Not long after breakfast, Dandelion and Angoulême strolled through the bustling market of the Trade Quarter. The main purpose of the outing was to buy the poet some daily necessities. A little embarrassed, he asked, "Angoulême… is it really okay for me to stay with you like this?"
The girl turned to him with a suspicious look. "Huh? What's gotten into you? You weren't saying that two days ago. Weren't you the one practically begging me to let you stay?"
"Don't talk nonsense. I don't recall 'practically begging' anything," Dandelion corrected irritably. "Your talent for sarcasm has improved a lot lately. You pick that up from Vic?"
He adjusted the angle of his cap and blew a kiss to a little girl by the roadside. "—Two days ago I spoke too casually because I didn't know him well. Now that I do, I've realized there are all sorts of ties between us, and it makes me worry I'll be imposing on you… or spending too much of a friend's money."
His expression turned solemn. "You seem to live comfortably, sure, but as the saying goes: 'The best way to ruin a friendship is to start talking money.'"
After hearing him out, the girl replied with a bright smile, "Relax. Victor and I travel around, and our main work is doing good—doing what's right. The boss always says we don't expect to get rich off our main work, because the Phantom Troupe is a mercenary company that's very successful with side jobs. Most of the time, we're not short on coin.
"As for taking in a poet who's lost his purse and is currently dead broke? That's not a problem at all. Didn't you say yourself that just your name is worth thousands of crowns among the nobility? When you get your money back, just toss us a little and we'll call it even."
Angoulême's second half had Dandelion floating on air, so much so that it never occurred to him to ask what, exactly, the Phantom Troupe's "side jobs" were. Even if he did ask, he wouldn't get a truthful answer.
He tugged at his coat to look a touch more dignified, then replied smugly, "Exactly. I am Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove—the greatest bard in the North, Dandelion. The moment I walk into a noble gathering, they'll fall over themselves to welcome me."
In that exchange between flatterer and flattered, there was a tiny mismatch of intent: the one doing the flattering thought she was just buttering him up—when in fact, she was simply stating the truth.
In an age starved for entertainment, a famous bard, composer, singer, and writer like Dandelion was essentially a celebrity. More than once he'd been dragged behind an embroidered lace bed curtain by some noble lady, only to be chased down afterward by her husband.
He deserved no sympathy for that. He'd never once been able to keep his trousers under control.
Beyond that, his music and poetry appealed to both the refined and the common. Among true enthusiasts, the respect he received bordered on the reverence reserved for artists—which was exactly why he so often managed to wriggle out of disaster, escaping alive from his endless talent for self-destruction.
…
"Will him staying with you really not be a bother?"
"It's fine. I like his poetry. Letting him stay on the third floor isn't a bother—if anything, it makes things livelier."
The two speakers stood by the rear entrance of St. Lebioda's Hospital. Victor held a large jug in each arm. While Angoulême and Dandelion were out shopping in the Trade Quarter, he and Shani were delivering the hospital's weekly, steady supply of disinfectant—two big jugs' worth.
After handing the jugs to the hospital staff and exchanging a few greetings, Shani and Victor wandered along Temple Street, deciding to stop at a tavern the young man knew well for a drink and a chat.
"I'm not trying to badmouth Dandelion," Shani said earnestly, "but he's always been a… very 'lively' senior. He's great in most ways, but his attitude toward love is a little too 'carefree'… You should keep an eye on him. I'd hate for Angoulême to get hurt.
"He has a lot of bad habits. For example, back when he was at the academy, he was banned from coming within three hundred feet of the women's dormitory, because he'd flirt with practically every young woman he met—and with his looks and that silver tongue, he often succeeded."
"It's fine," Victor said. "They traveled together for a long time before. I'm sure Angoulême has a deep, very particular understanding of Dandelion. If you get the chance, have her tell you that story.
"And she likes men with muscles. A great poet like him? She's not interested at all."
"If you're confident about that, then good," Shani replied.
Covering her mouth, she yawned, and Victor smoothly changed the subject. "When I went for my morning run today, I saw a lot of places taking down the roadblocks. Looks like the city lockdown is about to end. Over at the hospital, is it…?"
Sniffling, Shani answered, "…Yes. I was just going to tell you. This is probably the last time. Thank you for supporting the hospital with disinfectant during this period. The ones who could live have recovered. The ones who couldn't… are gone."
"You've worked hard," Victor said.
"It's nothing. If you choose this path, then this is what you're supposed to do."
"Will things stay peaceful for a long time now?"
"I don't know. We started blocking things off earlier this year. Last year, people were still dying well into winter."
As they spoke, they reached the Hairy Bear Inn. Victor pushed the door open and let Shani enter first. It was still daytime, and the tavern looked almost… innocent.
The owner, Griffarin, glanced at the witcher apprentice without much interest. But the moment he saw the doctor, he froze as if struck by lightning.
Victor and Shani found a clean table and sat down. "This is the tavern Angoulême and I come to a lot," Victor said. "It gets more chaotic at night. During the day it's like this—hardly anyone around."
Just as he was about to order, Griffarin personally brought over a cup of milk and a glass of cherry liqueur. Victor could understand the milk, but the cherry drink puzzled him—had Shani been here before? Otherwise, how could the owner know what she liked?
The doctor lifted a sharp brow, staring at Griffarin in confusion.
Griffarin looked nervous. He crossed his thick arms low over his belly, his posture humble with gratitude. "Doctor Shani… a Brenna veteran salutes you."
The smile on Shani's face vanished in an instant. She stiffened for a moment, then let it go. "That was my duty," she said.
Griffarin kept his humble stance, bowed again, then—still facing the doctor—slowly backed away.
Victor said nothing the entire time. Putting himself in her place, he guessed Shani might need a moment to steady herself. Battlefield medicine in an age of blades was a kind of horror most people couldn't even imagine.
After a long while—
"Sew red with red, yellow with yellow, white with white," Shani murmured to herself. "Just stitch like that, and you can't go wrong."
"What's that?" Victor asked.
"The Battle of Brenna was the first time I officially took part in medical work," Shani said. "That was the rhyme my battlefield mentor taught me."
After thinking about it, Victor could picture it clearly: on a battlefield like that, first aid in an age of steel really would be a kind of crude tailoring. A blunt, practical rhyme—simple enough that no one could mess it up.
"Back then there were only four of us, and we had to handle thousands of wounded. I still don't know how we managed to endure it."
"They must've all been incredible people," Victor said.
"They were," Shani replied softly. "But good people don't live long. Not long after the war, Marti was stabbed by a madman who insisted he was her husband. My mentor and Iola the Second fell to the Catriona plague last year. Of the four people in that field hospital… in the blink of an eye, I'm the only one still alive."
The sudden turn left the young man not knowing what to say. He fell silent for a moment.
"…Life changes," he said at last.
"Heh…" Shani gave a faint, distant laugh. "My mentor was a halfling. But in his eyes, human or nonhuman—it was all the same. He taught me how precious life is. His name was Milo Vanderbeck."
It sounded familiar. Victor felt like he'd seen the name somewhere before—then it clicked, and he understood why, the first time Shani came to his home, she'd been so delighted to see the two medical books he'd brought back from the banker.
…Normally she wouldn't accept gifts like that. So he decided: he'd give her the books on her birthday.
Victor raised his cup of milk and toasted Doctor Shani.
…
At dusk, after they finished drinking and parted ways, Victor headed home with light steps. A dwarf bumped into him, apologized, and hurried off—but Victor stopped where he was.
Because in the instant of that collision, the dwarf had said, "Mr. Corion—Yaevinn sends his regards. He hopes to meet you as soon as possible."
Victor tipped his head back and closed his eyes. His mind flashed to the last time he'd handed a letter to the dwarf banker Golan Vivaldi, and the expression on the banker's face as he accepted it.
Victor suspected the look on his own face right now was the same bitter one—because when someone like Yaevinn, a regional commander of the Scoia'tael, comes looking for you, it's trouble.
And it won't be small trouble, either.
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