Don't Cry for Me, Ban Ard

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After thinking over Marek's argument, Lambert had to admit that Sabrina Glevissig sounded like a terrifying sorceress. Ordinary witchers had to be polite even to minor local barons. She had stood across from kings and pushed back.

"Still," he said, spotting the flaw, "even if kings stop trusting mages, what does that have to do with us?"

Marek stalled.

It was hard to explain the chain reaction to Lambert. Truthfully, if Marek had not known later events, he would not have considered it such a disaster either.

Who would believe this was the first sign of the witch hunts to come? Until the authority of mages truly collapsed, his foreknowledge would sound like nonsense.

"Fine. Forget that one. Different answer. To improve the Trial of the Grasses, I asked around the main market for famous alchemists. There's a master alchemist in Vizima named Kalkstein who is worth my attention. He may be able to give me ideas."

Lambert waved a hand, inviting him to keep performing. He seemed curious to see what else the boy could produce, and whether the explanation would improve.

"As for the potions, I have a process of my own that lets me make them quickly. The money from selling them will save time later. As for studying charms, that is part of my research into mage enchantments. That is all."

Marek finished and copied Lambert's wave, signaling the end of the explanation. The expression said plainly that Lambert lacked the vision to appreciate the plan.

"Fine," Lambert said. "Looks like you're at least working in the right direction. I don't know a damned thing about improving the Trial of the Grasses. That's your agreement with Vesemir. The two of you always act like you're hiding corpses under the floor.

"So what can I help with? Or are you planning to stay here? I'm getting ready to leave."

"You're running out of money, aren't you? Ban Ard isn't cheap."

Marek exposed the truth cleanly. Unless Lambert changed his relationship with money, he would always be poor.

"Hey. Show proper respect when speaking to your master, apprentice."

Lambert looked pleased with himself, as if he had finally found the boy's weak point. Since Marek meant to become a witcher, Lambert had clearly been promoted to master.

Marek had expected this.

"I'm Vesemir's apprentice. That makes us closer to peers. At most, you're a senior witcher, and senior witchers buy the apprentice dinner."

"Tch. I'll treat you to a feast, then. The taste of my steel sword. You can enjoy it one bruise at a time."

Lambert untied the steel sword and rested it across his knees as a threat.

"In any case," Marek said, changing the subject before Lambert could make good on the threat, "I intend to go to Vizima. Will you come with me?"

The old bastard absolutely would take revenge during practice if provoked further.

When the conversation turned serious, Lambert put away the clowning.

"If you want the capital of Temeria, water is fastest. Head south to Vergen and take a boat. Follow the Pontar through Flotsam to Castle La Valette, then turn onto the Ismena. That'll take you straight to Vizima by the lake."

Marek did not hesitate.

"We leave tomorrow."

***

The next morning, Bras came to the Ban Ard gate to see them off.

"You truly won't consider staying? Our work is just, and it is thriving."

He was there to bid farewell to his virility tonic enterprise, which had died midway through its glorious rise, and to make one last attempt at keeping Marek.

Bras looked miserable. He had only just gotten used to living well, and after ten days the good times were ending. It was not enough to make him weep, but even a friendship built on profit could become as firm as iron.

Dorregaray had pretended to be kind, but Lambert still had no love for mages. Bras was even worse: worldly and mercenary, with deep lines around his mouth that made him look more like a swindler than a sorcerer.

So Lambert rode a few steps ahead and left Marek to say goodbye.

"Esteemed Master Bras, forgive me for not staying. I have reasons for this journey that cannot be set aside. Our time together was short, but pleasant. Thank you for your help."

Marek spoke with perfect courtesy.

Bras bowed slightly.

"Very well. But whenever you return to Ban Ard, Rafard's Decoctions will welcome you."

And so Marek left Ban Ard. He did not let Bras see him off empty-handed, however. Sixty virility tonics, sold in limited quantity, would be enough to let Bras enjoy another ten days of prosperity. The price was only a bag of coins and an exchange of horses.

Yes. Trusty was given to Bras in exchange for Bras's mare.

The decision had been sudden, but Marek made it firmly for one reason: something Lambert had said without thinking before they left.

"Trusty's a decent horse. Not fast, but you look steady and comfortable on him."

Marek suddenly realized that his earlier private joke had come back to strike him in a subtle form. He decided on the spot to leave Trusty with Bras and take the mare instead, even if it meant accepting one fewer bag of coins.

Geographically speaking, Kaedwen and the great southern kingdom of Aedirn were divided by a natural mountain barrier around Lormark. When King Henselt set his sights on Upper Aedirn, the mountain city of Vergen, built at the pass, became a gate he could not avoid.

If Vergen fell, Upper Aedirn fell with it. It was the kind of pass kingdoms bled themselves white trying to break.

That was why the Second War for Upper Aedirn, which had ended only the year before, was also known as the Battle of Vergen.

The winding military road began at Ard Carraigh and ran all the way to the Pontar, opposite Vergen. It had been built for armies.

Several days after leaving Ban Ard, with hooves tapping steadily along the road, Lambert asked casually, "Why the sudden horse swap? I thought Trusty would stay with you. People who name animals usually get attached."

"He is old," Marek said naturally. "I believe ending his days in a peaceful city is what he would have wanted."

After a few days, he had nearly convinced himself.

"And this mare? You naming her Trusty too? Like Geralt naming every horse Roach?"

"No. She's a mare, and Trusty has earned his retirement. Besides, giving a mount a name is how you get attached.

"Speaking of which, do you know what the Second War for Upper Aedirn truly caused?"

The evening breeze was cool, and Marek felt the faint urge to show off.

"What did it cause?"

"First, the road beneath us. After the ceasefire, it became a blessing for traveling merchants and indirectly encouraged trade between kingdoms."

Lambert thought about it.

"Makes sense."

"Second, the destruction of order. During the war, Henselt's glorious knights and brave soldiers ruined the land north of the Pontar until almost nothing was left.

"Put those two things together. Do you know what they mean?"

Marek did not expect an answer. It was a rhetorical question, the sort of thing people used when they wanted to feel clever.

Lambert answered immediately.

"Bandits. Security goes to shit."

Marek stared at him, genuinely shocked. He had thought he was the only one drawing that conclusion. Somehow Lambert, rough as he looked, had reached the same answer.

"How did you know?"

The witcher gave Marek a look of royal contempt and pointed ahead.

"Because I can see, idiot. Use your eyes."

Not far away, a wagon lay overturned. Three... no, four armed bandits stood around it, their vicious faces visible even from a distance.

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