Don't Do Evil Because It Is Small (1)

That night, at the Golden Court Tavern.

Calling it a tavern was perhaps a stretch; this establishment with the grand name was more akin to a small inn. While its exterior looked unremarkable, the interior was filled with the distinct characteristics of high-end inns in rural towns—though, of course, that was hardly a compliment.

But then again, having wine to drink was enough; a witcher never picked his environment.

It was crowded and noisy here. The patrons varied in status, profession, and race, but whether they were locals or outsiders, they were all doing exactly what they pleased. Diligent merchants argued with dwarves over product prices and loan interest rates even in the tavern. As for the less diligent ones, they were busy pinching the waitresses' bottoms. Certain local fools pretended to be worldly to catch the attention of young girls, but the girls' minds were not on them at all. They were busy fawning over the wealthy, while simultaneously mocking these poor, ugly bumpkins.

The carters and fishermen, those wretched laborers, were a different sight entirely; they were drinking as if their lives depended on it. A few sailors stood on tables, singing sea shanties. He Shenyan listened with interest; the gist of the song was about the waves of the sea, the bravery of the captain, and the beauty of mermaids. Especially the mermaids—they described them so vividly that the sailors' rough, gravelly voices actually gave the lyrics a strange, unique charm.

Kaldimien and Geralt sat at a nearby bar, hunched over their drinks. The chubby magistrate asked the bald innkeeper, "Listen, mate. When I walked in, I saw six men and a girl, all wearing Novigrad-style black leather jackets with silver trim. I saw them at the tax station. Tell me the truth: are they here, or did they go to the Tuna Tavern?"

The innkeeper frowned, struggling to recall. With a sour face, he replied, "My lord, they are here. Judging by your tone, they don't seem like good people, do they?"

Kaldimien let out a cold snort and turned to Geralt. "I've never seen a good person walk around carrying swords all the time, unless they're a witcher like Geralt."

He asked the innkeeper again, "Where are they now?"

"They're all in the private booth."

"It seems they gave you a lot of gold if you were willing to let them use the booth."

The innkeeper looked like he was about to slide under the table. He wiped the sweat from his face with his filthy apron and asked, "My lord, I didn't do anything! They don't look like good people, but they pay!"

Kaldimien remained at the bar drinking. Geralt gave him a look and returned to He Shenyan's table, saying, "It seems the situation is clear. The memories you extracted from his mind were indeed true."

He picked up a glass of wine and downed it in one gulp. A rare, gloomy expression appeared on the witcher's usually stoic face. "What he did makes me sick."

He Shenyan was still listening intently to the sailors' song; judging by the increasingly lewd lyrics, it had reached the climax.

He said casually, "Stregobor never felt he was doing anything wrong until the moment he died. In his mind, he believed he was simply making a difficult choice. He chose the lesser evil to serve the greater good."

For the first time, Geralt spoke with a serious tone. "Evil is evil. Whether it's great, small, or somewhere in between, it's all the same. I'm not a pious hermit, and not everything I've done in my life has been good. But you know what?"

He drank another glass, wiped his mouth, and stood up. "If I have to choose between one evil and another, I'd rather not choose at all."

He Shenyan turned his head, looked at Geralt, and cast a magic shield on him. "Do not commit a small evil, right?"

The witcher walked to the entrance of the booth. He pulled aside the stiff, dust-and-stain-covered curtain and stepped inside.

Six men sat around the table; the girl was not there.

A scarred, bald man roared, "What do you want?!"

Geralt scanned the room, his gaze sweeping over every face, and said calmly, "I want to see Shrike."

A pair of twins stood up. Their hands were already on the longswords resting on the table. Their faces were identical, equally expressionless, and their clothes and hairstyles were exactly the same.

Even the two swords were identical.

"Calm down, Vyr, Nimir. Both of you sit down," the bald man said. He then turned to Geralt. "Mate, we don't have anyone here named Shrike. I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place."

"Is that so?"

Geralt nodded. He braced his hands on the table and continued, "Let me make myself clear. I want to see Shrike, Renfri. Of course, if I can't see her, that's fine too. Just tell her that Stregobor is dead."

After saying this, Geralt turned to leave, but the conversation of the men inside made him stop in his tracks.

"Ha! Who does he think he is?"

"An albino!"

"No, no, mates, listen to me. I saw this cat-eyed freak in front of the magistrate's house. He brought in a monster, trying to trade it for coin. People say he's a witcher."

"One of those mutated bastards? A mage who casts spells for a handful of silver? Oh! Gods above, why haven't these damn freaks been burned at the stake?!"

"Hey! Cat-eyes! Don't run! Tell me, did your mother mate with a monster to give birth to you, like people say?"

Geralt sighed.

With lightning speed, he drew the sword from his back; the movement was so fast that only a silver flash was visible. Years of training and his superhuman physical condition allowed him to turn and slash downward in an instant. The sharp blade struck with pinpoint accuracy, severing the hand of the half-elf who had insulted him.

The man screamed, but in the noisy tavern, no one cared.

There was no emotion in the witcher's eyes. He said in a cold tone, "I won't kill you, idiot, but you must pay the price for this."

"Do you really think you—" The rest of the bald man's curse was swallowed back as a woman walked in.

She was nearly as tall as Geralt, with sea-blue eyes. Her straw-colored hair was cut unevenly, reaching only to her earlobes. She pressed one hand against the door, wearing a tight velvet leather jacket with a gorgeous belt around her waist. Her skirt was asymmetrical—draping to her calf on the left, while revealing a toned thigh in a deerskin boot on the right. A sword hung on her left hip, and a dagger with a large ruby on the hilt was tucked on her right.

"What's all this commotion?"

"Boss! He cut off one of Syvrel's hands!"

The woman remained unmoved. She said flatly, "I heard what he said. Shouldn't there be a price for slandering someone's mother?"

Geralt wiped the blood off his sword with his sleeve and slowly sheathed it. He extended a hand toward the woman. "Geralt of Rivia."

"You aren't worthy of shaking her hand! Freak!" the bald man cursed again. The woman turned to stare at him, and the man immediately shut his mouth, lowering his head to avoid her gaze. Geralt was very surprised, for there was something very strange in the woman's eyes—it reminded him of the light reflecting off a blade, the wails of the murdered, and the scent of blood and severed limbs.

"Fine, white-hair." The woman turned back, shook Geralt's hand, and suddenly put on a smile. "How about we go somewhere more spacious to talk? Hmm? Just you and me."

She deliberately drew out the end of her sentence, adopting a charming, seductive tone.