A/N: here's hoping I haven't lost the plot in more ways than one. x thank you x
Novigrad, Part Two
King of Beggars Headquarters, Putrid Grove
The King of Beggars resided over his court with an iron, if charismatic, fist. Such was the way of the Grove. Thieves, tramps, urchins, and general undesirables were welcome as long as they handed over a sizeable cut of their earnings. A reasonable compromise in exchange for safe haven from the Temple fanatics. Who, it should be mentioned, Francis Bedlam despised with such vehemence as to be seen in the eyes of the disenfranchised as a bloody saint. Prejudice was for the weak and the Church possessed it in droves. As such, the man had an ear and an eye in every shit-swamped corner of Novigrad.
Novigrad. His city. Well, a third of it. Anyway, it didn't take a genius to figure out who really pulled the strings around here. Cleaver and his dwarves? Alonso and his whores? All strong men; strong enemies but even stronger allies. The three of them shared a volatile accord.
But only one of them was King.
"Lovely place you got here, Francis."
Bedlam grimaced. The storm gathering on the Pontar caused a suspenseful shift in the air. Humid. Confining. His throat tightened.
"Blimey, that a genuine van der Knoob?"
Bedlam glanced at the painting. The Spice Merchant. His pride and joy.
"The Mariborian Master himself," he replied and stiffened when Thaler made to get a closer look. That hawkish nose lingered an inch from the canvas.
"Came here simply to admire my artwork, did you, Bernard?"
Thaler turned on him, slack-jawed and vacant. No surprise common folk took him for a village idiot. But Francis was a king. And Bernard Ducat, for all his foolish appearance and terrible diction, was not to be underestimated. Granted, Temeria had been reduced to a pile of rubble - literally so in the case of the recent dragon attack on Vizima - but the kingdom's spymaster was still exactly that.
"I'm a van Rogh man, myself - you heard of him? Starry Night Over The Pontar." Thaler bowed his head. "Fuckin' genius."
Bedlam refrained from rubbing his temples. An orphan stumbled in with a bag of crowns and flushed expression. Her eyes widened on seeing Thaler leering at the portrait.
"Best you step away, sir, save you get yourself gutted," she said.
Bedlam chuckled and gestured her towards a trunk in the corner. She deposited the gold then sent Thaler a disapproving look. The spy surrendered and took a sudden interest in the bookshelf.
"Ran into trouble on the bridge, sir," she continued, the smallest sob squeaking through. "Guard got Tommus. Greta's dead."
Bedlam placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"What's done is done, my Brigitte," he said and the girl returned a solemn nod. Bedlam felt the tremors in her tiny frame. The Temple Guard saw fit to hurt his own, did they?
"Chappelle?" he asked.
She sniffed. "No, sir, the other one."
"Menge," Thaler cut in, but Brigitte kept her eyes firmly on her master.
"Say you'll go after him, sir. Tommus don't deserve this fate."
Brigitte was sent away without so much a promise of consideration. Bedlam was a man who looked after his own. But Tommus was dead. A note to the boy's brother would have to wait. It was the least he could do. Right now there were more pressing matters. Like getting Bernard the fuck out of his Grove.
"Speak, Bernard, lest I realise the girl's warning."
Gutting Temeria's former head of intelligence would be a welcome distraction. The coming storm wasn't the only thing breathing down his neck. The Temple Guard - a blatant attack on infants in broad daylight. And Menge. The savage pup off his leash. He'd have a word with Alonso about that. Clearly the whoreson wasn't doing his job.
Bedlam found himself on the receiving end of a shrewd appraisal. There's the Thaler he knew and hated.
"I come here without agenda - simply for tea and conversation," the spy said. "Both sorely lackin', I must say, though I ain't ever took you for a considerate host."
"No agenda," smiled Bedlam.
"Agenda-less," Thaler confirmed. "Good intentions, however. Got some of those."
"Ah, yes. Temerian intentions. Famous throughout the continent for fucking everything up."
Thaler shot him a wounded look.
"Now, Francis, clearly we only succeed in fuckin' ourselves over so there's really no need to worry."
Bedlam indulged him. "My condolences for the loss of your esteemed monarch."
"Gracious, man, have a care or you'll be made a diplomat."
"How's the boy handling it?"
Thaler smothered a laugh. The "boy" in question would take issue with being labelled as such. It was a step up from "whoreson", at least.
"Business as usual for Vernon," he replied.
Bedlam signalled for food and drink. Apparently Thaler was genuine in his desire for tea and conversation. And much to Bedlam's dismay, his presence piqued his curiosity.
It was a gourmet spread compared to The Sturgeon and Thaler acknowledged this with a loud smack of the lips. Bedlam knew all about his stay near the docks, was alerted as soon as the Temerian entered the city. And the woman. Strange little thing. A Rusa Elyot. Currently holed up with Alonso at the Passiflora. And that's where the intel ran dry. Loose-lipped for the job, tight-lipped for the boss, Bedlam never knew such disciplined whores. That brothel was a fortress of secrecy and nothing escaped without the permission of its patriarch. It pained him to admit he was at a disadvantage. Worse still, the uncultured swine currently stuffing his face seemed to be the one pulling the strings. In his city. Bernard's dealings with Alonso were based on a debt. Whoreson Junior's miraculous escape from the Temerian noose five years ago was hardly the work of divine intervention. So, Bedlam surmised. Thaler called on Alonso to see a debt repaid. But a king didn't scurry around in the muck of debt-making. He owed Temeria no favours.
Thaler watched as Bedlam shifted to the side dresser and poured himself some tea. The scent was enough to make the spy's toes curl in his boots. Thaler was no herbalist but the stench of lungwort was unmistakable.
"Not for the faint-hearted," mumbled Bedlam, forcing Thaler from the sidelines and onto the playing field. A weakness for a weakness. The spy returned a toothy grin.
"No, that requires a hearty dose of foxglove," he replied with a sincerity that told Bedlam what he needed to know. Underneath it all, they were men with a past that left them crippled in ways unseen but no less insidious. Bedlam snorted into his cup. Not that this formed a brotherly bond. With this Temerian runt? Not fucking likely. No room for sentimentality in the Grove.
"See, Francis? Good intentions. Got yourself a remedy for heartache should you be so inclined."
Bedlam fixed him with a steady gaze.
"I'll judge your intentions for myself," he said, steeling himself for the unknown. "Say your piece."
Thaler hesitated. It was a momentary flutter across the face but Bedlam caught it.
"Plan on visiting Radovid soon," he croaked. "Got an offer he'd be hard pressed to refuse."
Bedlam eyed him over the rim of his cup. Was he actually entertaining such absurdity?
"Go on."
Thaler licked his lips. "Foltest's daughter, Anaïs, in exchange for Redanian aid in rebuilding Temeria."
Bedlam smiled in an attempt to conceal his surprise.
"To new beginnings. Diplomatic relations through marital relations and all that," added Thaler, cheeks reddening. "Course, we'd have to find them first."
"Further aid Redania could provide in exchange for a promise of marriage," added Bedlam. "But she's merely a child. What of the son?"
Thaler laughed a little too loud. "Oh, Francis! Surely this naivety is all for show? You know as well as I that age matters little in affairs of state. As for little Boussy, royal blood isn't enough to keep the hounds at bay. Not without established strength and support."
"And you see fit to tell me this because you've an offer for me. One that'll make me salivate like a starving mutt."
Thaler shrugged. If patience was a virtue then Francis Bedlam was truly a saint.
"Here I thought you a patriot," drawled Bedlam. "Speaking of which, what's Roche think of all this?"
"Vernon's stubborn—" a derisive snort from the Beggar King—"but I've got myself some extra leverage. He'll come around in no time."
Bedlam's eyes narrowed. This was news indeed. A chink in the blue-blood's armour?
"Temeria needs a strong, independently-minded king," continued Thaler. "No better candidate than Radovid. Vernon's a strategist."
"And the most cold-blooded patriot walking the Northern Realms," Bedlam mused. "Foltest's most trusted subordinate – potential turncoat? Forgive my disbelief. Even if said king is no more."
Thaler helped himself to a second serving, the descending silence not uncomfortable. Bedlam took the opportunity to reassess. There wasn't anything Roche wouldn't do if it meant protecting Foltest's blood. But handing over Temeria's future to Radovid? Why not sequester the children in the furthest corner of the Continent? Have Natalis remain as Regent until Boussy was strong enough to reign? Something to drive the Commander of the Blue Stripes to treason was interesting indeed. Or someone.
"This extra leverage," he said. "Currently on the receiving end of one of Alonso's endearing recitals, I imagine."
Thaler raised his glass. "I don't doubt it." He waved a languid hand. "She's close to the children. Cares deeply for their wellbein'. Wants to find them no matter what. Wants to protect them."
"No matter what."
"If forming an alliance with Radovid kept the children safe and, more importantly, out of Nilfgaard's grasp, I don't doubt she'd agree to the plan."
"And with her consent comes Roche's support," muttered Bedlam, struggling to comprehend Vernon Roche listening to anyone but his king. "And Natalis will take his Commander's advice."
Thaler tapped his nose. "Got it in one, Francis. So, where are we? With marriage to Anaïs, Radovid gains a foothold in Temeria, strengthens his reign in the North. The free city of Novigrad begins to look a mighty less free..."
"A spy and a sage," scoffed Bedlam. "Temeria's fortunate indeed."
"History favours the tyrant," said Thaler. "Lest we forget Novigrad belonged to Temeria little more than a century ago. The marriage sees Radovid's claim doubles in strength."
Bedlam studied him carefully. No more food or drink. They were talking business. There was only room for one king in Novigrad.
"Such a claim would be heavily refuted by the Hierarch," reminded Bedlam, hurling a glob of spit into an empty cup.
Thaler brightened considerably. "Agreed. In the process, the Hierarch gains support, wins over more followers. Defender of Novigrad's freedom. Protector of the Faith. In the name of the Eternal Fire, so on and so forth." He paused for dramatic effect. "Then comes the sudden surge in Temple Guard recruits."
Bedlam's lips flattened into a grim line. "And a sudden drop in profit."
"Quite so. A loss, either way."
Bedlam strode to the window. Darkness descended over the Grove, the dull glow of rickety housing dotted like fairy lights. Still in its infancy but gathering strength by the day. He'd built an extensive ring of pickpockets and thieves, was reaping the treasures of burglary and extortion. But there was so much more to achieve. Right under the bastard Hierarch's nose. Property investment, smuggling of illicit goods, a network of spies extending beyond Novigrad's walls to rival the greatest spymaster. Reshape the city from head to toe.
A loud burp brought him out of his reverie. Thaler mumbled an apology. Bedlam kept his gaze on his court. He was wise not to underestimate the man. His king slaughtered, his country fallen into disarray - absolutely no effect on the machinations of Bernard Ducat.
"What are you offering?"
Thaler spoke slowly, sincerely. "Diplomatic relations. The forging of an alliance between Temeria and Novigrad. Your Novigrad."
"Temeria's in shambles, as is your intelligence network," said Bedlam with a humorless chuckle. Casting the spymaster to the fringes had become a running joke. Refusing to work with Bernard Ducat was more fashionable than Lady Vegelbud's latest chemise. It wasn't amusing. It was unfortunate. In its glory days, Temerian Intelligence was an unseen force to be reckoned with. With a heavy frown, he added, "You've nothing to offer me in that regard."
Thaler conceded. "I don't deny it. We've got some rebuildin' to do. In the meantime, why not work together and gather strength on both fronts? Radovid and the Hierarch are rabid dogs who'll continue to fight over Novigrad like some fuckin' chew toy - with or without Temeria's influence." He caught the look of exasperation in the window reflection and played his ace. "Standin' between Novigrad's freedom and absolute obedience to one of two megalomaniacs is a young lady up to her eyeballs in political shit. Standin' behind her, are two individuals feared throughout the Continent though, thankfully, primarily concerned with destroyin' each other."
"See, that's where you're wrong, Bernard," said Bedlam, patience dissolving at an alarming rate. Towards the Temerian's presence, the conversation, not to mention the inner-turmoil that left him questioning his sanity. "You're suggesting we take her in, keep her on side. But it's not the girl that stands between - it's you. So, here's another suggestion. You keep your fucking traitorous plans to yourself and let the girl continue on her merry way. The less she knows the better - for all of us."
Thaler was unmoved. "She'll stop at nothing to find Foltest's children. Same goes for Vernon. It's a specialty of his, after all. And since it's currently in Temeria's best interests to align with a powerful force other than Nilfgaard, I'm morally obliged to suggest the most practical course of action."
Thaler gauged by the clenching of Bedlam's fists that the conversation was almost over. He would be showing himself out.
"But," he continued smoothly. "I for one see no safer place for the children than right here in this Grove. A place made all the safer by the mutual exchange of information between Temeria and Novigrad's Big Three."
This time, Bedlam didn't bother hiding his surprise. Fuck him if Bernard didn't take shit-talk to a whole new level. The man was in a league of his own. And yet…
And yet.
Bedlam was loath to admit he saw a slither of logic. A stronger Radovid meant a stronger Hierarch meant a weaker Bedlam meant an end to Putrid Grove. He struggled to keep up with his thoughts.
"When the war is over," Thaler spoke slowly, seeing the cogs begin to turn, "we'll find the children. Bring them here until Temeria finds its feet. Radovid's too ambitious to look under his own nose."
Bedlam grunted. "And the Hierarch?"
Thaler waved a dismissive hand. "I trust you to keep it under control." Then, with a sincerity not lost on the Beggar King, "Consider it, Francis. The children trust Rusa, and with Roche's help, she'll find them. Hiding here leads to survival for both of us. Get Rusa on side."
"And you'll have her believe she's seeing sense rather than being a tool in your own agenda, eh, Bernard?"
"If my intentions accidentally serve all in the long run, that's simply testament to my good nature and your good fortune."
Bedlam rolled his eyes. There was nothing accidental about Bernard Ducat aside from his birth.
Tired and beyond impatient, Bedlam muttered, "To my understanding, you lot have your hands full with Kaedwen. Leave Redanian affairs to Redanians."
Thaler stared a hole in the Beggar King's back. If the rumoured Loc Muinne summit was to go ahead, Redanian affairs could very soon become Kaedwen's. And Francis was foolish to think him the sole mastermind behind the potential marriage between Anaïs and Radovid. The Temerian bet his last crown that Radovid, so-called Savior of the North, considered it well before Foltest turned cold. Now, even more so, if Henselt was to claim victory over Vergen and sweep through Temeria as a result.
"Well, it's been lovely, Francis, but I've got a date with a delightful little dwarf," the spymaster said merrily, and Bedlam enjoyed the image of him saying such a thing to Cleaver's face.
"Didn't think the girl tough enough to deal with him?"
"I need her in one piece," chuckled Thaler. "'sides, I've got a leg or arm to spare if he's feeling feisty."
Bedlam mumbled into his tea and gestured to the door with a nod of his head.
"Speaking of Kaedwen," continued Thaler as he stepped outside, "my companion wishes to make a humble request. Something about an Alannah D'arcy."
"Companion?" sneered Bedlam, masking his surprise on hearing the Cintran's name. "Or unwitting protégé?"
Lower Town, Putrid Grove
Finding Butcher's Yard was proving surprisingly difficult, not least because of the poor lighting. Oh, she was deep in Novigrad's bowels now. Slipping for the second time in whatever-human-filth only reaffirmed this. Rusa thought longingly of Gildorf. Its flowerbeds, water fountains, colorful lanterns lining perfectly cobbled streets. Giving Whoreson Junior a lesson in poetry he'd never forget. It was enough to make a girl nostalgic.
Reaching the theatre, Rusa paused. The Grove was somewhere nearby. Password. Purpose. She ducked behind a barrel as a scruffy beggar sidled up to an inconspicuous door. In the time it took to blink, a latch opened and closed. The beggar's shoulders slumped. Rusa chewed her lip. Had the password changed?
Sweat pricked her brow and she rubbed her palms against her trousers. The humidity caused her already damp clothes to stick to her skin. The back alleys of Novigrad were no place for a gathering storm. The air thickened her surroundings and with it the stench of stagnant sewers. Putrid, indeed.
Her approach was met with silence. Rusa knocked a second time. A bushy moustache and beady eyes filled the frame. They narrowed further and almost disappeared into his cheeks.
"Password?"
"Grace," replied Rusa as a second man squeezed into view.
"That ain't no beggar," he growled, a fleck of spit finding its mark on Rusa's cheek. Beady-Eyes 'hmphed' in agreement. "Ain't no whore I know dressing like that neither."
"She knew the password," offered Beady-Eyes, curiosity tipping the scales. "What you seek in the Grove?"
"Don't encourage her, Clem, this here's no place for the likes of her."
There was a momentary scuffle before both thugs scattered at the sound of a commanding voice. A green and yellow checkered bandana blocked the latch.
"The King of Beggars doesn't discriminate," said the voice.
Rusa dipped around the small opening and was met by an imposing man clothed in a washed-out tunic emblazoned with a symbol representing his king. He glared down at her, openly scrutinizing her appearance.
"Pretty little bird," he drawled.
Clem shuffled forward, eyes on the ground. "Had it under control, Tinboy, 'fore I was rudely interrupted."
"I don't doubt it, Clem," replied Tinboy smoothly. He gestured to the second man who fell into rank with a not-so-subtle elbow to Clem's ribs. "Getting the password ain't easy. Refused her entry even then, did you, Dove?"
Dove's tongue darted out of his mouth nervously. He ran a scarred hand through dirty blonde hair and, to Rusa's surprise, returned an impish grin. He was suddenly younger, perhaps not yet twenty. Tinboy seemed at pains to scold him further. Instead, the three of them turned on Rusa expectantly. Sweat practically pooled around her.
"I come here to appeal to Francis Bedlam," she said woodenly. It was a mere recital, after all, carelessly conjured up before reaching Butcher's Yard. "The King of Beggars and the only man who knows where I can find someone I desperately need."
Tinboy silenced Dove with a swipe of the hand. The younger man pretended to wipe a tear from his eye and pinned Rusa with an insolent stare.
"Name, sweetheart?" asked Tinboy.
Rusa shifted uncomfortably. 'Henrietta' died an unremarkable death in The Passiflora flowerbeds.
"Rusa Elyot," repeated Tinboy, savouring the words on his tongue. They lingered on the air until Clem saw fit to politely remind his superior that the woman was required to plead her case to the Council. Tinboy nodded and ushered her into a courtyard. Rusa blanched and dug in her heels.
"Council?"
Tinboy sent her a questioning look.
"Naturally," he said. "One must appease the Council in order to appeal to the King."
"Naturally," Rusa retorted and Tinboy gave her a rough shove down some uneven stairs. Pain shot through her ankle as she continued, "No doubt made up of the Grove's most esteemed Lords and Ladies."
Dove sniggered and flushed when Tinboy glowered at him.
"The Grove has its own system of government," Clem cut in, attempts at easing the tension failing miserably as Tinboy grabbed his subordinate by the ear.
They came to a door with peculiar markings. Rusa traced the iron inlays and pulled back when Tinboy caressed one of the symbols, eyelids fluttering as if in a trance.
"The Flowering Heart. Seraphic Symbol," he murmured, turning on Rusa with wild eyes. "You're familiar with our Patron Saint?"
"Francis of Alness," she replied and grunted when Tinboy clapped a heavy hand on her shoulder. He smiled. It was a sinister stretch of skin but a smile all the same.
"Patron and password—let's hope it works in your favour," he said and Rusa practically fell into a darkened space lit by a solitary candle in the centre.
She caught the flurry of Clem's whispered words before the latch clicked shut.
"Three friends defeat two foes."
Rusa groped her way to the centre candle. A moth to a flame. Insignificant and equally dimwitted as she realized she wandered blindly into what was inevitably a trap. This reasoning felt all the more justified as five flames appeared one by one on a balcony overlooking her trembling form. Seated above her were a row of dimly lit faces, some masked, some filthy, none friendly.
A sultry voice sounded from behind black lace.
"Name?"
"Rusa Elyot of Cintra."
"You stand before the King's Council, Rusa Elyot of Cintra," continued the voice and Rusa's stomach lurched at the memory of her trial in Vizima. Unless Roche decided to take up residence in the Grove and swapped the chaperon for lace, she was without an ally this time around.
"The King of Beggars is a busy man," spat a filthy face. Rusa smelled the words before she heard them.
"The dealings of Court an endless quest pursued by our most Noble," whispered another with a Dandelionesque flourish of the wrist.
Filthy Face snuffed his candle with a grunt.
"Count Cuthran, Noble Liaison. Unimpressed," purred Black Lace, the scathing hint of amusement clawing at Rusa's insides.
Rusa stared into the gap left behind by the Count. He remained there, she could smell it. But—unimpressed. Her mind raced. One must appease the Council in order to appeal to the King. She recited the purpose of her visit just as she'd done with Tinboy. A second fizzle of flame between wet fingertips.
"Marie deVolla, Seer of the Grove," announced Black Lace with a languid wave at her fellow jurors. "An unpromising future for you, Rusa Elyot."
Rusa bit back a growl. A game for which she wasn't provided the rules. Some warped version of Vizima's courtroom. This was the jury that would determine her fate? A bunch of rabble playing at nobility? And two already in darkness, immediate foes.
The poet from earlier leaned forward, unmasked, eyes bright and—was she imagining things?—encouraging.
"A place of beastly delights in which Prince and Pauper may feast as equals," he mused.
Rusa frowned. "You refer to the Grove?"
The poet tipped an imaginary hat.
"A harvest of fruit, a flowing of juice…enchanted I stay, vine for a noose."
Fruit. Juice. Vine. Wine. Rusa scrambled for an answer. Her cheeks burned. How was it the Vizima trial to determine whether she was to live or die was preferable to this mortifying farce? She latched onto the obvious with a slow sense of dread.
"Toussaint?"
The poet sat back, seemingly satisfied, the candle appearing to burn brighter in response.
"Reginale Baclarry, Bard of Beggars," announced Black Lace, a small smile fluttering at the corner of her mouth. "Friend."
Black Lace gestured to another. A woman with a ruddy complexion revealed a toothless grin. She smacked her lips together, spittle gathering along her chin.
"Two nobles attend the Grove for a feast celebrating our King." Her voice was low and harsh, a blend of thorns and gravel grating against skin. "One who was half becomes whole, one who was whole becomes half. Orders from the King, you see. Two ingredients, one for each. What say you?"
Rusa flushed. She didn't consider herbalism a particular strength. How she should have listened to Henrietta during the nights in Maribor. She let out a sharp, loud exhale. This place and it's fucking word games. Worse than Elvish riddle speak.
A soft pull settled at the base of her spine.
Va'esse deireádh aep eigean, va'esse eigh faidh'ar
Something ends, something begins.
"Balisse fruit," said Rusa with a confidence that wasn't her own. "Ground into a paste and mixed into the meal. Paralysis. Lifeless body but sound mind. Whole becomes half."
A squeal of glee slipped between frothy lips.
"Be sure to wear gloves," added Rusa.
The woman gestured eagerly for her to continue. Rusa brought a hand to her chest. The scar tissue tingled under her tunic. It was all she had left and she needed to even the playing field.
"Celadine," she said. "Boiled in water, served as tea. Strong healing properties. Half becomes whole."
The woman frowned momentarily and fell into thought. Finally, she nodded, flame intact.
"Mrs Ruth, Court Chef," announced Black Lace. "Friend."
Rusa ignored the rumblings of Cuthran and deVolla and focused on the last face. One was no more than a child, her peaches and cream complexion gasping for air under a mask of dirt and crusted river water. Sky-blue eyes—red-rimmed and swollen—brazenly assessed her under a mop of copper hair. This was a child in body not mind, Rusa determined and it wasn't difficult to imagine her appraiser as having the run of a place like this with Bedlam as protector.
"Your turn, darling," purred Black Lace, gesturing to the child whose gaze remained fixed on a nervous Rusa below.
"In Novigrad, us children need to look out for each other," said the girl with a voice lower than Rusa expected. "But in the Grove, us lot are the future and must be protected, so says most Noble."
The soft pull at the base of Rusa's spine sharpened into a shard of ice. It slipped between the bone and stiffened one by one. Dread washed over her, a fierce cold in the stifling heat. The girl continued, voice trembling.
"How far would you go to protect a child, Rusa Elyot of Cintra?"
Despite the sincerity in her blue eyes, for Rusa it was nothing but a cruel joke. A nasty prank intended to break her. She squared her shoulders in defiance. She would tell them of her fight to rescue Foltest's children, that everything she did was for them. The violence, the endless detours, the shifting allegiances. Every decision was one step closer. Then, the painful realization that every consequence sent her tumbling backwards. So much time lost to the machinations of cunning Temerians and ruthless Aen Seidhe and…Rusa herself, a foolish Cintran woman whose own actions left her moral compass spinning aimlessly, searching for true North in Northern Realms that seemed to possess anything but.
Rusa stared at the girl. Not much older than Anaïs. And with that, whatever façade she built over time shattered.
"I'd do everything in my power to protect a child," she whispered. With a gesture from Black Lace to speak up, Rusa cleared her throat. "That's why I'm here in Novigrad. To seek the help of someone who can help me find them."
Indirectly, her conscience screamed. Alannah D'arcy was the key to strengthening Vergen's forces in the battle against Henselt, to strengthening their chances of victory. But with Henselt defeated…then what? They had no information on the whereabouts of Anaïs and Boussy apart from Mary Louisa's original pact with Nilfgaard. Fuck, if she was done trying to convince herself they were safe with the Empire to help her sleep better at night. And Roche, determined as he was to securing the Temerian throne for Foltest's children, was mired in a vengeance that led him to Flotsam, a suspicion that took him to Henselt, a promise that pushed him to Vizima, a loyalty that forced him to Maribor. Rusa bit down on her lip. She was no different. A lack of options was Flotsam, a change of heart was Vergen, a desperate hope was Flotsam again, one lost then hesitantly regained in Vizima before Maribor snuffed it out completely. Then came Henrietta's inn and the moment she understood Roche had no intention of accompanying her to Novigrad. She would do it with or without him. Saddling up to set out with Thaler the following morning, she quelled the rising nausea in her stomach and turned away from Roche. So, this is how it felt to not be first choice.
Rusa couldn't deny it and the longer she lost herself in the scheming of Novigrad, she knew For Vergen had replaced finding Foltest's children as her sole purpose the moment Iorveth mentioned the mysterious woman in the east. Roche promised they would search for the children after finding the kingslayer, a monumental task in itself made all the more complicated by the both of them now hell-bent on ensuring Vergen's survival. She reasoned with herself – often – that if Vergen were lost, there would be no Temeria left for the children to inherit. If anything, their claim to the Temerian throne was the only thing keeping them alive. They were important, politically. This invited enemies wanting to snuff out Foltest's line for good. But it also invited desperate power-players in need of any political leverage they could get their hands on. Their safety was conditional but safety all the same.
Was it all worth it at the end? For Roche, absolutely. Foltest's children had a duty to Temeria and any protest from Mary Louisa would be swiftly silenced. But with the political arena of the North being ruled by a pack of rabid dogs, the thought of Boussy and Anaïs becoming further embroiled was hard for Rusa to swallow. Getting the children away from Nilfgaard was crucial, but hiding would see them hunted to the ends of the earth by everyone with a motive. The alternative? A kingdom foisted on a sensitive boy, a convenient marriage forced on a headstrong girl. A childhood destroyed by the kingslayer's blade.
No, the truth was right there. Rusa, so intent on rescuing Foltest's heirs after the sacking of La Valette, had crumbled under the weight of her own conscience. One purpose split into two, grew into three, mutated into four. All she had left was the hope that they collided for a reason beyond her own understanding. All she had left was fate.
Glancing up at the balcony, Rusa refused to flinch at the girl's shrewd stare, and confessed:
"I lost the children that meant everything to me." And then, with a steadiness that disguised the unrelenting swell of memory, "I intend to get them back."
The girl leaned forward, eyes narrowed. Rusa, accepting defeat, dropped her gaze.
"Brigitte, Pauper's Princess," came the sultry voice of Black Lace. "Friend."
Rusa didn't dare look up for fear of having misheard.
"Three friends defeat two foes," declared Black Lace. "The Council is appeased, Rusa Elyot of Cintra. The King of Beggars will hear your appeal. Welcome to the Grove."
The rest of the candles extinguished as the Council shuffled out of the room. As if on cue, Tinboy appeared in the doorway, the silhouettes of Clem and Dove jostling for a better look. Rusa fought to steady her breathing. She felt everything keenly in that moment. Confusion, relief, vulnerability, guilt…and the small spark of a thrill at being one step closer to Alannah D'arcy.
Tinboy interrupted her thoughts.
"Bedlam's expecting you."
Of course he is, Rusa thought. She had to hand it to old Thaler; in between Sweet Nettie's thighs, the man got around.
Accustomed to being manhandled, Rusa was surprised when Tinboy simply waited and opened the door a little wider as she stepped into the courtyard. The look on his face was another surprise. Not exactly warm but the leer was gone. In its place a begrudging respect of sorts that Rusa wasn't sure she wanted. Clem's beady eyes were warm and bright while the waft of tobacco from Dove's smoking pipe signaled his indifference.
Rusa turned on the three on them.
"No more tests?"
Tinboy held up hands.
"No more tests," he said. Then, an almost imperceptible smile. "Ready for the grand tour?"
King of Beggars Headquarters, Putrid Grove
Francis Bedlam received the news of the girl's success first from his Council Speaker, Elira, followed by a reluctant Marie deVolla. The Grove's Seer was desperate to change the results. Rusa Elyot was a bad omen, deVolla wildly declared behind her many shawls and bangles. With the Cintran woman came chaos. In the form of the two most chaotic forces in the North, Francis mused, the inevitable baggage of Temeria's royal hound and the most sought after terrorist in the North weighing heavily in his mind. And fucking Bernard Ducat, the maniacal runt with nothing to lose puppeteering from the sidelines.
The spymaster desired an alliance between Temerian and Novigradian underworld. In between calling in a debt and appealing to a King's grace, Bernard had the woman run the gauntlet for him. All in the name of diplomatic relations. Francis laughed. The image of Bernard backed against a wall fending off an angry Cleaver was a beautiful thing. But the dwarf, hot-headed as he was, was a businessman and tensions rising between Radovid and the Hierarch was bad for business. Bedlam groaned inwardly and rubbed a hand over his face. Was he actually considering Bernard's offer?
He didn't notice deVolla's absence until faced with the flushed cheeks of a young woman idling in the doorway.
"So," said Bedlam. "Here we are."
Rusa mustered her most convincing curtsey for this self-proclaimed king. Francis Bedlam resembled Alonso Wiley only in reputation. Where Wiley was stocky and thuggish in appearance – a brawler, but a romantic - Bedlam possessed an air of Highwayman of the People, the mismatched cloth covering his body in a woolen cloak, velvet capelet and the familiar checkered colours of the Grove scattered over an unremarkable tunic. All was greens, beiges and browns, of course, as anything too ostentatious was sure to lose the love of the common folk. The man claimed to be a king, built an entire court out of Novigrad's outcasts in need of protection, which was provided in exchange for undying servitude. Yes, thought Rusa, the outfit helped mask the megalomania nicely.
"Sir," she began, equally overwhelmed by the man in front of her and the herbal stench stewing in the corner. "I've travelled far to appeal to your sense of justice. Kaedwen's inevitable siege of Vergen leaves Upper Aedirn powerless to stop Henselt's army. We're already largely outnumbered and in desperate need of allies and resources."
Bedlam looked down at her, biting back a smirk. She may have currently looked like a drowned rat – much like her 'mentor' – but the similarities ended there. Her candour was oddly endearing. And potentially dangerous. He offered her some tea, which she declined, then sat behind his desk and offered her a seat, which she hesitantly accepted. Bedlam frowned. Not so much a rat as a meek little mouse. This woman – in league with Roche and the Scoia'tael?
"Bad news for your war-torn Temeria," Bedlam goaded, enjoying the scrunch of her nose as lungwort filled the room.
With forced politeness, Rusa added, "Indeed. But I daresay Henselt won't stop there."
Bedlam chuckled and tapped a finger to his temple.
"And that's where I come in," he said, putting two and two together. "Or, more specifically, a certain Cintran war general who betrayed her own people."
"Alannah D'arcy fought for our independence from Nilfgaard," Rusa bit out, tired of the anxiety bubbling in her chest every time she made the claim. She had to believe the General's intentions were good. She had to believe in Alannah D'arcy. "Henselt's meddling saw her exiled and branded a traitor in the eyes of people who knew no better. Revenge is a powerful motivator."
Bedlam sat back. The woman was well-spoken and clearly of noble birth. The damp, crumpled outfit she donned no doubt made with expensive material. Whatever meekness present at the start was replaced with a steely determination that saw her posture straighten and her eyes brighten just enough to give him pause.
Rusa peered out the window. "Besides, I saw no evidence of such betrayal during my grand tour of the Grove. Seems you've secured her loyalty."
Bedlam almost laughed. No shit, he secured D'arcy's loyalty. The woman was a fucking brute, not afraid to strong-arm the weakest of men in order to make a point. The Beggar King needed her on side the moment she barged through the door and manhandled four of his guards. No killing, he noted, but enough bruised and battered faces and egos that made him think twice about his unwanted guest. If he threw her out, she'd be trouble down the line. If he killed her, he saw the loss of what was undoubtedly a valuable asset to the Grove's security. Bedlam dropped a pouch of crowns in D'arcy's palm that very night. He always had need of another Royal Enforcer. She was good, too. When she wasn't drowning in ale. Otherwise she was a real peach of a tin-pot dictator who Bedlam barely leashed by giving her menial tasks such as exterminating drowners holding up the riverbank trade routes. Lately it seemed this was all she was capable of. Bedlam couldn't recall a time she wasn't up to her eyeballs in drink in well over three months. Tinboy openly denounced her staying in the Grove. Despite her usefulness over the years, Bedlam had to admit that D'arcy was becoming a liability. And Rusa Elyot wanted to put her in charge of an army?
"Exiled to Redania but she wound up here in Novigrad," Rusa continued. "Clearly, no love lost between her and Radovid."
Bedlam kept his thoughts to himself and assessed her coolly. "You've done well to get this far, Rusa Elyot, I'll give you that."
Despite her already flushed countenance, Bedlam noted the tell-tale blush creep across her cheeks. And unless she was a practiced performer, the reaction was real. Well, Bedlam reasoned, she may be nobility but he was a king and any compliment bestowed upon his lessers was sure to elicit this sort of response.
"I confess I had some unexpected help along the way," Rusa replied with a sheepish smile, and Bedlam understood the blush to be more a result of reliving the night's escapades than anything he evoked. No matter. She'd understand how it all worked around here eventually.
"Old Alonso's not only wily in name," Bedlam agreed.
They fell into a silence that left Rusa drumming her fingers against the chair before pacing to the window without so much of a by-your-leave. Bedlam looked on, enjoying the flimsy veil of composure unravelling bit by bit.
Her back was to him when she said, "There are things at play here so much larger than myself. All I know is Alannah D'arcy isn't just the key to Vergen's survival but of Temeria's, and with that, the survival of two innocent children who have become nothing but pawns in the hands of power-hungry tyrants."
Ah, so there it was. Foltest's kids. Bedlam gave a grim smile. Turned out Bernard was onto something.
Rusa reclaimed her seat and studied Bedlam's pensive expression. Seems the mention of children in danger struck a nerve. Thinking of Brigitte, she hoped Bedlam's reputation as Protector of Urchins wasn't undeserved. For whatever reason, this got the Beggar King thinking and Rusa was a desperate, desperate woman.
"Without Temeria, the children are useless," he mused, and Rusa couldn't shake the fear that she said too much.
"I believe they'd be discarded without a second thought," she agreed, slowly, reluctantly.
"Oh, undoubtedly, no kingdom would want them," replied Bedlam with a knowing smile. "Well, if Temeria falls, here's hoping they fall into the hands of a real patriot."
Rusa bit the inside of her cheek. Bedlam leaned over the desk, hands clasped.
"You've a habit of making dangerous acquaintances," he said softly.
"Yourself included?"
"Depends."
"On?"
Bedlam pinned her down with a stare that left little room for negotiation. "You take Alannah D'arcy off my hands. In exchange, I offer safe haven for Foltest's children when you find them."
The proposition effectively stunned Rusa in silence. Anaïs and Boussy, royal offspring, to live in the hive of fancy scum and villainy that was Putrid Grove? It was absurd to consider, let alone agree upon. Surely not even Thaler would agree to such a thing and she knew of no bigger bottom-of-the-barrel-scraper than the Temerian spymaster. This wasn't even a bottom of the barrel option; this was the leaky mess underneath and Rusa wasn't about to go feeling around in the sludge.
Absolutely not. A flat-out no. Easy enough to say.
"Tick-tock," drawled Bedlam.
Rusa shot him a look. A full-blown offer of protection caught her off guard. Bedlam wanted something. Everyone wanted something. Something the promise of Foltest's children could provide. Political leverage, but in what form? He promised safe haven but for how long? How long until they went 'missing', were held to ransom, forced into slavery, into prostitution?
Rusa rubbed her temples. She could always agree then break the deal down the track. Because that would definitely work as she became public enemy number one to the most cutthroat criminals Novigrad had to offer.
Was she truly willing to promise the children to such a fate just to get her hands on Alannah D'arcy?
She recalled Brigitte's words during the Council trial. But in the Grove, us lot are the future and must be protected, so says most Noble. The same couldn't be said for most places on the Continent, Temeria included. With Baron Kimboldt and Count Maravel doing whatever it took to claim the throne, Rusa suspected even Natalis's protection had its limits.
No one would think to look for them in the Grove.
And she was a desperate, desperate woman.
Rusa steadied her gaze on the Beggar King. "I have your word that Foltest's children will be given safe haven in the Grove as long as you and your successors reign?"
Bedlam snorted. Did the insolent little chit expect him to keel over and die come morning? No one was succeeding him any time soon, he'd see to that.
"You've my word."
The look on his face told Rusa this wasn't something given lightly.
She let out a shaky exhale. "Then, let's talk specifics."
Bedlam inclined his head with a satisfied smile and poured her some tea. Rusa accepted, no longer bothered by the stench. No, she had another concern only slightly more pressing than the questionable debris sloshing around the teacup.
Making a deal with the King of Beggars was half of it. The other half was how the hell she was going to explain this to Roche.
A/N: next up - reunions.