Seb and Lambert rode across St. Gregory's Bridge, the stone arch curving over the canal, the water below was brown and sluggish, choked with refuse and the occasional floating thing that Sebastian chose not to identify. The Temple Isle rose ahead of them.
They asked around.
It was not difficult, Whoreson's name was known throughout Novigrad, spoken in whispers, spat as curses, offered as warnings. A fishwife at the market. A beggar near the fountain. A drunk who claimed to have once delivered a crate of wine to the man's private residence, each gave directions, each pointed north, toward the border between the city's wealth and its rot.
The directions led them to an alley.
There was no sign, no marker, no indication that this narrow passage was the correct path, Sebastian reined in the mare. Lambert did the same.
They sat in silence for a moment, listening.
The alley was too quiet.
"No guards..." Sebastian murmured. "No lookouts, that's not right... a man like him should have men around to..."
Lambert's hand drifted to his sword hilt. "It's a trap... they misled us."
"Obviously... otherwise it would have been too easy if someone wanted him dead..." Seb answered.
They had just enough time to exchange glances, Lambert's sardonic resignation, Sebastian's weary acceptance, before men emerged.
Men emerged from doorways, from behind barrels, from the narrow gaps between buildings where no man should have been able to fit. They came silently, six of them, Seven, eight, all armed with clubs and knives and, in one case, a crossbow that was currently aimed at Sebastian's chest.
Lambert sighed. Loudly.
"Seriously," he said.
Sebastian's hand rested on his steel sword, but he did not draw it yet. He counted the men again. Eight. He counted the exits. Two, the way they had come, and a narrow passage at the far end of the alley that was probably blocked.
"Yep," Sebastian said quietly. "His men clearly got the wrong idea."
The men formed a loose semicircle around the two witchers. They were not Temple Guard. They were not soldiers, they were the kind of men who did dirty work for people who paid well enough to ensure loyalty and well enough to ensure silence. Hard faces, dead eyes. The type of men who had stopped feeling guilt somewhere around the same time they had stopped feeling much of anything, Novigrad had plenty of people like this.
One of them stepped forward. He was larger than the others, broad-shouldered, thick-necked, his face a map of old violence. He carried a cudgel studded with iron nails. His eyes moved over the two witchers.
"What do you two want with the boss?" His voice was a low growl. "You've been snooping around." He shifted his grip on the cudgel. "Who sent you?"
Lambert looked at Sebastian and Sebastian looked at Lambert.
"Told you," Sebastian murmured. "Wrong idea."
Lambert shrugged. He turned to face the large man, his expression utterly unimpressed.
"We want to talk to Whoreson," Lambert said. "That's all."
The large man's eyes narrowed. "Two witchers... want to have a chat with the boss?" He laughed, it was an ugly sound. "Yeah, that's convincing."
One of the other men, younger, twitchier, raised his knife. "We should just kill them, send a message to whoever sent them."
The large man held up a hand. "Not yet." He looked at Lambert. "Last chance, who sent you? Was it Sigi? The Temple? One of the other gangs?"
Lambert sighed again. He turned his head slightly, just enough to speak to Sebastian without moving his lips.
"Fight or talk?" Lambert murmured.
Sebastian's eyes swept the alley, eight men, crowded quarters.
"Talk," Sebastian said quietly. "For now, since we are in temple isle, we might get into trouble if we kill them, trouble that will force us out of the city."
Lambert nodded. He turned back to the large man. "No one sent us," Lambert said. "We're here on our own business. We want to discuss a mutual acquaintance, Velm of Tretogor. And a transaction he's supposed to be making with your boss." He paused. "Also, we're looking for someone, A bard named Dandelion, Perhaps your boss knows where he is.."
The large man's expression did not change, but something flickered behind his eyes. "Oh! Master Dandelion," the large man repeated slowly.
"Yes."
The large man looked at his companions, then back at Lambert.
"Wait here," he said. He turned and disappeared into the shadows at the far end of the alley, his heavy footsteps echoing off the walls.
The remaining men did not lower their weapons. The crossbow remained aimed at Sebastian's chest, the knives remained raised.
Time passed, how much, it was impossible to say, then the large man returned.
He emerged from the darkness at the far end of the alley, his shoulders were less rigid, his cudgel hung at his side rather than raised.
"Witchers," he said. "Come with me, the boss wants to see you."
Lambert exhaled through his nose. "About time," he said.
The large man did not react to the tone, he simply turned and gestured for them to follow. But then he paused. His eyes traveled over the two witchers, their medallions, and curiosity flickered across his battered features.
"Wait," the large man said. "Are you perhaps... friends of the White Wolf? From the ballads of Master Dandelion?"
Sebastian blinked.
"Oh," Sebastian said, a smile tugging at his lips. "Sure, we are."
The large man's face transformed, the hard lines softened and he glanced at his companions, who were also lowering their weapons, their expressions shifting from hostile to curious.
"Oh wonderful," the large man said, he actually sounded pleased. "Because the boss likes Master Dandelion. All of his ballads are his favorites. Especially the ones about the White Wolf, he makes us play them at least once a week in the main hall."
Lambert's eye twitched.
Sebastian's smile widened. "Is that so?"
"Absolutely." The large man holstered his cudgel, a gesture of trust that seemed almost absurd given the circumstances. "The boss says Dandelion captures the spirit of the age. Whatever that means."
"That's great and all, but let's go." Lambert said.
Sebastian fell into step beside him, they walked past the men who had parted to create a path, their weapons now entirely lowered, Sebastian leaned toward Lambert and lowered his voice.
"Their entire demeanor changed at the mention of Dandelion," Sebastian murmured. "Completely, like someone flipped a switch."
Lambert's jaw was tight. "Power of art." His voice dripped with sarcasm. "It can achieve world peace."
Sebastian glanced at him. "You really think that?"
Lambert did not look back. "No."
Sebastian snorted. They followed the large man into the building at the end of the alley.
The building was unremarkable from the outside, another crumbling tenement in a district full of them, its facade stained with age and neglect. But the inside told a different story.
The corridor beyond the door was narrow, windowless, lit by oil lamps, the walls had been plastered and painted a deep burgundy, and the floor was covered with a runner of thick crimson carpet that muffled their footsteps. Paintings hung at intervals, landscapes, mostly, scenes of mountains and forests that Sebastian did not recognize. They passed two more guards, both armed, both silent, both watching the witchers with the flat, assessing eyes.
The corridor opened into a chamber, and it was not what Sebastian had expected.
The room was large, larger than the building's exterior suggested and furnished with an elegance that bordered on ostentatious. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes that looked as though they had never been read. A desk of dark mahogany sat near the window, its surface covered with papers, ledgers, and a silver inkstand shaped like a griffin. Behind the desk, in a high-backed chair upholstered in green velvet, sat a man.
Alonso Wiley.
Whoreson.
He was older than Sebastian had expected, perhaps fifty, perhaps sixty, his hair silver at the temples and thinning on top. His face was narrow, sharp-featured, with a beak of a nose and eyes that were small and dark and very, very still. He wore a doublet of deep blue silk, embroidered with gold thread, and on his fingers were rings gold, silver, set with stones.
He did not stand when they entered, he did not smile, he simply watched them, his dark eyes moving from Lambert to Sebastian and back again.
To his right, standing with his back to the fireplace, was a younger man.
Sebastian's eyes narrowed at him.
Cyprian Wiley.
A sword hung at his hip, a rapier, by the look of it, more for show than for battle. His posture was casual, almost lazy, but his eyes were not. They moved constantly, scanning the witchers.
Lambert stopped in the center of the room. Sebastian stopped beside him.
"So," Lambert said, his voice carrying in the room. "They didn't mislead us."
Alonso Wiley tilted his head.
"Welcome, witchers," he said. His voice was soft, softer than Sebastian had expected. "Names are important, I find. They tell you something about a person, my name is Alonso Wiley." He gestured with one ringed hand to the younger man by the fireplace. "And this is my son, Cyprian Wiley."
Cyprian stepped forward. He offered a smile utterly insincere, and extended his hand.
"A pleasure," Cyprian said. "Two witchers. In my father's office, I must admit, this is not how I expected the morning to go."
Lambert did not take his hand. He looked at it for a moment, then looked back at Alonso.
Sebastian, standing beside Lambert, stared at Cyprian with an intensity that bordered on hostility. His yellow eyes were fixed on the young man's face.
Cyprian noticed and his smile faltered, just slightly.
"Something wrong, witcher?" Cyprian asked. "You're staring."
Sebastian said nothing, he just kept looking.
Lambert glanced at Sebastian, then back at Alonso. He stepped forward, positioning himself slightly in front of the younger witcher.
"We're here on an important matter," Lambert said.
Alonso leaned back in his chair, he folded his hands over his stomach, the rings catching the firelight.
"So I heard," Alonso said. "My men tell me you've been asking questions, about a man named Velm of Tretogor." He paused. "And about the bard, Master Dandelion."
Lambert nodded. "That's right."
"Now," Alonso said, spreading his hands in a gesture of magnanimous welcome, "what does the friends of Master Dandelion wish to know exactly?"
/-\
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