Hierarch Square was the main landmark in the heart of Novigrad. Many nobles and mages lived around it, forming a cluster of lavish buildings.
This clean, spacious place was sometimes used by the Temple Guard to carry out burnings at the stake: criminals would be tied to a post, kindling piled beneath them, and then they'd be burned alive. Every time, it caused an uproar, drawing crowds of citizens to watch and cheer.
In recent years, though, burnings had become less common. Now the square was packed with trading posts and market stalls, much like Vizima's trade quarter—so many tourists and so much merchandise that your eyes barely knew where to land.
Victor glanced at a shop sign in the distance—Books and Scrolls—and kept walking as the market's shouting washed over him.
"Come take a look! Limited stock! Amulets shipped straight from Ban Ard and Gors Velen—keep you safe wherever you roam!"
"Honored lady, all the herbs you need are right here!"
"Sir, stop a moment. The Eternal Fire is here, with you."
"Come on, come on! Look here! A priceless miracle tonic—make your thinning hair thick again!"
"Pears! Fresh pears! Sweet and fragrant, picked this morning—the dew's barely dried!"
"Stop thinking and buy it! North of the Pontar, nobody beats my prices!"
No doubt about it: this was the grand stage the legendary witcher Geralt of Rivia—the White Wolf—would tread exactly once in his life. And just like how watching a series about the Roman Empire makes you want to stand on Hadrian's Wall and brood over history, Victor strolled along the stone-paved streets with that same pilgrim's urge to compare myth to reality.
He was passing a fruit seller when a kindly-looking middle-aged woman caught his eye. Her wooden racks were spotless, too—neat enough to make him pause.
He picked up a piece of fruit that was in season—at least it looked like an apple—and weighed it in his hand.
He hesitated, about to set it back, when Boslaer stopped him in a low voice. "Master, in Novigrad, if you touch it, you buy it. It's yours now."
"There's a rule like that?" Victor shrugged, pulled the apple back to himself, smelled it, wiped it on his sleeve, and took a bite. Thin skin, crisp flesh, sweet juice.
The white-haired elf watched Victor's satisfied smile, then silently placed five crowns on the stall in front of the vendor.
Seeing the coins, the woman immediately selected a few better-looking apples and wrapped them in a clean cloth.
One of the accompanying thugs took the bundle and dropped it into the shopping basket he carried.
…
After a solid night's rest, Victor came to Novigrad's most prosperous district for an "inspiration tour," accompanied by Boslaer and six members of the Phantom Troupe.
Alonso's view was simple: art had to come from life. He wanted to show the Dragonborn Bard the city's present state and its history—because truly great work came from genuine insight, so you should never be afraid to spend money.
As long as you had real talent, Alonso—the patron of the arts—would pay your bill. And it wasn't limited to poets: he sponsored painters as well, and had a surprisingly sharp eye for art.
While talking about it, Boslaer added with a grin that, to collect the murals he wanted for his reception hall, at least a hundred lives had been "spent," including the lives of certain owners who refused to sell their work.
Chatting like that, the group moved east to west across Hierarch Square.
Victor asked casually, "One thing I'm still wondering—Dandelion introduced me, sure, but how did you recognize me?"
He'd barely finished speaking when he saw four or five dwarves coming toward them. They wore open vests trimmed with bear fur, their bodies inked with strange tattoos, faces hard, fists flexing as they closed in.
"Please wait," Boslaer said, nodding to two men to follow him. "From here on is Silverton—Cleaver's turf. I'll go smooth this over."
Victor didn't bother watching the negotiations. He drifted to the side of the road and checked the notice board—every district's postings were a source of useful information.
REMINDER!
"Do not touch merchandise! If you touch it, you must pay for it and buy it!"
—The Novigrad City Council
Victor shook his head. So it really was a rule…
PORTRAIT ARTIST WANTED
"I am in need of a portrait artist to paint a likeness of my beloved daughter. This portrait is needed in order to finalize the betrothal contract in which she is to enter with a young man from Kovir. Note that the canvas should be ornamented without an exaggerated emphasis on realism, concentrating instead on bringing out my darling's character."
—Martin Erhardt
This posting meant nothing to Victor. His "darling's character" was probably very… abstract.
WARNING TO NEWCOMERS
"Let all newcomers be warned: in Novigrad one may worship only the Eternal Fire. Any other religious activity shall be considered heresy and punished with the full severity of the law (public burning). It is strictly forbidden to wear any symbols of other deities, perform other rites, or preach other faiths."
—His Holiness Cyrus Engelkind Hemmelfart, Hierarch of the Eternal Fire
A warning worth taking seriously—straight from the hierarch himself, the city's highest authority.
A MESSAGE FROM THE ARMORERS' GUILD
"The Armorers' Guild would like to remind all:
• You must first join our guild and prove your ability before you may forge or sell armor and helmets in Novigrad.
• For every one hundred crowns earned, guild members must contribute two crowns to the public fund.
• Any member who deliberately poaches another's apprentice must surrender half of the profits earned to the guild.
• Any member who deceives customers by claiming iron helmets or iron cuirasses are made of steel will be struck from the guild rolls.
• Bringing weapons to a guild meeting will be punished by forfeiture of one day's earnings."
Victor found himself staring a little too long. A truly commercial city—organized down to the bone.
"No need to worry about the guild," Boslaer's voice said behind him. "Alonso will make sure your shop opens smoothly."
At some point, Boslaer had finished with the dwarves and returned to the Dragonborn Bard's side, speaking as if it were the most natural thing in the world about the Phantom Troupe's plan to start a business in Novigrad.
Victor smiled. He wasn't surprised that Whoreson Junior could gather this kind of information, and he was even less surprised that he could clear the obstacles out of Victor's way.
"As for what you asked earlier—how we recognized you," Boslaer said, handing him a small drawing, "it was because of this."
Victor's blood surged hot and his grip went rock-hard—this time, it was his fist.
It had to be Dandelion's work: a clear sketch of Victor's face. With copies of it—dozens of them—they could station people at the gates and spot him the moment he arrived.
Victor locked that lesson away and followed Boslaer onward. They turned left, passed through the Fish Market, and in the end the Dragonborn Bard was brought to Novigrad's famous brothel district—Glory Lane.
Looking around, most of the women walking the street didn't bother with headscarves or stylish hats to hide their hair. They wore it loose and unashamed, a quiet sign of what they were.
"The ladies on this street are all negotiable," the ponytailed elf said with a bright smile. "If the negotiations go well, you can share a bed.
Master Dandelion especially loves this place—calls it his wellspring of inspiration, where countless muses sway and shimmer.
Alonso specifically told me our 'inspiration tour' absolutely can't miss it."
Victor blinked, then remembered that, yes—he really hadn't taken a proper bath in a while.
He nodded. "Then maybe you'd be willing to give me a more in-depth introduction!"
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