Summary: An sorceress contracts a witcher to capture a djinn, and everyone who has read The Last Wish collectively cringes at my lack of originality.
THE LAST WISH
IV
The spire of the University poked out above the gently sloping hill, and Sleipnir whickered softly, perhaps recognising his home. Harry leaned forward and patted the stallion on the neck reassuringly, and the midnight black horse gently leaned into his touch as he did so.
"Looks like someone's glad to be home," Hermione said, observing them from atop her own steed, a chestnut mare.
Harry nodded back. "He might not be especially fond of the witcher's lifestyle if he's this attached to a place."
"I'm sure he'll adapt," the sorceress replied, waving a hand dismissively. "After all, he was well-behaved throughout our trip North, and he'll get even more experience when we head for the Kestrels."
"Speaking of which, where are we on that?"
Hermione smiled faintly. "Well, we can't fault Longbottom and Professor Dumbledore for not trying. Viktor tells me there's been a flurry of back-and-forth between the Redanian and Kaedweni royal courts. It's a possibility, even, that both kings have been in contact with each other by way of megascope."
"The Professor's doing?"
"Naturally," the brunette nodding, pulling at her reigns so that her mare eased up on a stone bridge that crossed over a shallow stream. "Kaedwen has sent a delegation of their finest soldiers, and Redania is apparently sending Longbottom back from Tretogor with a manageable unit."
Harry observed the walls of Oxenfurt, fast coming upon them, and he took some small measure of pleasure in the aromas of spices and food that permeated the air just beyond the gate. Today, a week after when he had first arrived, the town square and its bazaar would be packed.
The week had been productive, to say the least. Not including her semi-frequent bouts of academic curiosity concerning witchers, Hermione was a courteous, unobtrusive traveling companion, and remained a top-notch conversation partner for the long roads traversed by day. For the entire week, she had deigned to live as he did when on the road, claiming that while reading books were nice, she would be a fool not to opt for the real experience when traveling with a witcher.
This, of course, entailed hunting for food, bathing in streams, and sleeping under the stars. To her credit, the sorceress kept any complaints to a minimum.
Once they'd reached the town Hermione had mentioned, a charming little hamlet of thatched roofs and half-timber and brick homes, she'd proved to be an even greater help. The Ealdorman, an ostentatious man who referred to himself as 'The Duke', gave the Harry a witcher's contract on a wyvern worth double his normal rate, due almost entirely to him being in the company of 'the great woman'.
The sorceress herself wanted no thanks for securing Harry a better contract, but wanted only the compensation of being allowed to see the witcher work his craft. Harry agreed, and like so, they were soon back on the road, with heavy pouches and high spirits.
"What numbers are we looking at here?" Harry asked Hermione, who seemed to be as enraptured with the city as the witcher was. "Obviously, it's difficult to effectively comb the mountains in small numbers, but I doubt we want to start a caravan."
"Professor McGonagall understands that there should be no more than ten representatives from either delegation. If we include personnel associated with the University, and ourselves, we should be no more than thirty."
They finally approached the grey brick wall surrounding Oxenfurt's landlocked side, and were stopped by two guards in Redanian striped hauberks. Harry hid a smile, remembering his first meeting with apathetic guards when in the company of Hermione.
"Halt!" shouted one of them, who wore a wholly ridiculous, curled moustache. "State your business."
"Sorceress Hermione Granger and Witcher Harry Potter. We have business at the University."
The guard squinted back. "Do you, now?" he asked suspiciously. "Henrik, hand me the list."
"Aye," a second, younger guard nodded, and hobbled over to crate on which a few sheafs of parchment lay unattended. He struggled mightily to grasp the sheets in his gauntleted hands, and succeeded, after a valiant effort. He trotted back to hand the papers over to the first guard, who looked over them with unnatural care.
By the way his moustache twitched, it appeared he read something he didn't like. He looked from the papers, up to Harry and Hermione, down at the paper again, and sighed as he turned to the gate door and rapped heavily on it:
"Aye, Lukas, open the gates," he called, "these ones are expected up at the University."
"Aye!" shouted another from behind the gate; and with a cacophony of wooden groans, accompanied by the backing vocals of jangling metallic chains, the gate slowly opened to welcome the two riders and their steeds.
They entered the town, and laid bare before them were the naked wonders of the world in full-force. Today, the spices were in full use, as grills were set up and cast-iron pots were left to simmer over controlled fires. Furthermore, the bookseller had a gaggle of customers; the bank was booming with business; and even the Ofieri merchant, with his expensive jewels and precious metals, had managed to entice a student of the university into buying a pair of gold earrings for his chosen lady love.
Harry looked at it all longingly, but sighed as he turned his horse in the other direction, which would ring the edge of the town but eventually lead him to the bridge connecting the university to the town proper.
It only took Harry a few seconds to realise he was trotting alone. Confused, he turned and spotted Hermione about to turn away toward the bazaar:
"Master Witcher," she called, "Viktor hasn't yet gone to the University; perhaps I should go check on him, and bring him with?"
Harry shrugged. "Sure," he said, "no bother."
The brunette smiled, and nodded gratefully. "Thank you. We'll meet you there, then?"
"Of course. I'll see you there."
He stood in an antechamber filled with unfamiliar faces, and the witcher felt distinctly ridiculous being there without Hermione at his side. The Redanian soldiers, a group of about four, stern-faced men, stood off to one-corner and conversed quietly among themselves. They eyed the mutant with some distrust, but Harry didn't mind them much; he was used to simple distrust.
It was the sorcerers who managed to spark his ire. There were several of them, some men, some women, delegates from Aretuza and Ban Ard alike, but they all sneered at him as though he was an ant to be crushed.
Sirius had mentioned it more than several times: the common man feared a witcher, but the common sorcerer despised a witcher. And while it seemed his elven companion was a notable exception, it appeared these people were not.
So, ultimately, Harry found himself standing in one corner of the small meeting room, a few steps from a table of sweets and other refreshments, and as far away from the baleful stares as possible.
It didn't last long.
"Master Witcher!" someone called out, in the direction of the door to the room. Harry looked up to see Neville Longbottom waving to him.
"Hello, sir," the witcher greeted back neutrally, but politely.
"Am I to understand that you'll join us for the expedition to the Kestrels, then?" the soldier asked.
Harry nodded. "Well, I'm here, aren't I?"
"Of course, of course," the other man clapped him on the back, "I won't lie and say I'm not excited to work with you; from what I've heard, witchers are some of the best trackers on the continent. If anyone can sniff out these thieves, it'll be you."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"No need, just stating facts."
"But, speaking of tracking, how are we going about all of this? Surely you're not thinking of having one of the sorcerers open a portal to a mountaintop?"
Neville shook his head and laughed. "Heavens no, Master Witcher! It wouldn't be safe to teleport a group of this size anywhere but the end of the hallway, as I'm sure you know. We'll be riding by day to Novigrad, and Roggeveen beyond to the borderlands. There and beyond, we'll be asking around to see if we can pick up a trail, and then we'll meet with our scouts in Ghelibol. It's not the most well-planned operation I've been in, but intel is scarce and the mages aren't too keen on giving us any more than they think we need, so what we know is what we get."
"That might take days. The thieves could be gone by then," said the witcher.
"Well, it helps, then, that we've a master tracker on our side, then, doesn't it?" Neville grinned. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go speak with men before everyone arrives."
The blond soldier bade his farewell and trotted over to the sullen-faced Redanians in the corner, all of whom had been ignoring everyone up until now. Harry returned to his own particular corner of the antechamber, and resumed his bout of people-watching, waiting for Hermione and Viktor to come bursting through the door. He didn't have to wait long.
There wasn't a bang, nor did the sorceress and her bodyguard come bursting through; the heavy wooden door opened softly, as though it were made from cheap plywood rather than sturdy oak. Hermione walked in first wearing a white blouse under her black-velvet jacket, and the heels of her customary riding boots, in which lambskin breeches were tucked, clicked softly against chiseled stone tiles. Viktor followed behind, draped in furs and treated leather, looking completely out of place in the spring warmth, though he seemed not to notice the heat.
The sorceress looked around, and broke out into a smile when she saw the witcher; she walked over, Viktor tailing her every step:
"Fancy meeting you here," she said, seeming to ignore the fact they'd only split up a few minutes earlier.
Harry nodded, but said nothing, as Neville cleared his throat loudly in the centre of the room:
"Well, I assume we're all here, then?" he asked the three separate groups, all of whom shrugged and murmured amongst themselves. "I'll, er, take that as a yes," the soldier said.
One of the sorcerers, a regal-looking man with long, silver-blond hair and a permanent sneer etched into his face, spoke up: "Longbottom," he said, with a posh Novigradian accent that carried the slightest touch of Kaedweni, "I see we're to make our way toward the Kestrels with a Kaedweni troop, yet here I only see Redanians, our contemporaries from Aretuza, and," he glared at Harry to the side, "a mutant."
Longbottom laughed nervously. "Well, Master Malfoy, you of all people should be familiar with the plan: we'll travel in groups through Novigrad, Roggeveen and Ghelibol, where we'll then meet the Kaedweni soldiers and Headmaster Dumbledore along the Lutonski Road to Ard Carraigh."
"He seems rather pushy," whispered Harry to Hermione, "who is he?"
"That," Hermione said with a distasteful look, "is Lucius Malfoy. A thoroughly repellent man, but he is an excellent sorcerer, and has personal ties with King Vestibor. It's likely the King has sent him to act as his own personal mage; Vestibor trusts him more than he ever would Dumbledore or McGonagall, because..."
"Because the Dumbledore's University is in Kaedwen, and Aretuza is worryingly close to Gors Velen in Temeria. I can see why Vestibor would want his own man in among the mages," Harry finised for her.
"Yes, I see it, too. He vould not vant possible Temerian-allied sorceresses and Kaedven-allied sorcerers stomping about those mountains with little oversight," Viktor said, agreeing with Harry for what felt like the first time to the witcher.
"So, does everyone understand the plan?" Neville asked, having continued speaking whilst the trio had their own conversation. When he received muted nods and murmurs of assent, he smiled and clapped two gloved hands together: "Wonderful! We'd like set out for Novigrad as soon as possible, so I will give each of you an hour to prepare, and then we'll set out from the Guildenstern Bridge? Is that clear?"
More nods, and a clipped "Yes, Longbottom, we understand," from Malfoy.
"Good," said the Redanian soldier, "I'll see you all then. Men?" he called out to the other soldiers, all of whom stood ramrod straight when he spoke. "Come along, there's work to be done before we set out."
He turned rigidly and marched out; the other Redanians followed behind in single-file, marching as stiffly as their commander. The sorcerers were the next to go, in a sea of pompous strutting. Hermione and Viktor went after, with no affectations to their gait at all. And, lastly, the witcher slouched out from behind them all.
An hour passed by quickly, and Harry soon found himself waiting with Hermione and Viktor on the other end of the Guildenstern Bridge, just outside Oxenfurt's gates. Sleipnir snorted softly, seemingly annoyed with standing still for so long, so Harry patted the crest of his head soothingly.
On the other side of the sorceress and Viktor was Neville and his troop, all seated on the backs of hardy Redanian stock, ranging from bay, to chestnut, to dapple grey. He was leaned over and in hushed concentration with Hermione, whose golden-brown eyes sparkled with mirth at something the soldier said. Harry swore he could see the fur draped over Viktor's shoulder visibly bristle.
It was all well and good, because it meant that Viktor's muted hostility would no longer be directed solely at the witcher.
What a chore, to be in love with a woman who doesn't love you back, Harry thought.
Part of him even pitied the man, because Harry could see what the bodyguard found so enthralling about the sorceress, beyond simple kindness and inhuman beauty. Just as she had been studying the ways of a witcher on their short trip north, the witcher also had been observing her. Hermione Granger was an enigma: a sorceress who wouldn't turn away a witcher, who would save the life of a man she didn't know, and would even deign to humble herself to living as a vagrant for a time, so long as she might learn something from it. She was someone who accepted everyone, and, thus, no one would ever capture her heart.
It truly must have been painful to love someone like that. So Harry paid little mind to Viktor's baleful glares, and sharp, one-lined rebukes, because in the end, the Southerner suffered more from staying with Hermione than Harry ever did when bearing an insult from the man.
Harry turned away and saw the delegation from Aretuza and Ban Ard off in their own circle, speaking amongst themselves about spellcraft and possible ways to prevent a djinn from attacking whilst attempting to us a binding rod.
"Isn't everyone here?" Viktor suddenly asked. "Vat are ve vaiting for?"
"Lucius Malfoy, it seems," Neville responded quickly.
"Of course," Hermione said with an attractive little scoff, "Master Malfoy has quite a flexible definition of what an hour entails."
"I suppose we can't just leave without him?" Harry asked, somewhat hopefully.
"I'd rather not lose my head over this, thanks," said Neville with no small amount of sarcasm.
So, they waited. And waited. And waited some more, until the missing sorcerer sauntered over the bridge on a purest white stallion a full half-hour after they had been originally scheduled to leave, and smirked at the gathered lot:
"Oh, I do apologise," he said insincerely, "I completely lost track of the time. I trust you weren't waiting too long?"
"No," said Longbottom, through gritted teeth, "not long at all, Master Malfoy. But let's be on our way; we are a little behind schedule, and need to make up that time, as I want to be in Novigrad's walls by nightfall."
After a quick nod of agreement from the latecomer, they rode; not at a breakneck speed, but quick enough to cover the forty miles from Oxenfurt to Novigrad in one day. The clop of hooves went mostly unbroken, but for a scant few conversations with Hermione, and fewer attempted with a mostly unresponsive Viktor, until dusk had fallen and the great walls surrounding Novigrad loomed in the distance, with pyres of the Eternal Flame alighting Temple Isle even further beyond.
They entered through the Glory Gate, skirting round the edges of the Farcorners, and broke into several parties for the night: Neville and the soldiers broke in one direction toward the docks, and the sorcerers immediately made for the glamour of Temple Isle, leaving the trio stranded in a small square, looking for a place to stay the night.
"It seems everyone else has already arranged for lodging tonight," said Hermione, "have you any ideas on where to go?"
"This is the biggest city in the known world. There are thirty inns and taverns in this city, at least one of them must have a few vacancies," said Harry, shrugging.
Viktor nodded. "Yes, that's true, but 'ver are these inns?"
The quiet debate was suddenly broken by a loud jingle. "Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!" the three turned to see a bellman crying out in a small square not fifty paces from them. "Come to The Kingfisher tonight to hear the lovely, the talented, Anariette perform her many ballads and songs! Hear ye, she is a vision of beauty, and the very voice of the Eternal Fire come to earth!"
A slow, nostalgic smile spread across the witcher's face.
"What are you grinning like a fool for?" asked Hermione.
Harry barked out a laugh. "I'm grinning like a fool, as you say, because I've found us a place to stay. We're going to The Kingfisher, Madam Sorceress."
They entered just as the lovely, talented Anariette was on her last ballad, and took their seats in a forgotten corner of the smoke-filled ground floor as she crooned out the fourth of many quatrains. Most of her written verse, Harry remembered, were songs of yore and epics about heroes long dead. Yet, Anariette always finished any major appearance with a contemporary long-form poem.
He had no need to listen to the lyrics, though Hermione seemed well-captivated by it nearly immediately (and Viktor simply looked bemused), as the witcher knew the story by rote. A lovely, talented young bard heads south from her home in Vengerberg to Touissant, to perform for the knightly feasts and tournaments, only to attract unwanted attention from a ghastly admirer.
"I've know of this ballad," whispered Hermione excitedly, "The Perfect Kiss, is it? I've been told it's magnificent."
Viktor, a man of action rather than rhymes and couplets, hardly seemed as impressed:
"Vat is this song about?" asked the bodyguard, "her... Nordling tongue is too quick for me; I cannot understand it vell."
"It's about a woman who-" he was quickly shushed by Hermione, who scooted away and leaned in to listen. To not disturb the sorceress, Harry leaned in, and whispered: "it's about a woman, a bard, who travels to another country and attracts the attention of an elder vampire."
"Vampire," repeated Viktor.
"You know: alps, bruxae, katakans?"
"Ah, I see. So this poem is about how the vampire kills this bard?"
"Not really," said Harry, "it's more about the heroine escaping the vampire's clutches, with some help from a witcher."
"He of rage, and silver, and steel came to that town
A man who only for coin would save thee from arrows and slings
Agreed to rescue the girl for a number of kingly crowns
While secretly plotting how best to make her sing"
Anariette's voice hummed saucily from the stage, and a dry chuckle went up through the room, all aware of the legends concerning the witcher predilection for perversion. Even Hermione smiled coyly at the black-haired witcher, who shrugged in response:
"She does really make me out to be a bastard in the first few stanzas, that she does," he murmured lowly.
Hermione leaned over and squinted. "The Perfect Kiss is about you?"
"And her as well. You needn't sound so surprised."
"Forgive me, I'm not trying to insult, Harry, it's just..."
"Vy is it so bad?" interrupted Viktor. "You help for coin and the chance to hear a bard a sing. I do not see the problem."
Harry stopped dead, and searched the bodyguard's genuinely clueless and equally curious expression; he then looked past Viktor to Hermione, who hid her giggles behind a hand:
"Er..." he said lamely, "when she says sing, she doesn't actually mean singing."
"Then vat does she mean?" asked the bushy-eyebrowed man.
"Sex, Viktor," deadpanned Hermione, "she means sex."
"Oh," was all the sorceress's bodyguard said as his pale cheeks tinged with colour. Hermione smiled fondly at the man and then turned her attention back to the show, while Harry turned his attention on the bard.
She was as beautiful as he remembered, ever the woman of contrasts. Her long, luxuriant hair was the colour of a raging fire, and her eyes were almond-shaped and icy. Her skin was a pale and unblemished white, and her lips were red and succulent, like fresh strawberries dipped in cream. She was the type that smiled effusively and persistently, but she wore a black velvet frock, as though attending a funeral.
And, Harry decided after a full minute of unbiased, academic observation, that dress did wonders for her chest.
Truthfully, it didn't take much to see she was radiant, and it took even less to see why she had a following wherever she went. It was because she could match any sorceress's beauty, and then some, and because, as was so rare in her profession, she was well and truly talented. Simply, she was as close to natural perfection as any woman could hope to be.
Harry finally caught the bard's eye after several minutes of hungry staring, and she winked back, surreptitiously, so that anyone but him might think it a trick of the eyes or the false play of light. She strummed her lute with practised, nimble fingers, in a little ditty that held special meaning between the two of them.
"She's seen us," Harry whispered to the other two, "she'll come meet us after the performance."
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "How do you know? She hasn't even looked this way."
"You ought to pay more attention, Miss Granger," said Harry dryly. "Just wait, she'll come by soon."
And so they waited, passing the time being regaled by the bard's account of her adventure in Toussaint. It was an admirably faithful adaptation, from the witcher's initial reluctance to take the contract, to their brainstorming together on how to defeat the bard's unwanted suitor, to a Knight Errant's foolhardy plan to lure out the vampire by slashing his own wrists. Of course, there was one major divergence, but Harry knew she'd never include that in her ballad.
And there was the fact that the poem ended with the two sharing a kiss on some balcony in a Toussaint villa. The truth was hardly so clean, but Harry supposed it made for a better fairy tale than the fact that he and the bard did end up singing together, in every octave they knew.
When she finished, applause and cheers broke out through the room, and the Novigradians rose from their seats and pressed in, hounding the bard until Harry couldn't see her over the tops of their heads.
"Your friend is being swallowed whole," remarked Hermione pithily.
Harry shrugged. "She'll be fine, and she'll come here when she's ready. No need to hound the poor lass like this lot."
"Redanians," scoffed Hermione jokingly, "no manners at all."
Viktor took advantage of the time afforded by all the patrons of the tavern attempting to suffocate the bard, and headed to the innkeep's serving table, ordering drinks and coming back with a bottle of Erveluce.
"Erveluce," commented Harry, as the large man set the bottle down.
Hermione waved a hand toward the bottle, and the cork gently flew off it and into her hand. "Mhm. It's properly difficult to get a good bottle of wine outside of Toussaint and Temeria these days; Novigrad, by virtue of size alone, is one of the few exceptions, even if you have to pay an arm and a leg for it. Is there something wrong with it?"
"No, not at all," said the witcher, "I've just never had it before."
Hermione beamed. "Well, there's no better time to try than now, is there?"
"I suppose not."
"Come, come, let me pour you some, Master Witcher," she said, grabbing for the wooden mug Harry had been singing from. "Incredible that this tavern has a bottle of Erveluce and no goblets. I suppose we'll have to settle for this."
She poured out a healthy measure of the red liquid into the cup and handed it to Harry before doing the same for Viktor. Harry leaned over and sniffed the drink, smelling citrus and cloves and star anise melded in with the pungent aroma of fermented grapes and the metallic edge of alcohol. Shrugging, he brought the cup to his lips and took a slow sip. Despite his enhanced senses, Harry could only barely taste the alcohol, his tastebuds instead assaulted with a strangely satisfying peppery sweetness that would do wonders complementing a spicy stew.
"What do you think?" the sorceress asked, swishing the wine around her mouth, so as to savour the taste, before swallowing it.
"Much better than I was expecting," Harry said, looking over the drink. "Though I suppose it's a little light."
"Light? A few goblets of this, and you'll be more inebriated than a soldier on leave! Let me guess, you prefer pepper vodka," Hermione harrumphed.
"Rye, actually."
"An old-fashioned soul, then," remarked the sorceress. "At least that's good; if you admitted to pepper vodka, I'd take you for a fisstech addict as well."
"Erveluce?" a very familiar, sweet voice trilled behind the three. "Harry, Harry, you aren't going aristo on me, are you?"
Harry faced one of his oldest and greatest friends. "Please, as if you're one to talk, Anariette."
"Oh?" the redhead asked with a devilish little smile the witcher was sure he'd never grow tired of.
"Of course. You are, after all, performing your paltry rhymes at the grand old Kingfisher; it's quite a long way from shouting limericks at drunken knights in Beauclair."
Anariette's iceberg blue eyes narrowed in mock annoyance. "Ah, Witcher Harry, still an arsehole."
"As always," remarked the witcher, who opened his arms wide. In a flash, the woman crossed the distance and crushed herself to Harry, only extricating herself after breathing the man in.
"You smell of cloves," she said.
"Yes, my robes were recently washed. You don't like it?"
"No," Anariette said, "I love it. You usually reek of dog-shite and nekker blood every time we meet."
"And on that note, it's time to introduce you," Harry said, turning from the bard to Hermione and Viktor, "Hermione and Viktor, this is Ana, the fairest woman to ever hail from Aedirn. Ana: Hermione, sorceress extraordinaire, and Viktor, the best sword born south of the Yaruga."
"A witcher, a sell-sword, and a sorceress find themselves in Novigrad," breathed Susan, eyes alight at the prospect of a story to be told, "by the Great Mother, this ballad practically writes itself! So, Harry, care to tell me why you and our lovely friends here have waltzed into this city?"
Hermione fidgeted uncomfortably, and Viktor stone-faced his way through an entire cup of Erveluce.
"I'll tell you later, away from all these ears. For right now..."
"You need rooms to sleep in, don't you?" asked the bard, anticipating Harry's plea. The witcher nodded, grimacing apologetically. "Unfortunately, there are no vacancies in any of the regular rooms. Fortunately, one of the two biggest suites is empty, and the other belongs to me. The owner of the Kingfisher owes me a favour, so I could get this room to you at a discount."
"Brilliant," said Harry, "how many beds in the free suite?"
"Two," said Susan, smiling.
"Perfect," said the witcher, clapping his hands together now that everything was settled.
"What?" Hermione asked. "We're a bed short."
Both the bard and the witcher grinned wolfishly. "No, we're not," said the famous Anariette.
"Not at all," agreed the subject of one of her many ballads.
They laid in a heap: pillows were scattered and strewn on polished wooden floors, amongst hose and hardy trousers; sheets hung off the bed, draped over a blue kaftan and a black velvet dress; a table was turned over and a candelabra was askew against the wall. It was a turbulent night, as it always was when they met.
Ana shifted over, draping herself across his chest.
"So," she said, sounding sleepily satisfied, "are you going to tell me what brought you to Novigrad, or are we to keep this up 'til dawn?"
"There's an idea," the witcher replied, tucking an arm beneath her head and curling a hand around to stroke her bare shoulder.
"I'd love to, but I'm afraid we've already scandalised half of Novigrad. Any more and I'm sure the Temple Guard will burst through those doors and take us captive for debauchery."
The two laughed and fell into a comfortable silence, taking solace in each other's embrace.
"So, Anariette," Harry said, after a time. "Are you going to keep pretending you don't know why I'm here, or are we to dispense with usual song-and-dance?"
"But, Master Witcher, I'm a bard. I love nothing more than song-and-dance!"
The witcher snorted. "If you're a bard, then I'm a baker."
"Alright," she breathed huskily, "then let's get straight to business: you're here with a sorceress," she spoke, switching accents on a dime from highland Aedirnian, to southern Temerian.
"Yes."
"I happen to know several other mages are in Novigrad tonight, as well, from both Aretuza and the Magical Academy at Ban Ard. And that Redanian soldiers are here with them as well," she giggled at the witcher's expression. "Oh, come off it, Harry; they may think they're sneaky, but they're hardly real spies."
"And you are," Harry said, sceptical.
"Harry, please, don't insult me. I've been traveling for years doing this bothersome job and still no one suspects me. Now would you be so kind to enlighten me as to why all these persons of interest have conglomerated in Novigrad for one night only? And why a large contingent of sorcerers have gone to Ard Carraigh in Kaedwen?"
"Why, Susan? So you can hoof it back to Vizima and report to Gardic?"
Susan Bones smugly grinned when Harry used her true name. "That's His Grace, to you. You should address your king with respect, Harry."
"He's not my king."
"Oh, but he is," said the redhead, "you may try to hide behind your Neutrality and your disdain for politics, but you're a Temerian, whether you like it or not. And do you know why?"
"Why?" Harry asked, humouring her.
"It's the only reason you didn't kill me the first time we met."
Harry grimaced for a fraction of a second, because Susan was right, in this instance.
Several years ago, he did travel to Toussaint, and he did meet a bard, who claimed to hail from Vengerberg, and she had attracted attention from a vampire. The witcher's due diligence, however, eventually led him to the truth: there was no attraction in this tale at all. The man after her was secretly a Katakan, but was both harmless and a member of Queen Adamarta's court, the only one of which that cautioned against a deal with Temeria to trade wine at a lower price in exchange for three battalions to help guard the borders of Toussaint. It seemed a harmless deal, but given the growing unrest in the North, the Redanians could interpret the action as the small duchy picking sides for any wars to come, and it was wiser for them to remain neutral.
"Oh, please," Harry denied, "I only spared you because you have magnificent tits."
"Thank you, but no, you didn't," said Susan, turning onto her back so that Harry was given a clear view of those magnificent breasts. "You knew by the end that I was working for Gardic, that I had been sent there to stop the vampire, whether by charm or by knife. And I would have, too; when he didn't respond to bribes, I resorted to exposing what he really was. You could have simply killed me and been done with it."
"I'm sure His Grace didn't have twenty assassins waiting for the moment you failed," replied Harry.
"You're probably correct about that, but you then advised the vampire to leave the duchy to minimise bloodshed, and he did, leaving us free to finalise our accord with the Queen of Toussaint. See? You're a true patriot."
"Bore off, I did that so the common folk wouldn't lynch him, not for some fucking wine deal with Temeria."
Susan suppressed a little snicker, and once again turned back to him. "Whatever your reasoning, you did it, and here we are. You've already done it once, why not help us again?"
"Fine," said Harry, "but only if you help me, as well."
"Ooh, I can't wait to hear this... is this about your family's fortune, again? I already told you the state claimed it when your father died."
"No," said Harry, "it has to do with what I'm about to tell you."
"Go on, then."
"Have you yet heard about the death of the Chancellor at the University of Oxenfurt?"
"Have I? It's all Vizima asks me about these days."
"It's likely that he was killed by a djinn."
"A djinn," Susan deadpanned. "He was killed by a myth?"
"Apparently it isn't a myth."
"What?" the redhead asked, befuddled. "You were the one who told me they weren't real!"
"I can be wrong, you know."
"About a monster? You're a witcher; you know that, right? That's like a shepherd not knowing that wolves exist."
"Would you shut up and listen, please?" Harry shot back, annoyance bubbling over.
"Fine, fine, go ahead."
"The Headmaster from Ban Ard also confirmed this, saying that the djinn was actually stolen from somewhere within the school."
"Who on earth would keep something so dangerous at a school?"
Harry shrugged. "Albus Dumbledore, apparently. The thieves then came to the University of Oxenfurt in search of a device that can seal and unseal djinn within objects, called a binding rod, which Dumbledore gave to Chancellor Fudge for safekeeping. Apparently, they found it somewhere in the Chancellor's office whilst the man was still there."
"And then what?"
"Seemingly, they tried to take the djinn out of the lamp it was bound to right then and there."
"In the Chancellor's office?" Susan asked, sceptical.
"I see you have the same problem with that story that I did." Harry laughed. "Glad that someone else finally sees it."
"What are you thinking?" the bard questioned and stood up to pace at the foot of the bed, her nude form bathed in moonlight from an open window.
"That the Chancellor was in on it," shrugged the witcher as he sat up and propped himself on his elbows, to get a better look at his companion. "It's all too suspicious. A powerful sorcerer tells you to keep an object safe, as though your very life depended on it, and you keep it in your office? In what? A desk drawer? Ridiculous."
"Not to mention, the thieves didn't wait until they were safe from prying eyes, and instead open this lamp right in the middle of the office in a fairly crowded University," Susan mused.
"Precisely, and if the Chancellor was killed by the djinn, he must have been there for the unsealing."
"But why?" asked the redhead. "Why on earth would the Chancellor at the University of Oxenfurt need to consort with a pair of thieves?"
"Come on, Susie, isn't that one obvious?" Harry snorted. "It's a Djinn. They grant wishes. This Fudge bloke probably learned what the binding rod was for, from the thieves, and then asked for a wish or two. No matter how rich or prestigious you are, there must be something you want."
Susan smiled coyly, and sauntered over to Harry's side of the bed, fluttering her lashes coquettishly. She stopped at the edge of the mattress and lifted one impossibly long leg over Harry's form and planted the dainty foot attached to it firmly on the mattress, before lifting the other one and planting it on the other side. She stood over him like a colossus, still grinning, before lowering herself down to a straddle, where her body met his.
"I can think of a few things," she whispered breathily.
"Come on, be serious," Harry chuckled, "you're the one who wanted this information anyways."
"This is all extraneous information," she said, and gyrated her hips once, eliciting a soft groan from her partner, "tell me what Vestibor, Dagread, and the mages are up to; the Oxenfurt murder is ultimately useless to me."
The witcher's hands went from his sides to grasp the bard's hips, and then her bottom. "You're too impatient. If you'd let me finish, you'd learn that the Chancellor's death is the entire point of this expedition."
"Is it?" asked Susan, moving more swiftly and breathing heavily now, though her eyes still contained intelligence untainted by the haze of lust.
What a tease. Harry hated her; he truly hated her.
"Yeah..." he trailed off at the sensation, but then picked up again, attempting to regain his bearings. "If a djinn can grant any wish, that makes it dangerous. All its master has to say is 'Destroy Novigrad', and a meteor will fall on Hierarch Square, or the value of the crown will crash for years to come, or a horde from Haakland will blow through the streets and drown the city in its own blood."
"Mm, yes," agreed Susan, though Harry wasn't exactly sure if she was agreeing with what he was saying or what he was doing. "Properly dramatic."
"We've gotten information suggesting that the thieves are two mages, likely males, who have disappeared around the Kestrel mountain range. So, the sorcerers and sorceresses from Ban Ard and Aretuza petitioned both Vestibor and Dagread for soldiers, to make this a joint operation between the countries to find the thieves and return the djinn to Dumbledore for safe-keeping."
"That's it?" Susan raised a brow.
"Well, yeah."
"No backroom deals? No secretive alliances?"
"I very much doubt it."
"Oof," sighed Susan, "what a waste of time it was coming here."
"Hey. Come on, now."
"Oh, not you, Harry. I adore the time we spend together."
Harry laughed and grasped the bard's bottom once more; lifting her up, he flipped her onto the other side of the bed. "But, regardless of whether or not it was useful intel, we had a deal. And now that I've helped you, you need to help me."
"Ah, he had nothing to give and secured a much greater gift with his nothing. A solid bluff. Well played, Master Witcher."
"I could use less whining and more helping, Madame Anariette."
Harry suddenly felt a pleasant, tightening sensation, and realised Susan was flexing a particularly wonderful muscle. "Am I not already helping?" she asked innocently.
"Loads," he chuckled, "but I know you've spies all over Redania and Kaedwen, and you most likely have some near the Kestrels as well. I'd like to know if any of your contacts has heard any news of two mages around the area, or, at the very least, suspicious newcomers around the borderlands."
Susan frowned. "I don't keep in regular contact with the other spies, so I'm not entirely aware of any news coming out from the Kestrels. But, there is a man who would know if anyone matching your description came by."
"Really, who is it?"
"I assume your party is to travel through to Ghelibol?"
"Yes," nodded Harry.
"Good. Once you're there, look for a man they call The Fisherman. He knows everything that goes in and out of the Kestrels, from princes to the common vagrant. If anyone knows where your thieves are, he will."
"Thank you, Miss Bones," Harry grinned, and then looked down at their conjoined forms. "Now that all of that's out of the way, how about we focus on the matter at hand?"
"Great Melitele, I thought you'd never bloody ask."
The next morning, Harry adjusted his the saddlebags on Sleipnir, feeling like a man who'd been sucked dry by a succubus. With a stupid, dreamy grin on his face, the witcher went about his work, not noticing the evil glare Hermione was giving him from her seat on the steps of the inn.
"Did you have a good night's rest?" she interrogated, sounding alert and furious despite how tired she looked.
Harry nodded. "The best I've had in a while."
"I know you did," snipped the sorceress, "and do you know how I know you did? Because you and that banshee kept me awake all night."
Embarrassment quickly overcame the witcher's previously careless state. "Oh. Ah. I'm sorry, I guess."
Hermione shrugged. "Don't be. I'm quite sure it was a lot of fun. You could stand to... tone it down a notch, however."
"You needn't worry; I'm certain it won't happen again on this trip of ours," and, as he said that, the front doors to The Kingfisher burst open and said banshee strutted out strumming on her lute and absentmindedly humming along to the tune. She was followed by Viktor, who looked as sleep-deprived as Hermione. The two stood of to the side as Susan stepped up to Harry, to say her goodbyes:
"Harry," the redhead smiled warmly. "A pleasure, as always."
"Goodbye, Ana," he said fondly.
The bard placed a warm hand on his cheek. "See you soon, hopefully."
"Hopefully."
With that, Anariette was off to her next gig as a bard, and presumably, her next job for Temeria. Harry watched her retreating form until she was well out of view. Eventually, a light tap came at his head, and Harry turned to see it was Sleipnir who had gently nudged the witcher's head with his own. The horse snorted softly, as if to ask what was wrong; Harry smiled wistfully and patted the stallion's snout:
"It's nothing," he said. "Nothing at all."
Hermione and Viktor seemed to take considerably longer to ready their own mounts, but they eventually got going down the streets of Novigrad, and Hermione was soon in her usual, talkative mood. And even Viktor, seemingly buoyed by the fact that Harry appeared to be interested in bards and not sorceresses, was several shades of polite and agreeable.
The sun shined and Novigrad bustled about, completely unaware of their leaving. They would meet the rest of the group at the Oxenfurt Gate; from there, Roggeveen and Ghelibol beckoned, and the ultimate destination of the Kestrels lay not much further ahead.
A/N: So there will be at least one more chapter of The Last Wish (which is incredibly, as of this chapter, still a bit shorter than The Lesser Kindness, though it feels like I've covered much more in it). I'd like to finish TLW within the next chapter, and move onto the next chapter with Geralt and Dandelion, so that we can move onto the next arc. I really like the storyline for the next arc alot, so I'm anxious to get to it. I'd like to be done with the next chapter and the next arc before Blood and Wine comes out, but that's probably wishful thinking, given how long each of these arcs have been
As for a little sneak peek, the next arc is titled "Aen Saevherne". Take from that what you will.
Chapter Notes:
- Gardic, a Correction: In The Lesser Kindness, Part 2, I suggested that Goidemar was likely King of Temeria during the Seven Years' War. I've since realised this was incorrect, as Goidemar was the Temerian King during Falka's rebellion. Falka was the daughter of King Vridank, who is Vestibor's great-grandson, which means that Goidemar was likely the King of Temeria in the mid-1100s, not the 1000s. The Witcher wiki has posited that Gardic was the king of Temeria during the time of the Seven Years' War, so that's the assumption I'll operate under for the rest of this fic.
- Anariette: This is my little ode to Blood and Wine, which will be out next week. Anariette is the stage name for Susan, and the first of several references to Toussaint and B&W: Harry and Susan met in Toussaint; the contract Harry undertook was to stop an elder vampire, which appears to be the plot behind the upcoming expansion, and Anariette is a reference to Anna Henrietta, queen of Toussaint, who is known as Anarietta to close friends and associates, and appears to be a major character in the expansion.
- The Perfect Kiss: Is the name of Susan's ballad, as well as one of my favourite New Order songs.
- Sleipnir: The stallion shares a name with Odin's eight-legged horse. Given Harry's background in Skellige, it seemed appropriate.
- Some of you might be off-put by Harry simply telling Susan what happened in Oxenfurt, when he claims to be apolitical, but the information he had was actually fairly useless to the Temerians, as it doesn't threaten national security at all. Essentially, Harry told the truth because the truth is uninteresting to a spy like Susan.
Thanks for reading!
Geist.