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Olgierd approached Josephine's desk quietly, holding in his greeting at the sight of her bent head and furious writing. He smiled to himself as he spotted a tiny stray ink spot on her nose. He cleared his throat softly and came around to the side of her armchair.
Her writing slowed, then stopped, and she looked up at him with a smile. "Your timing is perfect," she said as she set her quill down by the inkpot. "I'm almost done writing these letters."
"You seemed intent," he said. He reached out and rubbed the side of her nose lightly, and the little ink spot came away on his thumb.
Josephine's cheeks darkened and she laughed, catching his hand before he could draw it back. "I don't doubt it! Ciri's decision to pardon Anders, while merciful, is exceedingly controversial. I've been writing to every head of state in Thedas explaining the events here and her reasoning."
"Will they abide by it?" he asked.
"We can only hope," she told him. "The Chantry will dislike her decision, but the grand clerics have expended much of what power they had by expelling Agnesot and her faction. Prince Sebastian of Starkhaven may choose to ignore the pardon. He was very close to Grand Cleric Elthina."
"What more can be done?"
"Leliana's agents have been sent out to begin a new whisper campaign," she said. She gave him a regretful smile. "'The Hand of the Maker extends the Maker's mercy – or the Maker's wrath.'"
"Ciri will hate that."
"We know," Josephine said, and she sighed as she looked at the letters on her desk. "But reason rarely reaches the common man. Inspirational stories, heroes and villains, good triumphing over evil, win their hearts far better than a dry explanation of the facts. And so, the spirit of Justice becomes the villain, with Anders the brave Grey Warden who was freed from his grasp by the blessing of the Hand of the Maker."
"I can't say I'm not relieved to hear my part in this won't be mentioned," he said.
"We thought it would be best not to bring more scrutiny down on you." She squeezed his hand and let go to pick up her quill again and sign the letter with a flourish. "You did a good thing, Olgierd. I know you told me such magic is forbidden where you come from, but you helped Anders when no one else could."
"I hadn't considered that I might use it for something other than selfish purposes, or causing harm to others," he said. "Helps lay some things to rest for me."
Josephine smiled up at him, her eyes soft and fond. "I'm glad to hear it."
A swell of love and affection rose in him, and he bent to kiss her smooth cheek.
"I'm afraid I interrupted your work for a reason," he said. "I'll be out of Skyhold for the afternoon. I may not be back in time for our supper."
"Out of Skyhold?" she echoed. She sat back in surprise. "But Ciri has already left for the Hinterlands with Varric and Dorian. What business could take you from the keep?"
"The unfinished sort." Josephine looked puzzled, and he leaned against the edge of her desk and reached for her hand. "I'm a pauper here in Thedas. I've a sword and a flat purse to my name and not much else. But I've a fortune in Vivaldi Bank back on the Continent. Triss has agreed to take me back today to withdraw it all now that she's finished with the second round of the lyrium cure."
Josephine rose from her armchair in alarm. "Back to the Continent? But –"
"There's little danger," he said swiftly, "and we'll return by the day's end, no later."
She still looked troubled, and she placed her free hand on his chest. "Olgierd…you must know I don't care about your fortune. Or about how little money you have here. Your kindness and chivalry drew me to you, not your wealth and status."
"I know, dove. Just as I cherish you for your cleverness and your gentle heart." Her hand was soft and warm against his chest, and he could almost feel his heart beating against it. "I do this for my own peace of mind."
He wouldn't break his word to her; should she ever wish to leave him, he wouldn't stand in her way. But he hoped for more, for a life they could build together.
And Josephine's family, only just beginning to recover from their decades of debt, couldn't countenance her marrying a penniless man. He'd lived that tale before. He wouldn't try to live it again.
"You gave me your support when it came to restoring my family's trading status," Josephine said after a moment. "I can do no less than support you in this."
He pressed the knuckles of the hand he held to his lips in wordless thanks. "Is there aught you wish me to bring you? A book of poetry, perhaps, or a new bracelet? Novigrad's shops are among the finest in the Northern kingdoms."
"Just bring yourself back to me," she said firmly. "Well, and unharmed."
"You have my word."
She leaned up to place a soft kiss on his lips and pulled away gently, her eyes still troubled. "Do take care, my dear one."
"I shall."
He strode from her office and out of the main hall, across the grassy courtyard and down the steps to the small gatehouse and bridge where Triss awaited him. She wore the clothes she'd arrived to Thedas in, and she had a short, hooded cloak draped around her shoulders.
"I don't know how you talked me into this," she said in lieu of hello. "I said I'd need to be paid a fortune to return to Novigrad, and here I am taking you there for free to retrieve yours."
"As I understand it, the Church of the Eternal Fire has a great deal less power in the city now that the Great Sun rises above Redania," Olgierd said. "By the time Geralt crossed my path, they'd ceased burning anyone, and that was four years ago."
He wasn't looking forward to returning to Redania either, but the ghosts of his past haunted him less these days. He suspected it wouldn't be quite as terrible an ordeal as it might have been some months back.
They set off across the bridge on foot together, leaving the enchanted temperate climate behind for chill winds and snow. The cold bit through his robes, and he ducked his head and wrapped his arms around himself in a fruitless attempt to keep warm.
"This way," she called over the wind once they left the bridge.
She led him down the steep, snow-covered rocky slope to the edge of the frigid river just beneath the bridge. A well-hidden crevice in the cliff face revealed itself as they approached, and Triss slipped through with a backwards glance at the distant tents dotting the river. He followed her in and found a small, dark cave with a low ceiling and a damp floor.
"No one can see me teleport from here," she said. She frowned. "Getting your gold back up to Skyhold will be difficult. I'll have to think about that."
He stood clear as she raised her arms and thrust her hands forward toward the back of the cave wall. A low, rushing noise, not unlike the wind outside, filled the small space, and a swirling disk of orange, taller and wider than a man, appeared before them.
"Hurry," she said, and she stepped through it briskly.
He followed before it could close without him. There was a strange, stomach-lurching moment of vertigo, then all righted itself, and he stepped out into the Trevelyans' garden, just in front of their portal. Triss' portal winked out of existence behind him seconds later.
A guard poked his head around the corner and relaxed at the sight of Triss with Olgierd. "Mistress Merigold," he said in greeting. "Lady Trevelyan wanted a word with you when you came again. She's in the back garden with the children now – I'll go and tell her you're here."
"We're just passing through," Triss told him. "All we need is the crystal."
The guard shook his head and turned to leave. "Orders are orders. I'll just be a minute."
Olgierd and Triss waited in silence as the guard hurried off. After the promised minute, footsteps could be heard approaching, and the light, high chatter of children interspersed with a woman's voice. Lady Corin Trevelyan came through the trellised archway, Luke skipping at her side and Delphine trailing along behind with a ten-year-old's put-upon dignity. The guard brought up the rear.
"Mistress Merigold," Lady Trevelyan said warmly. "And Lord Olgierd. How are my children doing? I understand Owain was to take part in an experimental cure of some sort that you and our Evelyn developed?"
"He and the other former Markham Templars came through it fine with no complications," Triss assured her. "They were released from the infirmary yesterday afternoon."
An expression of pure joy and relief crossed Lady Trevelyan's face for a second before she composed herself. "Oh, my son. You're a blessing, Triss Merigold. My family can't thank you enough."
Triss deflected the praise with a modest gesture. "It was a pleasure to help."
"And Maxwell and Evelyn?" Lady Trevelyan asked. "How are they?"
Olgierd looked down at a light tug on his robe to see Luke standing before him with wide, slightly scared brown eyes. Behind him, hovering cautiously, stood his sister. He turned from the ladies' conversation and bent over slightly to address the children.
"Did you need something?"
Luke swallowed and took a half-step back, then straightened his shoulders and nodded. "Are you a pirate?" he asked in a carrying whisper.
Olgierd stifled his laughter and gave him a serious look. "Now what would a proper young man like you know about pirates?"
"Mama told us about the Felicisima Armada," Delphine said in a matter-of-fact tone. "Grandpapa is the Antivan ambassador to Ostwick. She knows about their effect on economic matters."
"And what, pray tell, do pirates look like?"
Luke's gaze darted up and down the length of Olgierd's body.
"Mama says they wear jewels and silks and have lots of scars," Delphine said.
"And they're scary," Luke whispered.
Olgierd squatted down before Luke, his amusement dying. "Was I so terrifying when we first met?"
"Yes," Luke admitted. "But Papa and Uncle Owain were there."
"Well," Olgierd said. "I fear you're mistaken, children. There are no pirates here. It's an easy enough mistake to make, for I do have a frightful visage."
He gave them a ferocious scowl, exaggerated to the point of parody, and was rewarded by two small giggles.
"There, you see? It's a wonder they allow me out in public with this face. It just so happens, however, that looking like a pirate allows me to frighten off all manner of bad men and women. One good glare and they turn and run."
Delphine's giggles faded into a smile, and she patted Luke on the shoulder. "Luke, this was very rude of us. Lord Olgierd, I apologize for brother's and my curiosity."
"Sorry!" Luke said sheepishly.
"Curiosity in children ought to be encouraged," Olgierd said as he stood up from his crouch. "Forgiven, of course. And better me than an actual pirate, hm?"
He turned back to Triss and Lady Trevelyan to see them both watching his conversation with the children with mirth in their eyes.
"It's good you apologized, children," Lady Trevelyan scolded her grandchildren. "You were quite impertinent to our guest."
"They meant no harm," Olgierd told her.
Lady Trevelyan shook her head at that. "My son's marvelous little rapscallions. I can't wait until they're old enough to offend people of consequence – no offense intended, Lord Olgierd."
"None taken."
She passed Triss the power crystal and took Luke and Delphine by the hands. "If we don't see you this evening, give my love to my children. And be sure to pass on the letters and package."
"Of course, Lady Trevelyan," Triss said.
She slotted the crystal into its socket and stood back as the portal hummed to life with an eerie blue-green glow. The Trevelyans drew several steps away as Triss stepped through.
"Goodbye, Lord Olgierd!" Luke piped up.
Olgierd looked over his shoulder and winked at the boy, then followed Triss through the portal. One uncomfortable, stomach-twisting second later, and he stood in an elegant foyer beside Triss.
Two mages, a teenaged boy and a young woman, looked up at their arrival.
"Mistress Merigold," the young woman greeted Triss. "Do you want us to fetch Rector Laux-Antille or Professor Metz?"
"No thank you, Demelza," Triss said. "We're heading to Novigrad; we aren't staying."
The two mages exchanged curious, excited looks, but held back from peppering them with questions. Triss led the way out of the foyer and into the yard, and Olgierd looked around in surprise.
The once broken, abandoned estate appeared sturdy and new to his eyes. The debris had been hauled away, and the buildings had been given a fresh coat of white paint that shone beneath the Toussaint sun. The ring of sharpened stakes that had surrounded it was long gone, with the holes filled in with bushes of dozens of plants he recognized from books on alchemy.
"Impressive work," he said.
Triss shook her head. "It's no Aretuza, but it'll do until we rebuild."
She raised her arms again and summoned another swirling orange portal. Dust kicked up over the toes of his boots, and nearby blades of grass bent and stirred at the phantom wind. He followed her through once more.
A cry of surprise met his ears as his feet hit the ground again. A washerwoman sat in the dirt clutching a soaked shift, shock and fear in her eyes as she stared at the portal. He recognized the area at once. Triss had deposited them just outside Farcorners.
"Come on," Triss said quietly, pulling up the hood on her short cape. "The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can leave."
They set off for the Portside gate together, wending their way through the narrow, muddy streets and run-down houses. The ragged residents, human and nonhuman alike, were too proud, too cynical, to gawk, but they watched them pass with cautious, wary eyes. He and Triss were too clean for the little portside district, too finely dressed. The saber at Olgierd's hip was likely the only deterrent for any would-be cutpurses.
The mud beneath their feet turned to stone soon enough, but the stench of fish and river quickly turned to that of any Northern city – faint smells of sewage, and the ripe odor of bodies and sweat, overlaid with dozens of clashing perfumes. He wrinkled his nose and hurried on.
Triss walked with purpose, her hands in fists by her sides. Her shoulders stiffened at every unexpected loud noise.
"I shouldn't have asked this of you," Olgierd said quietly when Triss flinched yet again.
In answer, Triss pointed to an abandoned, burned-out garrison as they passed by. "They tortured me there. Ripped out my fingernails. We went there on purpose to help Ciri and Dandelion, but – it's hard to forget. I burned it down in the end, though," she said with grim satisfaction.
"The Eternal Fire is nearly toothless these days," Olgierd said. "They can't harm you, even if the emperor hadn't pardoned practitioners of the Art. But if you wish to wait for me outside Farcorners, I understand."
"No." Triss glared up at the scorched and gutted garrison for a second, then looked ahead. "I need to be here. I need to put it behind me."
On they went, dodging merchants and shoppers, doxies and dockworkers. It was jarring seeing the fashions of the Continent again after so long in Thedas. Novigrad, as always, was a cosmopolitan blend of Redanian robes and dresses, Nilfgaardian doublets and gowns, and Temerian tunics and kirtles. The streets began to widen the closer they drew to the heart of the city, and the scent of sewage began to fade. The entrance to Hierarch Square opened before them, crowded and bustling with people.
Triss paused, took a steadying breath, and strode forward.
Vivaldi Bank stood just to the side of the entrance, the cleanest and richest of the shop fronts in the square. Olgierd pushed open the carved wooden door and walked into a tastefully decorated waiting room. A plush Ofieri carpet covered the floor, and a soft, dreamy landscape of Oxenfurt at sunset hung on the stone wall above the chairs and small table. Along the far wall was a sturdy oak counter, and behind it sat a bored-looking young dwarf.
Olgierd approached the counter as Triss took a seat in one of the chairs. "I'd like to make a withdrawal from my account," he said.
The bored teller looked up at him, her dark eyebrows rising fractionally in interest. "What's the name on the account, and how much would you like to withdraw?"
"Von Everec. And all of it."
Suddenly much more alert, the teller turned to the shelves behind her and peered at the spines of the ledgers. "Redania…V…Vegelbud …von Esteken…von Everec."
She plunked the ledger down on the counter and flipped through it, muttering under her breath. Her eyes widened as she reached the last page. "Milord, I'll need authorization from Master Vivaldi for this. Is… Has the bank offended you in some way?"
"Nay," he assured her. "I've moved to a new home, that's all, and it's too far away for me to continue to do my banking here. My trust in Vivaldi is as solid as it ever was."
The teller wilted in relief and slid off her stool, the ledger tucked beneath her arm. "I'll be back in just a moment, milord. I'm sure something can be done to satisfy you."
Olgierd leaned against the counter and settled in to wait. He didn't have long. Less than a minute passed before he could hear the raised voice of Vimme Vivaldi shouting down the hall. Then hurried footsteps came his way, and the teller reappeared at Vivaldi's heels. The banker, as usual, looked impeccably turned out in a brocade coat and cloth of gold waistcoat. His bristling gray beard nearly swallowed his ruffled ascot.
Vivaldi gave him a wide, conciliatory smile that didn't distract from the flush of consternation covering his pale cheeks. "Welcome, Lord von Everec, sir. I can see by the ledger it's been a few years since ye've set foot in our establishment. I understand ye have a rather unusual request of us?"
"It's no slight to you and your fine work," Olgierd said. "I've traveled farther afield than your bank does business and intend to stay there."
Vivaldi harrumphed. "Yes, well! We do pride ourselves on customer satisfaction. The problem, milord, is the amount is simply too large tae be paid out with what we have in the vault. We havenae the coin for it. If ye'd submitted a request tae close out your account ahead of time, then perhaps we might have been prepared."
"I don't need it all in coin," Olgierd countered. "Gold and silver bars and precious gems will serve as well."
The teller leaned in to say to Vivaldi in an undertone, "We did take in that shipment last week."
"Aye, I remember." Vivaldi tugged on his beard and crossed his arms over his chest, frowning deeply. "It can be done. Though I've no notion of how you'll carry it all out. Gold and silver are mighty heavy."
"I'd hoped you might provide me with a cart or three," Olgierd said.
"As for the transport, I have that covered," Triss said from her seat against the wall.
Vivaldi brightened. "Mistress Merigold! I didnae see ye there. You're with Lord von Everec?"
Triss looked at Olgierd for a moment and nodded. "We're friends."
"Fine, fine." Vivaldi pulled out a thin stack of papers from beneath the counter and handed them to Olgierd. "Never let it be said that Vimme Vivaldi didnae serve his clients well. Fill these out, and we'll go tae the back and start squaring your account."
"One other thing," Olgierd said as Vivaldi and the teller turned to go. "I'd like two hundred crowns withdrawn separately in coin. If you could bring that to me sooner than the rest, it would be appreciated."
"Ye heard the man, Dorna," Vivaldi told the teller. "Two hundred crowns."
Dorna hurried ahead of Vivaldi, and Olgierd returned to the other half of the room to sit beside Triss with the forms. He bent over the small table and took up the quill lying on it, dipped it in the provided inkpot, and began filling out the papers.
He was on the final page when Dorna returned and set a heavy silk pouch on the table with a muted clatter. "My thanks," he said.
"We'll be a while," she told him. "An hour, an hour and a half."
He looked up at that, and she said hastily, "Weights and measurements, evaluating the worth of the gemstones – it's not like with coins, milord."
He nodded. "Fair enough. Might I leave Triss Merigold behind as my proxy in the matter? I've a few things to attend to in the city."
Dorna rushed behind the counter and came back with another form for him to fill out. "Sign here…and here… And you, Mistress Merigold… Yes, thank you. That will do."
"What things?" Triss asked him quietly as Dorna disappeared again.
Olgierd could feel a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he returned to filling out the forms. "I've a few purchases to make."
"Buy her a pretty bauble, recite her a poem or two. Tell her she's the most beautiful woman you've ever seen." He had no need to act on Vlod's advice now that they were reconciled, but still, the opportunity had presented itself. And he wished to.
Triss rolled her eyes. "She gets the same look on her face when she thinks of you. Go. I'll be fine here."
He signed the final page and stood, tying the heavy purse to his belt securely. "I'll return soon."
The midday sun shone brightly overhead, illuminating the wares in the carts laid out near the center of the square. Nearby, a flautist and a fiddler played a lively tune while a drummer kept rhythm, and a small crowd watched and clapped. Above it all, voices called to each other – cajoling, berating, teasing, greeting, farewelling.
Olgierd left the shaded overhang of Vivaldi Bank and crossed the crowded square for a small, dusty shop across the way. A small bell tinkled overhead as he pushed open the door, and a bespectacled man in a conservative Redanian doublet looked up from behind the counter. He had the pallor of an Oxenfurt scholar in their final year of study, though he looked far better rested than a university student.
The shopkeep's eyes flicked up and down, taking in his robe and saber, then paused on his scars and unorthodox hairstyle. "Welcome, milord. How may I assist you? The biographies and histories are against the wall just over there."
"I'm in need of a book of poetry or two," Olgierd said. "Something that would please a young noblewoman of Kovir. Perhaps Gonzal de Verceo, or –"
"An excellent choice, milord," the shopkeep said enthusiastically, losing his wariness at once. "Such turns of phrase, such depth of emotion! The lady in question must have fine taste to appreciate such a poet."
Olgierd smiled. "That she does."
The shopkeep got to his feet, his eyes alight. "I may have another volume you'd be interested in. It's just upstairs – I won't be but a moment!"
Once again Olgierd was left waiting and leaning on the counter as the shopkeep darted up the crowded, book-lined stairs. He could hear the man muttering, and then finally a triumphant "A-ha!" echoed down the stairs.
The shopkeep returned, dust in his hair and his glasses slightly askew, proudly clutching two books. "The one you asked for, milord, 'The Collected Works of Gonzal de Verceo,'" he said. "And this."
He reverently laid down the second volume, a thin book bound in rich blue leather. "'The Blue Pearl.' The only collection of poems and songs by the late Essi Daven. It's no longer being printed, unfortunately, so copies are scarce these days."
Olgierd reached out and flipped 'The Blue Pearl' open to a random page.
The poem had a quiet beauty to it, an honesty and longing that gripped his heart almost tenderly. The final verse resonated with him in a way he hadn't expected, and his throat went tight as he finished reading. He read aloud the last lines quietly.
"Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night."
The shopkeep sighed, his elbows on the counter and his chin cupped in his hand. "A true genius, Essi Daven. The world is poorer without her."
"I'll take them both," he said, closing the book gently. "You've fine taste as well, sir."
"Splendid!" the shopkeep enthused, straightening back up. "That will be twenty-three crowns. And a wonderful day to you, milord!"
Olgierd paid the stated amount and took the two books of poetry, neatly tied up with twine. He tucked them beneath his arm and left the dusty bookstore behind.
Two stores to the left, the windows shone with nary a hint of dust in sight. The contents within glittered and sparkled as the sun shone down and caught each carefully polished facet of diamond, sapphire, ruby, and emerald, all lying on velvet cushions for passers-by to admire. He pulled open the door and another little bell tinkled.
The interior of the jewelry shop was bright and welcoming, with cushioned shelves along every wall displaying necklaces, bracelets, rings, and earrings. Silver and gold shone with a high, lustrous polish, and the jewels gleamed. In the corner of the store, a marble statue stood vigil with sightless eyes. Olgierd stopped and looked it over more closely. But for the robe draped across the elven maid's body, the statue was nearly a twin to the Voticelli he'd toppled in the Garin estate years ago.
"Welcome, milord, to Zolotny and Sons!" the young woman behind the counter called out cheerily. Her curly brown hair was piled in a loose bun atop her head, and her dark olive cheeks had a rosy glow to them. "Granddad, we have a customer!"
Her grandfather, a stoop-shouldered old man with flyaway white hair and pince-nez glasses, looked up from where he was sorting gems in a tray. "And what does the gentleman want?"
"A gift for a lady," Olgierd said. "A bracelet, or a ring, perhaps."
The young woman bounced a bit on her toes. "Do you know what gems she wears? Is she warm or cool-toned?"
"Oh, not your nonsense about tones again," her grandfather muttered.
"Warm," Olgierd said fondly, thinking of the soft blush that had risen to Josephine's warm brown cheeks not an hour ago, and the affection that had filled her hazel eyes. "I've only ever seen her wear her family's livery collar, and that's gold, with a ruby and pearl."
"Can't be a necklace, then," the woman said to herself. She came out from around the counter to peer at the shelves along the walls. "Would she wear a bracelet? What sort of sleeves does she prefer?"
"Long and frilly. The cuffs reach near to her knuckles."
"Mm. Can't be too wide or bulky." The woman began to pull little cushions from the shelves, each holding a shining, glimmering bracelet. "And rings? You seem awfully fond of them yourself, milord, if you'll pardon the impertinence."
He couldn't help chuckling a bit at that. "Her hands are far too slender for rings like mine. I've not seen her wear one before."
"I'll set out a few for you to look at anyway."
The woman set out six bracelets and a quartet of rings on the counter, and Olgierd picked them up one by one, holding them to the lamplight and the sunlight coming in from the window to scrutinize them. He pictured the bracelets on Josephine's graceful wrist, and the rings on her delicate fingers, and immediately set two of the bracelets and half the rings aside. The others he began to give more consideration.
The bell on the door rang behind him, and a half-familiar voice called out, "I'm here to pick up my…order…"
Olgierd set the ring he held back on the counter carefully.
"Ataman, sir?" The voice was tentative. There was a depth of fear to it that gave Olgierd the same lurching, vertiginous feeling that the portal had.
He turned slowly to see a dark-haired man in his thirties, his pale face rapidly turning white with terror. He wore the robe of a Redanian noble and gripped the hilt of his saber as if it were the only thing anchoring him to the earth.
He still had that unfortunate mustache. And the last time Olgierd had seen him, he'd been scrambling away into the dark in a panic, having narrowly escaped losing his head outside the Garin estate.
"Herodore," Olgierd greeted him, deliberately neutral.
The woman glanced between them and slipped back around the counter. Her enthusiasm from only minutes ago was nowhere to be seen as she watched them with wary eyes.
Herodore's hand twitched on his saber's hilt, and Olgierd lunged forward to grab his wrist.
"Still an impetuous fool," he said sharply. "This is a jewelry shop, not a dueling hall. Keep your blade sheathed. The Witcher won your life once. Don't toss it away on a whim."
"A whim?" Herodore cried. "You were going to kill me! Me! I was loyal as anyone! I fought with you, drank with you – I would have ridden against the Black Ones on your orders!"
"I wasn't worth that loyalty," Olgierd said. "My code was shite. 'Sacred law of hospitality' – we foisted ourselves upon the unwilling and burned their holdings to the ground. Loyalty to a monster is nothing to boast of."
"But we were a company," Herodore protested. "Noble sons and daughters, all of us."
"We were whoresons," Olgierd said flatly. "We preyed on peasants and peers alike."
Herodore stared at him in fright and bewilderment. "You left," he said after a long moment. "I heard the rumors. The Free Company disbanded years ago when you disappeared. What happened?"
Olgierd released his wrist and stepped away, turning toward the marble statue in the corner of the store. "You see that statue?"
Herodore answered him reluctantly, as if his question contained a hidden trap. "I see it."
"A sculptor toiled over that piece for months, chiseling out each fold of cloth, each strand of hair. Mark the lifelike expression on the maiden's face, how she seems to hold a youthful amusement in her stone eyes, and how her lips are parted as if she's about to speak. There's a softness to her that invites the viewer to linger and appreciate not just the artistry, but the subject captured. Does she not inspire some emotion in you, Herodore? Nostalgia for your lost youth, or a shared delight in her merriment?"
Herodore looked at the statue, then back to Olgierd uncertainly.
"Go on," Olgierd said. "Look your fill. That's a masterpiece you stand before."
The woman spoke up hesitantly. "Voticelli. It's been in the family for three generations."
"Quiet, Klara!" her grandfather admonished her. "Milords, we don't want any trouble in our shop."
"And there won't be, will there, Herodore?"
Herodore stared at the statue of the elven maiden in her robe for several silent seconds, then turned back to Olgierd in frustration and bafflement. "Nostalgia? Softness? I don't understand. This isn't like you."
Olgierd gave him a quelling look and pulled his saber free a few inches. As Herodore jumped back in alarm, he swiped the pad of his thumb over its keen edge and sheathed it again.
"Look," he said, holding out the bleeding digit. "Do you understand now?"
Herodore looked down at the thumb held between them, at the bright red blood oozing from the wound. He seemed to freeze for a moment at the impossibility of the thing. Then he sighed and rubbed his eyes as his shoulders slumped.
"That curse of yours. The Witcher broke your curse." He turned to Olgierd, the fear fading from his face, and said with admirable aplomb, "I fear I mistook you for someone I knew years ago, sir. It's clear I know you not at all."
It was a shaky, unwarranted gesture of peace that Olgierd didn't deserve. He accepted it with a nod and a faint smile. "It wouldn't even be the first time I was mistaken for someone I wasn't today."
"I'll leave you to your shopping," Herodore said. "Good day to you, sir."
He stepped a safe distance from Olgierd and went to the counter, coin purse in hand. The grandfather handed him a small velvet pouch and said gruffly, "Seventy-six crowns, milord."
Herodore paid the amount and walked back to the door. He paused and spoke over his shoulder. "Ataman, sir. I hope to the gods I never see you again."
The bell tinkled and the door slammed, and Olgierd said quietly, "Likewise."
The young woman, Klara, silently held out a handkerchief to him to wrap his thumb in, and he thanked her quietly. She scooped up the discarded ring and bracelets and returned them to the shelves, then took up her place behind the counter again to watch him examine the remaining jewelry with a serious, cautious expression.
"This one," he said finally, setting out a bracelet before her. It was a delicate piece, almost reminiscent of elven jewelry, with cunningly sculpted gold leaves and petals affixed along a thin, flat band, and small pearls and rubies set in the centers of the blossoms. "And this one."
The other was a thin gold ring, deceptively simple in style, with a lustrous silvery-white pearl the size of his smallest fingernail framed by two deep red rubies.
Klara took the bracelet and slipped it into a velvet pouch. "Will the ring fit your lady, milord?"
He picked it up and slipped it on to his little finger, and it caught on his second knuckle. "It will fit."
She nodded and added the ring to the pouch. "That'll be one hundred and sixty-two crowns."
Olgierd untied his purse from his belt and set it on the counter. "Keep it all. For the trouble we caused you."
She emptied the purse and counted the coins out swiftly, then looked up at him as her hand hovered over the extra fifteen crowns. "Milord –"
"Say thank you to the ataman, Klara," her grandfather whispered.
Olgierd shook his head. "Just Olgierd, sir. I'm no ataman. It's as Squire Herodore said. He mistook me for another."
"Yes," Klara agreed slowly. "He must have."
She handed him his purchases, and he tucked the pouch away and left with a quiet word of thanks.
The square was as bright and bustling as before, but there was a difference to it, something subtle he couldn't put his finger on. It wasn't the rollicking tune, or the vendors hawking their wares. It wasn't the cacophony of voices, the smell, or the press of bodies.
Whatever it was, his heart felt lighter, and he smiled as a pair of children ran past him, laughing merrily with their mother in pursuit. He set off for the bank, Josephine's books beneath his arm, and her jewelry stowed away in his robe.
The sun felt warm and welcoming on his back, and just for a moment, he regretted not keeping a coin to toss to the musicians as he passed. Two sweethearts danced together before them, hands joined and bright smiles on their shining faces.
What were those dances Josephine mentioned? The sarabande and the volte? He'd need to learn those.
He wove through the lively crowd and stopped beneath the shaded overhang of Vivaldi bank. Time had passed faster than he'd thought, judging by the sun's position. It was nearly time to return.
He pulled open the door and stopped short just inside. A strange woman stood at Triss' side, her hand on her shoulder. She wore a rich, carmine-red dress with a plunging neckline and bare arms, and around her throat and wrists, she had jewelry of black agates. Her lips, dramatically red against her pale, freckled face, matched her gown. Her dark hair was a picturesque, tousled mess, and her deep brown eyes were sharp, if not slightly small for their sockets.
An exotic fragrance, cinnamon and something like vetiver or spikenard, filled the room, and another faint wave of it wafted his way as the strange woman tossed her head and said to Triss in an arch, alto voice, "Surely you didn't think your visit would go unnoticed, Triss. I have eyes everywhere."
"It's just a favor for a friend, Philippa," Triss said. "Personal business."
"Mm, yes, and somehow your 'personal business' has kept you away from King Tankred's court for so long he's begun looking for a new magical advisor."
Triss briefly looked stricken before she controlled her expression. "I've been experimenting with alchemy. Studying addiction."
"Always the bleeding heart, aren't you?" Philippa looked over to the door and raised her eyebrow at Olgierd. "And this is the friend? Well, I can't say your tastes have improved, but at least you've moved on from trying to take Yennefer's place in the Witcher's bed. That was never going to end in your favor."
Triss flushed and pulled away from Philippa's hand.
Philippa's carmine lips curled into a small, smug smile. "Careful, Triss. I suspect you don't want anyone looking too closely at your 'personal business.' Why, someone might start asking what happened to Ciri in the battle against the Dearg Ruadhri."
Triss didn't react. "Ciri died."
"That is what Geralt and Yennefer said, isn't it? Do take care, Triss. I'm sure we'll see each other again soon."
Philippa swept out of the bank with another wave of her exotic perfume, leaving Olgierd with a shaking, furious Triss.
"Easy," he said as he helped her sit back down.
"She is infuriating!" Triss hissed. "Geralt and Yenna will have to know –"
"That was the infamous Philippa Eilhart, I take it?" he asked.
Triss nodded. "Head of the Lodge of Sorceresses, former advisor to King Radovid, and current advisor to Emperor Emhyr."
"A woman with power and influence enough to cause a great deal of trouble. Agreed, the Witcher and Yennefer should know of her threat."
A creaking, groaning sound came from down the hall, and they turned to see Vivaldi and Dorna straining to push two wheeled carts, each laden with two iron-banded and padlocked chests. They jumped up to help them get the carts into the room.
"There ye are, Lord von Everec, all your monetary assets," Vivaldi said, puffing slightly from the exertion. "Gold and silver bars, precious gems, and half a chest of orens, florens, and crowns. Ah, and here are the keys."
"My thanks, Master Vivaldi," Olgierd said. "And to you, Dorna."
"May I make a portal from here?" Triss asked Vivaldi. "Leaving the bank with so much money seems unwise."
Vivaldi harrumphed and eyed his furnishings. "Aye, I suppose. But you mind how your spell hits my carpet, lass."
For the third time in two hours, Triss turned and summoned a swirling orange portal that scraped the ceiling and rattled the painting on the wall. The four of them pushed the carts through with a grunt of effort, and Triss and Olgierd followed behind.
It deposited them in Casteldaccia's foyer in front of a statuesque blond woman who stared at them and the carts in deep disapproval.
"You can't just teleport into the rooms like this," the woman said sternly. "The first cart almost hit one of my students."
"Sorry, Rita!" Triss said. There was an edge of exhaustion in her voice, no doubt from all the magic she'd expended. "Listen – Philippa cornered us in Novigrad a few minutes ago. She hinted that she has suspicions about Ciri. Could you tell Geralt and Yenna for me?"
The woman he assumed was Margarita Laux-Antille seemed surprised, then worried.
"Of course, but why not tell them yourself?" she asked.
Triss shook her head. "I might just be letting Philippa get to me. You know how she can be. But just in case…"
"I do know," Margarita sighed. "She loves getting under people's skin. Don't worry; I'll pass on the message."
"Thank you."
Triss set her hands on the first cart's handles and pushed it through the glowing blue-green portal, her arms and back straining from the weight. Olgierd held on to the second cart and gave it a hard shove, following in her wake.
The sun was just beginning to set over the Trevelyans' manor when he came through behind Triss, and the early spring air had a crisp, sweet quality to it. Triss sat on the first cart and shook out her arms.
"One more time," she said, and she took a deep, tired breath. "And then we figure out how to get the chests back up to the keep. If I were Keira, I'd transform them into something that could walk up on their own."
"Could always teleport right into the vault," he suggested in amusement, and he sat as well.
She groaned. "I'm too tired to think that's a bad idea. Just…give me a minute."
"However long you need," he agreed.
Olgierd leaned back and pulled the books of poetry out from under his arm. There was still time yet until he was too late to meet Josephine for supper, and he wanted a chance to memorize one of the poems before he gifted the books to her.
He shot another look at Triss from behind 'The Blue Pearl,' his good mood fading slightly. He hoped Eilhart's taunts were only that – taunts. But he couldn't help but fear otherwise.
The two lines from Essi Daven's poem are taken from Sarah Williams' poem "The Old Astronomer to His Pupil". The rest of it doesn't fit, but it's an excellent poem and worth looking up.
