By the time Victor reached the city district last night, it was already deep into the night. Without Cat potion on hand, it wasn't easy to spot the marks Angoulême had left behind, so he had no choice but to stay somewhere that was open no matter how late it got—and that had a large bathing tub.
As expected of Vizima, the service and the prices were both capital-class.
The next day, following the occasional abstract doodle that appeared along the base of walls, Victor knocked on the door of a three-story building in the Temple Quarter. The door opened—and Angoulême greeted him with a sincere hug that looked dangerously close to happy tears.
Then Victor stepped inside and let Angoulême tug him along, starting from the basement, to inspect her progress.
"When I heard the gates were restricting entry, I was really worried you wouldn't make it in."
"Have faith in your captain. He always has a plan."
"Yeah? Too bad plans rarely survive contact with reality."
"Oh? Been a while—your sarcasm's gotten sharper."
"I've been reading all this time. I had to improve somehow."
The three-story house was laid out like this: the basement would serve as the alchemy lab; the first floor held the sitting room, the kitchen, and Victor's bedroom; the second floor was for Angoulême and Catherine to do as they pleased; the third floor was empty for now.
"Since you've 'improved,'" Victor said, giving the place a quick once-over—and honestly, he was fairly satisfied—"tell me why you chose this spot. What are the pros and cons?"
"I chose the Temple Quarter because I was broke." Angoulême spread her hands and made a face. "Then I thought about convenience and safety. We're close to the public water cistern, most of the neighbors are ordinary residents, and there's a patrol post not far away."
Victor clapped twice. "Good. You thought it through. And Catherine's fine with it?"
"Fine. Vizima has way too many people keeping vicious animals. Catherine isn't exactly rare."
"Alright. Let's go. Take me to Kalkstein's workshop now. And on the way, tell me what you've learned about his personality."
…
"Brave knights, you gather before me… heavy with worry.
"You hold loyalty for your king, yet you no longer know which road is the righteous one.
"Yes! We stand at a crucial moment!
"The last time Emperor Emhyr's armies invaded the North, they swallowed Cintra and ravaged Aedirn. Their assault was cruel and greedy—and they will never be satisfied with only that.
"Think about it! Nilfgaard, once contained south of the Yelena River—when did they cross the Yaruga and begin coveting our lands?
"Have you ever asked yourselves what makes their invasions succeed again and again?
"Let me tell you the answer—
"—It's all because of those filthy, shameless Scoia'tael!
"These traitors! In the past, they survived by deceiving our mercy and feeding on our generosity—only to keep loosing cowardly arrows into our backs…"
Even from a distance, Victor had to admit the speaker was compelling—someone who knew how to tell a story and make it stick. When he drew closer, he saw dozens of armored knights standing in formation, listening to the lecture from the platform.
The speaker himself was tall and powerfully built, wearing full heavy plate engraved with the Eternal Fire's emblem on the chest. His brown hair was cut short with an M-shaped hairline that could rival Lambert's. A hard, rectangular face, a rigidly stern set to his features, and a thick beard that looked downright imposing.
He had the sort of presence that screamed "leader" at a glance. Victor shot Angoulême a questioning look. She understood at once and nodded.
"Jacques de Aldersberg—the Grand Master of the Order of the Flaming Rose."
Answer in hand, Victor stared a moment longer, fixing Jacques's appearance in his memory. Then he turned and left at a brisk pace. Angoulême jogged after him, still guiding him, and asked in a low voice, "Captain… you don't seem to like that Grand Master much."
Victor yawned. He hadn't slept enough last night. "Is your people-reading getting better, or am I just that obvious?"
Angoulême lifted her chin, pleased with herself. "The last month—from Ellander to Vizima—I've been moving almost entirely on my own. I can tell I've gotten sharper.
"But you're also pretty obvious. Most people who hear Jacques speak look fired up, full of hope. You just looked blank.
"What don't you like about him? Because he's a 'Grand Master' too?"
"…I don't like the way he gathers people with hate."
"Really? I think he seems pretty decent."
"You've decided that in a few days? Based on what?"
"Anyway, their headquarters is right over there. We'll be passing in and out all the time—we'll run into them almost every day. You'll find out soon enough."
From the crew's Vizima safehouse, it was about a fifteen-minute walk north to the headquarters of the Order of the Flaming Rose. Farther west, closer to the center of the Temple Quarter, stood St. Lebioda's Hospital—the only comfort the poor and the afflicted had left.
When they passed the hospital, Victor naturally glanced inside. Because of the plague, the tall, widened carved doors were shut tight, and members of the City Guard stood watch at the entrance.
Noticing Victor's look, Angoulême asked, "What is it, Captain?"
"I know someone who works there," Victor said, thinking of Shani—and his mood, soured by Jacques, eased again. "I'll introduce you next time."
"Oh—just so you know, I'm not going into a hospital." Angoulême grimaced. "It's full of plague victims, and the way they look is… it's awful.
"When I first got here I saw a patient with a huge swelling on their neck—then it popped, and it was all yellow pus inside…" The disgust and fear on her face wasn't hidden at all.
At the mention of the plague, Victor reached into his herb satchel and pressed an amulet into Angoulême's hand. "Almost forgot. Keep this on you. It should lower your chances of catching the plague. Probably."
Angoulême lit up, startled and delighted. "Wow! Of course you've got something like this. What kind of amulet is it? That's incredible!"
"I'll tell you later. What's this now?"
Ahead of them, a group of armored knights—clearly not from the Flaming Rose—rode through the market street in a tight cluster, surrounding a noblewoman in riding clothes.
"That's Princess Adda," Angoulême said, "and a bunch of nobles who'd love nothing more than to worm their way under her skirts. Captain, don't they look like flies buzzing around a pile of dung?"
At the mention of flies, Angoulême spat with disgust. "But everyone knows they'll never marry her. With how much King Foltest dotes on her, he'll definitely marry her off to someone who actually matters."
"They really think they've got a chance?" Victor asked. "I mean… getting under her skirt."
"Who knows? Anyway, the princess's reputation isn't exactly great. Even the fishmonger in the market tells stories like she was personally there.
"There's also a butcher in the Trade Quarter who named his dog 'Adda,' because she's a 'spoiled bitch.' Of course, he only dares say it in private.
"There are a lot more little stories like that. Want to hear them?"
Victor shook his head. "No, thanks."
He remembered Princess Adda—lifting her curse could be called one of Geralt's career highlights. It even made it into the opening cinematic. He just hadn't realized the princess would later become such a… notoriously unrestrained figure.