Do Not Do Evil, However Small (1)

That night, at the Golden Court Tavern.

Calling it a tavern was not quite accurate. This bar with its grand name was more like a small inn. Its exterior looked utterly unremarkable, while its interior possessed all the hallmarks of an upscale establishment in a country town—though that was hardly a compliment.

Then again, having alcohol to drink was good enough. Witchers had never been picky about their surroundings.

The place was crowded and noisy, its patrons differing in identity, profession, and race. But whether locals or outsiders, everyone was doing what they wanted. Dedicated merchants still argued with Dwarves over product prices and loan interest even in a tavern. The less dedicated ones were pinching the waitresses' asses. Some local fools put on worldly airs in an attempt to attract young women's attention, but the girls had no interest in them at all. They were too busy fawning over wealthy customers, all while mocking these poor, ugly bumpkins.

The drivers and Fishermen, those unfortunate laborers, presented another sight entirely. They drank as though their lives depended on it. Several sailors stood atop a table singing sea shanties. He Shenyan listened with interest. The song was generally about the ocean's waves, the Captain's bravery, and the mermaids' beauty. Especially the mermaids—their description was vividly sung, and the sailors' rough voices lent those lyrics a peculiar charm.

Kaldimien and Geralt sat drinking at the bar not far from him. The plump prefect asked the bald proprietor, "Listen, friend. When I came in just now, I saw six men and a girl, all dressed in Novigrad-style black leather clothes trimmed with silver. I saw them at the tax station. Tell me honestly: are they here, or did they go to the Tuna Tavern?"

The proprietor frowned, trying hard to recall. Wearing a bitter expression, he said, "My lord, they're here. From the sound of it, they aren't good people?"

Kaldimien snorted and turned to Geralt. "I've never seen a good person walk around carrying a sword all the time—unless he's a Witcher like Geralt."

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

"They're all in the private booths."

"Looks like they gave you plenty of gold. You were actually willing to let them use a booth."

The proprietor nearly sank beneath the table. He wiped the sweat from his face with his filthy apron and asked, "My lord, I haven't done anything! They don't look like good people, but they pay!"

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

He picked up a glass and drained it in one gulp. A rare gloom appeared on the Witcher's usually expressionless face. "What he did disgusts me."

He Shenyan was still listening intently to the sailors' song. Judging by the increasingly obscene lyrics, they had likely reached the climactic final verse.

He casually said, "Until his death, Stregobor never believed he was doing evil. In his mind, he had merely made a difficult choice. He chose a small evil for the greater good."

For the first time, Geralt spoke in a serious tone. "Evil is evil. Great, small, or somewhere in between—it is all the same. I'm no devout hermit, and not everything I've done in my life has been good. But guess what?"

He drank another glass, wiped his mouth, and rose to his feet. "If I had to choose between the two, I'd choose neither."

He Shenyan turned to look at Geralt and cast a Magic Power shield over him. "Do not do evil, however small. Right?"

The Witcher walked to the entrance of the private booth, pulled aside the stiff curtain covered in dust and stains, and stepped inside.

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

A bald man with a scarred face shouted, "What the hell do you want?!"

Geralt looked around, his gaze passing over every face. Calmly, he said, "I want to see Shrike."

A pair of twins stood up. Their hands had already reached for the longswords lying on the table. Their faces were identical, equally expressionless, as were their clothes, hairstyles, and everything else.

Even their swords were identical.

"Calm down, Vyr, Nimir. Both of you, sit." The bald man spoke, then addressed Geralt. "Friend, there's no one named Shrike here. I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place."

"Is that so?"

Geralt nodded. Bracing both hands against the table, he continued, "Let me make this clear. I want to see Shrike, Renfri. Of course, it doesn't matter if I can't. Just tell her that Stregobor is dead."

After saying that, Geralt turned to leave. But the conversation among the men behind him made him stop.

"Ha! Who the hell does he think he is?"

"An albino!"

"No, no, listen, boys. I saw this cat-eyed freak outside the prefect's house. He brought a monster to trade for money. People say he's a Witcher."

"One of those Mutant bastards? Mages who cast spells for a silver coin? Oh! Gods above, why haven't these damned freaks been burned at the stake?!"

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

Geralt sighed.

With lightning speed, he drew the sword from his back. He moved so quickly that only a flash of silver could be seen. Years of training and his Superman physical abilities let him turn in an instant, raise his sword, and slash down. The sharp blade struck with perfect precision, severing one hand from the half-Elf who had insulted him.

He screamed, but in the noisy tavern, no one cared.

There was no emotion in the Witcher's eyes as he said coldly, "I won't kill you, idiot. But you must pay the price."

"Do you fucking think you—" The bald man swallowed the rest of his curse as a woman entered.

She was nearly as tall as Geralt, with sea-blue eyes. Her straw-colored hair was cut unevenly, ending just at her earlobes. One hand rested against the door. She wore a velvet, close-fitting leather jacket and an ornate belt around her waist. Her skirt was asymmetrical as well—the left side hung to her calf, while the right exposed a shapely thigh above an elk-hide boot. A sword hung at her left side, while a dagger with a large red gem in its pommel was tucked on her right.

"What's going on here?"

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

The woman was utterly unmoved. She said flatly, "I heard what he said. Shouldn't someone be punished for speaking so crudely about another person's mother?"

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

"You don't have the right to shake her hand, freak!" The bald man cursed again. The woman turned and stared at him. He immediately shut his mouth, lowering his head and not daring to meet her gaze. Geralt was very surprised, because there was something deeply strange in her eyes—something that made him think of light reflected from a blade, the wails of murder victims, blood, and severed limbs.

"All right, White-haired man." The woman turned back and shook Geralt's hand, suddenly smiling. "How about we find somewhere more spacious to talk? Hmm? Just you and me."

She deliberately drew out the last syllable, lending it a seductive lilt.