“So we rode all the way to Vizima just to buy reagents?”
Will drove a heavy boot into the ribs of a feral hound lunging from the roadside ditch, sending it yelping into the frozen briers, his eyes drifting toward the sprawling outer perimeter of the capital.
“We did,” Geralt answered, reining Roach to a steady walk.
“The subterranean grottos beneath the sanctuary yield Sewant mushrooms, ribleaf, and mandrake root well enough. Yennefer carries manticore venom sacs and the tongue of an albino bruxa in her trunk, but the formula calls for the spinal fluid of a forktail.”
“A royal capital sells dragon marrow over the counter?” Will asked, his interest stirred.
“There is an apothecary in the Trade Quarter dealing in beast parts. If his shelves are bare, we ask around the docks for word of a nest. When we cross the causeway, we split up. If you walk at my stirrup, common folk will spit on your boots.”
“Because of these golden eyes?”
Geralt’s cat-slit pupils fixed on the youth’s face, giving a slow, deliberate nod.
“Say the word, Geralt, and I’ll ensure they never see tomorrow’s dawn.”
“Leave the swagger in the scabbard,” Geralt admonished, his voice turning cold and flat.
“The Temple Quarter crawls with municipal watchmen and lances of the White Rose, and Burgomaster Velerad hangs brawlers without trial. Keep your hands off your hilt inside the walls.”
…
Will had changed into a tailored woolen doublet cut to his frame by Nenneke’s own shears, tailing Geralt toward the arched stone bridge spanning the moat into the Trade Quarter.
Heavy halberds barred the gatehouse, yet they slipped past the iron portcullis without a word of challenge, riding on the royal writ King Foltest had granted Geralt years prior.
It was Will’s first glimpse of an imperial-scale metropolis in this world.
By the time he turned his head to consult the witcher, the white-haired mutant had already vanished into the throng like smoke.
Vizima was the jewel of Temeria.
Blessed with navigable waterways and seated at the crossroads of three continental trade routes, the city gathered wealth like a sponge.
Perhaps that sheer abundance had driven Foltest to abandon the squalor of Old Vizima, laying out this glittering new foundation on the eastern bank.
To judge the fortunes of a city, a man needed only look down at his boots.
Narrow, winding lanes were lined with three-story red-brick facades, every bay window dressed with vibrant winter blooms behind imported glass panes.
Only merchant princes, high-ranking guildmasters, landed barons, and Burgomaster Velerad himself held hearths in this ward.
Patrol squads of the White Rose marched every corner five men abreast, their eyes sharp for beggars or footpads.
The central plaza opened into pure extravagance.
Broad flagstones lay scrubbed clean of horse dung.
Merchant booths groaning under bolt silk, cut velvet, and polished gemstones lined the walks.
A cutpurse brazen enough to sever a guildsman’s hand could buy a titled country estate with the rings glittering on the fingers alone.
The price tags made Will’s vision blur: five hundred to five thousand crowns for vanity baubles.
That these cutthroats dared levy such highway robbery right beneath the municipal hall’s nose spoke volumes of the realm’s priorities.
Rising beyond the copper roofs, the royal palace of King Foltest dominated the skyline, its soaring spires and battlements anchored like an impregnable island of slate.
Even beneath the January frost, the capital’s oldest trade flourished along the colonnades: women calling from open stoops in low-cut gowns, paired with heavy white stockings and polished leather boots.
The imitation of courtly maidens was clumsy at best, yet judging by the gold trading hands, it remained a remarkably sound enterprise.
Will turned down a cobbled alley, stepping through the oak doors of an establishment marked by a painted iron signboard: The Jackdaw.
The barkeep looked up from his greasy counter, offering a practiced, welcoming grin.
“Roast, ale, clean linen, or a warm bedfellow for the night: we have the lot under one roof. What does your honor require?”
“Your best pitcher of Redanian red, and a roasted leg of mutton.”
Will found an empty oak table near the back, letting his gaze drift toward the corner hearth where an itinerant bard plucked a lute with lively, dancing fingers.
The ballad was standard tavern romance: a fair-haired noble knight delivering an exile princess from ruin; passion igniting between campfires, the youth shattering her foes to reclaim her throne, and the new queen bearing him two robust heirs before the final verse.
“A pleasant fairy tale, isn’t it?”
Will turned his chin, eyebrows arching in mild surprise.
Salat, clad in the polished mail and scarlet wool of the White Rose, pulled out a bench and settled into the booth.
“Don’t tell me Lady Marie has you shadowing my stirrups all the way from Ellander,” Will said, leaning back against the timber partition.
The young knight offered a weary grimace, tapping the hilt of his broadsword.
“I wish my orders were that gentle. Some bastard has been butchering commoners wholesale across the Temple Quarter and Old Vizima. We’ve buried four brothers from our chapter in the lime pits this week alone.”
Salat leaned closer, his voice dropping.
“Scouts claim it is the work of Scoia’tael guerrillas, others swear an ancient ghoul pack burrowed up from the barrows. The wildest rumors claim Princess Adda has relapsed into a striga and begun feeding on the wards again.”
He shook his head with disgust.
“The Burgomaster recalled our outer garrisons to reinforce the city watch. Come nightfall, Old Vizima turns into an abattoir; even the drowners and fleders in the drainage canals are creeping up through the street grates.”
A prickle of suspicion touched Will’s mind.
Could it be?
Indiscriminate night slaughter sounded uncomfortably close to the bloody terror campaigns waged by the Squirrels.
“Why not level the ruins and rebuild the quarter?” Will asked.
“Vizima is bursting at the seams. Clean streets and proper tenements would yield a fortune in rents.”
“A sound scheme on parchment, but everyone waits on royal coin. Old Vizima holds the ruins of the ancient court; His Grace has no desire to disturb those vaults.”
Salat pushed the subject aside, leaning across the table.
“Would you consider lending your hand to the sewer sweep? You know how to swing steel and mend broken meat; our lance is short a surgeon.”
Will let out a cold snort.
“You jest. I hold no affection for the petals of the White Rose.”
The knight took no offense, leaning in until his breath brushed Will’s ear.
“The four men at my back were sponsored by the Countess seven winters ago. Every link of their mail belongs to her house.”
“Cuckoo eggs in a vulture’s nest? Lady Marie has a daring streak.”
“Half the nobility plays the same board,” Salat shrugged.
Will shook his head.
“Generous offer, but I have no taste for sewer muck.”
Salat made no further argument.
Reaching beneath his cuirass, he drew out a folded slip of vellum and smoothed it flat across the beer-stained wood.
Will glanced down with mild detachment, only for his eyes to lock onto the ink.
His pulse jumped.
Scoia’tael squad leader: Five crowns.
Drowner heads (pair): One crown.
Fleder: Ten crowns.
Cemetaur: Fifty crowns.
Will, you hypocrite, he cursed himself in silent delight.
Two swamp corpses for a silver crown?
That is practically daylight robbery against the chapter’s treasury.
“Then again…” Will murmured, reaching a deliberate hand toward the contract.
Smack.
A heavy, calloused palm slammed down over the vellum, pinning the parchment to the oak.
“Not so fast, Sir Knight! Honest men are starving in the gutter, and you hand internal chapter bounties to a stray half-breed?”
A gravelly bark cut through the taproom.
A hulking mercenary with a bulbous, gin-blossom nose stood towering over the table, flanked by three rough-looking companions.
The band had clearly tracked the White Rose badge from the square, waiting for a chance to intercept the dispatch.
Seeing Salat pass the parchment to a youth with pale golden eyes had snapped their restraint.
“There is no bounty here for you, boy,” the red-nosed brute snarled, leaning down until his foul breath washed across Will’s face.
“I care nothing for non-human politics, but whoever you are, haul your hide out that door before I carve it off.”
Will glanced toward the bar.
The barkeep continued polishing a pewter mug with practiced apathy, offering no intervention.
Will tilted his head toward Salat.
“If I beat this dog to death on your flags, do you take me in chains?”
Salat measured the four roughs from greasy boots to unkempt beards, his jaw setting as he gave a firm, slow shake of his head.
“I see no gentlemen of rank in this booth. My eyes are entirely clouded.”
He raised his voice toward the street.
“Monte! Dale! Secure the latch.”
Two mail-clad knights stepped through the entrance, flipped the hanging wooden sign from Open to Closed, dropped the heavy crossbar, and turned to face the room with drawn daggers.
The taproom was sealed.
Will blinked, watching the smooth execution with genuine admiration.
How many times have you done this drill?
Stranger still, the wandering bard on the dais showed no inclination to flee; instead, he dipped a quill into an inkpot, smoothing a sheet of parchment across his knee with scholarly delight.
Is this the standard cadence of capital life?
The red-nosed sellsword let out a furious, drunken bark of laughter.
At worst, putting steel through an insolent whelp meant ducking into the maze of the Temple Quarter until the dust settled.
Shk.
He cleared his longsword, point leveling toward Will’s throat, while his three mates stepped in to box the table.
Behind the counter, the barkeep calmly transferred the silver cutlery to an iron box, reached beneath the shelf for a curved falchion, and leaned against the beer taps to enjoy the show.
Vizima was a rough town; an afternoon brawl over blood money was barely worth spilling an ale over.
Splendid.
Cutting a man’s path to wealth was no different from butchering his kin.
Will had zero intention of letting this lot walk out into the frost.
His eyes swept the room.
The tavern had fallen dead silent, save for a lone traveler in the far corner, draped in a deep woolen cowl, nursing a clay mug with his chin down, wholly indifferent to the drawn steel.
Will brought his golden gaze back to the four thugs, his lips parting into a slow, merciless grin.
“Gentlemen, I am afraid none of you are walking back through that door. I only hope the crowns in your pockets are enough to settle the barkeep’s timber bill.”