Yes, this departs from game canon and will assume parts of the quest "Reason of State" happened quite differently.
"Triss, pay attention," sniped the ebon-haired sorceress to the chestnut haired one as they sat at war council with Phillipa, Fringilla, Margarite and the Aen Saevherne. "I don't know what's gotten into you lately, but put it off and attend. This is all for Ciri, you know."
"I know, I'm sorry. What were you saying, Philippa?" Triss wound a lock of hair around her finger.
"What would Triss Merigold be thinking of, or perhaps I should say whom?" Philippa Eilhart's tone was arch as she tilted her sightless eye sockets toward the sound of Triss's voice before turning an artlessly nasty smile toward Yennefer. "Still pining after Geralt? I would have thought you possessed more self-respect than that. Tell me, darling, did you get a new style and color to impress him?"
"I'm not pining for anyone, Philippa. Certainly not Geralt," scoffed Triss. "I'm quite happy he and Yennefer have finally come to a deeper understanding and wish them much joy of each other. And before any of you intends to quiz or berate me further on the subject, I'm over it. Quite simply done." Triss stared directly at Eilhart, hands curling into fists in her lap, not seeing the flash of jealous disbelief in Yennefer's eyes.
Margarita Laux-Antille, still bearing the marks of her recent imprisonment, cleared her throat pointedly as she spoke in a weakened voice, "Let us put such squabbles behind us, ladies. We must come up with an effective strategy if the Wild Hunt is to be bested." Avallac'h only nodded his head, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. These witches would be the death of him. Sighing, he looked at each woman around the table, his voice low but urgent.
"Eredin's greatest advantages are summoning reinforcements immediately through portals, and teleporting the Naglfar away if things go poorly in battle." Looking up, the sage was pleased to see they had abandoned their petty squabble for the moment. "We've already settled on the Marlin Coast as our battleground, given how remote it is. I have a plan to ensure Eredin receives no help from Tir Na Lia, but you, ladies, must devise a stratagem to prevent the Hunt's retreat."
"We could create suppression field. It wouldn't be fine tuned enough to stop smaller portals, but it would block anything large enough to transport his ship," suggested Marguerite.
"A bubble that large would require all of us casting in unison," complained Philippa, "we wouldn't be able to help the combatants with supporting spells."
"What good would our magic be if the Naglfar can simply teleport away, and then return while we are still licking our wounds?" Marguerite asked, looking around at her lodge sisters. "I cast my vote for the suppression field."
"We haven't yet called for a vote," sneered Philippa, drumming her fingers on her knee.
"What do you suggest, then, Philippa?" Yennefer managed to pack a wealth of angry snark into her mild words and milder tone.
The blind sorceress leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers under her chin. "I support the suppression field, frankly." Groans fluttered from three feminine throats as Avallac'h pinched the bridge of his nose again.
"Then put it to a vote. Not that we have any better suggestions," muttered Triss.
"All in favor of generating a suppression field to prevent the Naglfar from teleporting away, raise your right hand." Four delicate hands immediately shot into the air. "Opposed? No one? Alright, that's settled. Now, Avallac'h, what is your plan to strip reinforcements from the King of the Hunt?" Philippa's voice had turned silky.
"I prefer not to say at the moment. I need to make contact with an old friend first," said the Aen Saevherne cryptically. "It's not up for a vote in any event." Avallac'h leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. A migraine was ticking behind his right eye and he wanted to retreat to his room, away from these contentious women. "I do ask, however, if any of you knows a good oneiromancer."
"There is one," Triss said, "Corrine Tilly. She chose to stay in Novigrad when we got all the other magic users, healers and alchemists out. I believe she helped Geralt locate Dandelion when we were looking for Ciri."
The sage rocked to his feet and strode toward the door, tossing instructions over his shoulder as he reached for the doorknob, "I must speak with her. If you would, please, Miss Merigold, get a message to her for me. I wish to speak to Geralt as well." Triss nodded to his retreating form, the quiet click of the latch sounding loud in Philippa's room.
"Well, I believe we've made progress. We have work ahead of us sisters," Philippa, despite the loss of her eyes at Radovid's hands the year before and half a year spent trapped in her owl form, was still self-assured and forceful. "Marguerite, Yennefer and I will begin work on the spell's construction as you go on Avallac'h's errand, Triss." Philippa paused and tapped her lips. "It is time, as well, to bring Cirilla into the lodge. We've put this off long enough." The blind witch's mouth compressed into a grimace as Yennefer shifted in her seat. "I trust you to bring her around to good sense, Yennefer. Her power is too great, her behavior too erratic to allow her to go her own way any longer. For the good of the lodge and the world, she needs our discipline."
"I'll talk to her, Philippa, but ultimately, it's her decision. I cannot coerce her." Sounds of clinking mugs and the muted mumble of conversation floated up from the common room in the leaden silence following Yennefer's statement.
"As soon as she and Geralt have returned from wherever it was they went, bring her to us," Philippa declared. "In the interests of the lodge and for the sake of impartiality, you and Triss will be excluded from the meeting."
"Wait," Triss interjected with some heat, "Yen and I are part of the lodge too. There's nothing you can say to Ciri that can't be said in front of us."
"As Philippa said, you are both too close to her and your judgments skewed," Marguerite spoke even as she stood.
"We simply wish to reinstate our offer to join the lodge. Though her power is dangerous left untrained, we shall not coerce her. It's clear she has very much become her own woman since last we saw her in Montecalvo." The sisters of the lodge moved to disperse and Yennefer hooked her arm through Triss's as they left the room.
"So, my dear Triss, that's your natural color, isn't it? It suits you well. What made you decide to change your hair?" Yennefer's question was couched in a pleasant tone, but Triss could hear steel springs winding within it. She ran a hand through straight chestnut locks highlighted with lighter golden strands that just brushed her shoulders now, framing her face charmingly.
"It was time for a change," she shrugged nonchalantly. "My new career awaits in Lan Exeter once we've defeated the Hunt, why not update my look?" The women turned into Triss's small room and closed the door.
"You don't have a chance with him, you know," Yennefer hissed, helping herself to a glass of wine from the fresh carafe on the bedside table.
"Would you have me shave my head and wear rags? Perhaps score my face and knock out some teeth? Really, Yennefer, enough is enough," the younger sorceress shot back, accepting her own glass from Yennefer's hand.
Yennefer's eyes narrowed. "We've had this conversation before. Just keep your hands off. He's mine."
"I don't want him," Triss grinned, realizing for the first time it was really true. "He's all yours."
Yennefer scowled. "Hmmph. How am I to believe you when you've been after him these last ten years and more? You've seduced him, slept with him every chance you got!"
Mettina Rosé swirled in Triss's cup as she considered her answer. "Call it an epiphany. I've come to the conclusion that trying to take him away from you to prove I could is sophomoric and utterly pathetic, not to mention futile." She leaned on the windowsill, watching the busy day go by outside as hawkers called their wares and prostitutes sashayed, displaying theirs. "Even when he couldn't recall anything after riding with the Hunt, on some level he remembered you. I was just a poor substitute, there to provide comfort until he reunited with his soul's match. He could get that with any dockside prostitute, and often has." The rosé swirled again, playing with sunbeams from the window as it released its heady bouquet. Merigold shrugged one shoulder eloquently as she sipped her wine. "Quite frankly, I'm done selling myself short. I deserve better than that. I would rather be alone than a shabby stand in for you."
Mumbles of noise from outside floated in the stillness between the women as Yennefer mulled what Triss said. Several times she opened her mouth to deliver a scathing retort before snapping her lips shut. Finally, in a small voice, she murmured, "Do you really mean that, Triss? You won't attempt to seduce him anymore? You won't act the siren?"
"I'm done playing stupid games," Triss said acerbically. "I regret ever starting them in the first place."
Yennefer finished her wine, studying the cup for a moment before setting it back on the serving tray. "I don't know if I can trust you, not sure I can believe you. There's a lot of water under this bridge."
"I would prefer you had some faith in me, Yen, but at the end of the day, your approval isn't required," Triss sighed. "I've done everything I can to make up for my wrongs. I won't spend my life showing you proof. If you aren't willing to forgive, no amount of atonement will suffice."
Yennefer stood, her back to the window as she rubbed at an imaginary spot on her left hand, sending her final salvo across Triss's bow, "I'll believe it when I see it. Eventually, you'll break your word." The proud woman, cloaked in her unchanging signature black and white, strode from the room, allowing the door to slam in her wake. Triss leaned against the window pane, staring sightlessly into the city milieu.
"Va'esse deireádh aep eigean, va'esse eigh faidh'ar," she murmured, fingering the small medallion at her wrist and wondering where Eskel was, hoping he was safe and his hunt successful. She had exercised supreme self-control, scrying him only once in the last week, taking note of his posh surroundings and the svelte texture of a Nilfgaardian doublet hugging his slim frame. Somehow, he had ended up in Vizima palace. She recognized the stonework mosaic on the lintel of the door.
Shaking her head, the sorceress stripped out of her usual garb, donning the clothing of a peasant; a woolen dress, sturdy clogs, linen mob-cap and thick knitted shawl completed her ensemble. No one would expect the illustrious Triss Merigold to be seen dead on the city streets in such common garb. She pulled the cap low over her face and draped the shawl over her head as well. Triss hoped Corrine Tilly would agree to meet with the elven sage. Even in this get-up, she could be recognized and she didn't like risking her neck in vain. Sighing, she let herself out of her room and took the back stairs out into the cold October sunshine. She just missed the mounted contingent of armored Cavalry that paraded past the Chameleon, lofted pennants displaying the Redanian Eagle fluttering in the breeze.
The seething human tidewater of Novigrad swelled and surged in the wake of the mounted squad and no one noticed the man leaning against the mud and plaster side of a local tannery nearby, his arms crossed over his chest and one ankle crossed over the other. He watched with narrowed eyes the color of sunlight filtered through Kaedweni Stout as the squad of Redanian officers trotted down the street toward the temple district. The owner of the eyes, a tall, bald man in ragged clothing and a patched mishmash of leather armor, scratched his stubbled chin idly. Those eyes, seemingly disinterested, caught every detail - the exact number of knights, the state of their gear, the health of the horses. Each rider represented a company of a thousand men, the body of the Fifth Eagle Division, camped just outside the city gates in the small hamlet of Far Corners. Everyone knew the final clash between North and South would take place here. If they were lucky, Novigrad would still stand the day after the battle, regardless the victor, and the fighting would be limited outside Novigrad's fortified walls.
Francis Bedlam, King of Beggars, levered himself away from the building and ambled toward a certain bathhouse not far from the Passiflora, avoiding road apples as he strolled through various markets along the way. City dwellers huddled in sullen silence only moments before, were suddenly frantic to spend their coin and buy up every available scrap of wool, gutted fish, jug of beer and shriveled potato the merchants had to offer. Goods that were dwindling rapidly; the marketplace would be stripped bare before the thirteenth bell. The looming conflict weighed heavily on the morning breeze and accompanied Francis as he arrived at the bathhouse.
A rapid knock in a prearranged pattern summoned a servant to peek through the spyhole in the door before swinging it wide and bidding the beggar king to enter. "Ah, Master Bedlam," enthused Dijkstra's … Bedlam wasn't quite sure what Happen was to Reuven exactly, but the rotund eunuch was a ubiquitous feature at these meetings. "Do come in. You are expected. Follow me, please." Bedlam dipped into one of the changing rooms, emerging with a soft, Ofiri cotton bath sheet wrapped around his naked hips. He didn't like leaving his personal arsenal behind, but all the crime lords had agreed it was the best way to ensure a level meeting field. The air was warm and humid. Tendrils of steam curled around the architecture, painting the marble plinths and panels with drips of condensation as he padded toward the sounds of voices arguing amidst the tinkling of water.
"Free city. How are we a fuckin' free city when Radovid's army is shittin' piles in our yard? What maggot crawled into his head to bring his damn army here?" Carlo "Cleaver" Varese raged, pacing at the edge of the steaming pool of hot water. "If that cocksucker thinks he's gonna take Novigrad, I'll shove a fuckin' pike up his arse sideways."
The man known as Cyprian Wily the Younger grimaced and lounged back against a marble balustrade, his nasal whine echoing unpleasantly as he spoke. "The Center Army group is marching up from Vizima, ready to push over the Pontar. Tradesmen are packing up shop and leavin' on the tide with the fleet."
"An' why would that be, d'ye think?" snarled the dwarf, "Radovid's ships are just down the Pontar in Oxenfurt and Emhyr's sit idle in Bremervoord. Damn yacht race to see who would get here first. Winner blockades the harbor."
Junior nodded and scratched at the greasy strands of hair at the back of his head. "Novigrad runs on commerce and trade is it's life's blood. With Nilfgaard and Redania about to corner fuck us, the goods are drying up. Too little is coming in. If this fight doesn't happen soon, there won't be enough vittles to endure a siege." The weasely little man nodded to emphasize his point. Francis agreed with the slimy fourth string of Novigrad's Underground Quartet, scowling as he poured himself a goblet of wine and took his place by the steaming pool.
Dijkstra and Cleaver would never mention it, and neither would he, but Bedlam knew the real Cyprian Wiley's body had been dragged out of an Oxenfurt mansion and thrown into a knacker's cart, along with the prostitutes he had murdered. For a while, relations betwixt the underworld bosses and ambitious upstarts hoping to fill in the power vacuum were shaky, but this Whoreson miraculously appeared as if from the dead to take charge of his gang once again. Appearances notwithstanding, he was smarter than his predecessor, far more rational, and possessed an unparalleled head for business absent from the unlamented original. So what if the new Whoreson was a doppler? He was trustworthy, competent and discreet - all valuable commodities to Bedlam's way of thinking.
Francis stepped into the pool and took his place on the tiled edge, resting his feet on a submerged step as he rumbled his thoughts aloud. "No one thought the Emperor would attack Novigrad. There're too many reasons to leave us be, most notably access to lines of supply."
"Someone forgot to remind the emperor," scoffed Cleaver. "Fucker'll have to fight his way north. Radovid has his armies packed into the whole of Far Corners from the City walls to the southern Pontar delta."
"Doubt they'll come all the way into the city," sneered Junior, eyeing the refreshment table and weighing the advantages of helping himself to a mug of ale.
"Emhyr needs a decisive victory in Velen or things will go ass up for him in a damn hurry," Dijkstra grumbled as he limped through the doorway to join the other three bosses, pausing at the table laid with fine cheeses, breads, fruits, wines and seven varieties of beer. "At this point, he doesn't give a heavy shit if we burn the city to the ground so long as Radovid is defeated."
"You really think Nilfgaard will win, Reuven?" Cleaver settled down with a brimming mug of Mahakam's finest, planting his hoary backside against a marble pillar.
"It depends on the mettle of the King's troops, and if they are settled on their course," replied the big spy cryptically, palming a branch of grapes and pouring a chalice of est est before taking his seat on the lip of the hot tub. He sipped his wine, pinning each man and dwarf with a gimlet stare. "The question before us, gentlemen, is who do we WANT to win this war?"
Bedlam grimaced, "What does that even ploughin' mean, Sigi? What we want isn't going to change the the outcome."
"Don't be so sure about that, Francis," murmured the spy, "Kings and kingdoms fall and rise on much less."
"If it were up to me," said Whoreson, who had finally risen to graze at the refreshment table, "I'd choose the Empire. At least Emhyr doesn't get his fuckin' jollies lighting his courtyard with burning mages and non-humans."
"You ain't wrong, mate," growled Cleaver, "you ain't wrong. I'd take Nilfgaard any day over Radovid. At least the black'uns can be reasoned with and I have it on good authority the empire mostly leaves you alone so long as you follow the law and pay your taxes."
"No one escapes the tax man for long, north or south," grinned Whoreson impudently.
Dijkstra watched Bedlam's face as the beggar king mulled over his answer. Finally, Francis looked up, rubbing a thumb along his chin. "Radovid is brilliant but as unhinged as a brothel door. Belleteyne was the bloodiest display of his psychosis - so far. The way I see it, if he defeats Nilfgaard, the North will suffer under his rule and the witch hunters will drive their pogroms till even the Fire's Faithful roast on pyres." Francis paused and watch the flickering of a lamp as moisture gathered on the leaded glass bonnet. In a measured rumble, he concluded, "failure to act is to act. If we do nothing when we have the opportunity, we're as bad as he is; Worse because we might have stopped him when we had the chance."
Dijkstra nodded, absently rubbing his poorly healed leg as he stretched it in the hot water. "What if I told you gents we could help gut the little prick like a mackerel?"
"How the sandwich fuck are we supposed to do that?" sneered Wiley, a sour look crawling across his ferret-like face.
"When?" Cleaver grunted.
"Saovine," declared Sigi. "And we lead him into a trap." Steam rattled pipes under the floor, thumping like some buried giant in the absolute stillness between the four men. Finally, Carlos barked a sputtering laugh as Francis stood in disgust.
"Radovid is insane, not a ploughing idiot," spat the beggar king, his bare feet slapping the travertine tiles lining the bathhouse floor. "He lives on his flagship surrounded by the Royal Guard and a healthy contingent of witch hunters as well. Doubt even the King Slayer, were he alive, could dispatch him."
Dijkstra grinned, then growled, "We don't need Letho of Gulet to do our dirty work. Besides, I have another witcher in mind should we need one."
"Geralt of fucking Rivia," Whoreson spat as his narrowed eyes pierced the spy. Dijkstra nodded.
"So, how DO you plan on drawing out Radovid?" asked Cleaver. "He's not likely to just go out for a ploughin' picknick."
"He'll come to oversee the Battle of Novigrad himself," the words were delivered with deceptive indifference. "Redania will blockade the harbor to prevent Nilfgaard from landing troops inside Novigrad's walls. Radovid's flagship will stay at anchor, though well away from any maritime combat. That little cocksucker wants to be able to stride through the city when he wins, you know, put his own foot on his enemies necks. Our job is to see the citizenry rise up in riot and torch the harbor. Nilfgaard will prevent any Redanian ships from escaping."
Whoreson looked at the spy in utter disbelief. "Have you gone ploughin' crackers? Bugger me sideways! That's a lot of money to burn, Reuven."
"Settle down, Junior. We might loose all the warehouses, but what's in them will be moved into the catacombs and the remainder of the merchant fleet shooed off before the blockade begins," the spy shrugged. "Rebuilding has its advantages, you know." Whoreson nodded his head, calculating the costs, weighing the benefits.
Bedlam thought furiously, his agile mind flitting from possibility to possibility. Yes, this could work. Nodding, he intoned, "So, we help Radovid to abandon ship and funnel him … where?"
"Toward Temple Island," growled Cleaver, warming to the idea. "The bridge makes a reet handy box canyon when the gate's closed." The dwarf's grin was ugly.
Junior's sneer was uglier. "If he isn't skewered in the fighting on the way, we make sure the portcullis to the Temple is shut tight."
"I volunteer to bury me axe in that twat waffle's back," laughed the surly dwarf, slamming his empty tankard to the floor.
"Our job is just to get him there," Dijkstra growled, "someone else will strike the blow. We just need to keep him out of Nilfgaardian hands. They'll want to take him prisoner, make a spectacle of him, and I'd rather he not die a martyr."
"While I don't much fancy life under Nilfgaard's policies for Redania," muttered Cleaver, scratching his bearded chin, "I fancy Radovid less. Who's going to run the country for them? Might not be a bad idea to start courtin' 'im now."
"I have a fair idea who'll be handed a Duchy, in Redania and in Temeria," the spy muttered, ducking his head.
"Ye've been makin' deals, 'aven't ye, Sigi?" accused the dwarf, his face twisting in an ugly expression.
"So what if I have?" the spy rumbled. "I fookin' ran Redania for years after Vizimir stuck his fork in the wall, and before that, I worked side by side with the king to modernize us. I know Redania and Novigrad. Would you rather some blooded noble who only cares for their own skin, Carlos? Someone who didn't have the welfare of this city and the nation at heart? Someone who, perhaps, doesn't understand the value of a free market and modern industry?"
The King of Beggars crossed his arms over his chest as he scowled. "Where does that leave us, Sigi?" he gestured at the dwarf and Junior.
"Splitting Novigrad three ways, to my way of thinking," rumbled the spy. "The city is going to need strong leadership once the Church falls out of favor."
"Bloody fuckin' church, burning anyone they dislike," grumbled Cleaver. "They're a bigger threat than Radovid or Nilfgaard."
"You ain't wrong there, mate," agreed Whoreson, perching on a bench to munch cheese and grapes.
Dijkstra nodded. "Hemmelfart won't live forever. I've heard his health is failing rapidly and he spends more time sleeping than anything," he said. "The Council of Electors is warming up their conclave chambers."
"So now, in addition to killing kings, we're directing religions?" Bedlam scorned.
"What if our predecessors had taken a greater interest when Hemmelfart was confirmed?" Dijkstra's words were accompanied by a hiss of steam from a fixture. "Might we have ended up with a better hierarch than that fat, racist hypocrite? Keep in mind that Commandant of the Temple Guard - the defacto leader of the witch hunters - is an appointed position."
"Who's in the running?" asked Cleaver.
"There are several candidates, most are as bad or worse than Hemmelfart," murmured Bedlam, stroking his chin. "But there's one Archbishop. He's on the outs for ideological differences and currently living in exile somewhere in Velen."
"What did he do to get blackballed?" wondered Whoreson.
"My little birds tell me he posted ninety-nine theses on the Temple door, castigating the Church for its excesses and abuses," replied the beggar king with a grin.
"Sounds like our man. Is there enough support amongst the voting clergy to get him elected?" Dijkstra refilled tankards and goblets as he returned to the refreshments table.
Francis nodded. "There might be. There might be at that. If they knew how much support they had from each other, if they knew how many of the faithful were tired of the racism and hatred, how few there really are who support the current regime, they would consider him."
"As I see it," announced the spy, holding his goblet up in a toast, "We owe it to Novigrad, to Redania and the whole North to ensure this black sheep is installed when Hemmelfart sticks his fork in the wall."
"May it happen sooner rather than later!" agreed Cleaver, to which Bedlam and Junior also raised their cups.