kael'thas always has a few beds available every winter, and no one ever comes to fill them."
Geralt shook his head. He knew Triss was merely annoyed by the sudden interruption and overly wary of unknown danger; she harbored no real malice. In Geralt's eyes, Triss was already considered very gentle and understanding among all sorceresses. But some things were common to all women who wielded magic, such as…
"Like what?"
"Did you use mind-reading on me?"
"I can tell what you're thinking just by looking at your face."
"Maybe I just look too calm, and that in itself is a giveaway," he muttered to himself.
Seeing Geralt's doubtful look, Triss couldn't help but smile, and for a moment the weariness on her face faded considerably.
"Maybe Eskel heard I was here and came to see if I was dead." Geralt walked to the tent flap, sensing the air outside through the thick fabric. "You know... that guy loves taking on quests involving ghouls and carrion near the camps of large battles. The ground is littered with corpses, which always makes his wallet very full. He once told me that the battlefield is the most reliable employer for witchers because nobles never haggle over the issue of piles of corpses."
Geralt shrugged, showing no intention of giving up on receiving this fellow witcher who had come to him. He would never, by a twist of fate, become a guest of the king and be able to converse closely with a noble sorceress, arrogantly assume he had joined the ranks of the high-ranking bureaucrats. His meticulously crafted dark breastplate, though made by the blacksmiths of Foltest's court, was overlaid with a linen shirt he had brought from Kaer Morhen, its collar bearing more wear and tear than the scratches on his sword sheath.
In this era, witchers are as rare as autumn leaves. Making a new friend, or even just exchanging information about monsters, is a good thing. Perhaps the other person knows something about the new variant of the Night Demon that has recently appeared in the North, or can bring news about other witchers.
"Eskel?" Triss scoffed, turning back to her astrological instrument. "The moment Eskel hears the news that 'the king is here,' he'll simply ride off on his swift horse, acquired through the Law of Accidents, without looking back. He avoids royal authority faster than he avoids a griffin. Fine, whatever..."
Triss wanted to continue by saying that not all witchers are like her, who would inexplicably get caught up in the power struggles of the royal family, who would choose to stay when they could turn around and leave, and who would complain about the hypocrisy of the nobles while solving their most troublesome problems.
Most witchers are wary of anyone who gets close, maintaining a guarded distance from the human world like wild beasts, but you keep pushing yourself into the center of the vortex. But when she turned around and saw Geralt's focused and serious gaze, she swallowed the words that were on the tip of her tongue.
Feeling somewhat bored, she stood up and, under Geralt's gaze, straightened her slightly disheveled long dress. The small brooch pinned to the hem was one she had specially chosen that morning—a sapphire set in a silver iris; she wondered if the sharp-eyed Witcher had noticed it.
She walked into the depths of the tent behind the screen, leaving a faint scent of iris and myrrh in the air. Then she fell silent, leaving the two witchers alone.
Just before stepping behind the screen, she muttered something under her breath, in a voice only she could hear:
"Sigh...blockhead."