The ceiling of the cave-chamber was very high—one of the hallmarks of dwarven architecture. Dwarves might stand only half a human's height, but their buildings were the exact opposite. You could see it in the fact that nearly every surviving grand, monumental structure humanity still pointed to was either an elven ruin or something built under dwarven oversight.
Candlelight fell across Lambert's face, leaving him half in shadow, half in brightness. "After you passed out, I didn't have a choice. I waited until dawn, crossed the river, and when I was getting you into the city, I ran into Zoltan—the dwarf with the punk haircut from yesterday. Zoltan Chivay."
Hearing the name, Victor's expression turned strange. "You knew him already?"
"No. I didn't know him," Lambert said. "He recognized my medallion. Saw me carrying you and came over—said he was Geralt's friend and asked if I needed help.
"I told him you were Ciri's brother and had him find a doctor and a place to stay. That's how you ended up here." Lambert scratched the back of his head. "I only realized later… during the Rivian pogrom, he was there with Geralt fighting the mob. Dandelion mentioned his name when he told the story. I didn't recognize it at the time, so I didn't say anything."
"Pretty lucky coincidence, running into him like that."
"Yeah. Once we got you back, we didn't even know what it was at first—until you arched up like some kind of backward spider. After that, even a kid could tell it was lockjaw…"
"Lockjaw?"
"Bell Town doesn't have that?" Lambert asked. "It's an infection from a wound. Before it sets in, it's simple—pour strong liquor on the cut, drink a bitter tonic, and you can prevent it pretty well. Once it hits, though, there's nothing to do but let your body grit its teeth and endure.
"And these past days you've been sleeping at Angoulême's place. She's the one who's been taking care of you, so you'd better thank her properly."
It sounded a lot like tetanus.
Victor defaulted to needling Lambert. "Thank her how? Marry her?"
"No need. She thinks you're pretty average-looking—nothing special. If you want to 'thank' her, join her hanse."
"Tch. Fine. Then keep talking. What's this 'White Wolf's hanse' supposed to be?"
"That starts with her background." Lambert leaned back. "When Geralt was searching for Ciri, he gathered a few companions to help him. That girl was one of them.
"According to her, Geralt saved her from the gallows. A debt like that doesn't break, so to her, he became her hanse leader."
Lambert's throat went dry. He pulled out a small flask of vodka and took a sip. "Then came the fight at Stygga Castle. Everyone from that 'find-the-girl' group died except her. She had no one left, so she kept following Geralt around for months, until what happened in Rivia.
"Zoltan saw her alone and took her here to live.
"Now you've shown up. To Angoulême, once the former leader—the White Wolf—was gone, the first heir was Ciri. And after both of them vanished, you—recognized by Ciri as her brother—naturally become the hanse's new head."
"So… this whole 'organization' is basically something she invented in her own head?" Victor concluded immediately, his mind clear now. "I don't believe for a second Geralt would ever call himself the leader of some 'White Wolf's hanse.'"
"Tsk, tsk. Don't be so cold." Lambert waved him off. "Just treat it like a game and play along. The girl's got it rough—this hanse thing is what she clings to. Anyway, I can't tell you all of it. Some of it was Zoltan's own guesswork too. If you want details, ask her yourself when you get the chance."
"With how you describe it, I can already picture it." Victor scowled. "Probably all small stuff, ugly stuff—things nobody wants to hear, or things that leave you heavy once you do."
"Well, if you want something big, there is one big thing," Lambert said, apology on his face. "I have to leave you for a while."
"What happened?" Victor stayed calm. Lambert wouldn't say that without a solid reason.
"I've got a good friend named Aiden—a Cat School witcher. We get along. Close as brothers." Lambert's voice tightened. "I got word he left for me. Sounds like he's in trouble. I need to go help."
"Witchers don't stay in one place," Victor said. "How did he get word to you? Can I help?"
"You can't help with this—it's work." Lambert shook his head. "And he didn't send me anything directly. He left word for me. Same way you've got Bras in Ban Ard—I've got people in Vergen too."
Victor understood. In an era with poor communication, drifters like witchers naturally developed their own ways to keep track of each other. And Wolf School witchers at least had Kaer Morhen each year, when winter forced them to hole up.
"I'm sorry I can't stay and take care of you," Lambert said.
Victor raised an eyebrow and smiled. "You know I can take care of myself—especially in a city. With Zoltan introducing me around, I'll live just fine. Like that Bell Town saying goes: where there are people, there's always a market for virility tonics."
Was there any chance virility tonics wouldn't sell?
Not a chance.
Lambert was sure Victor had made the saying up, but he couldn't prove it. And honestly, if Kaedwen's "A man without money is like a bow without arrows" counted as a proverb, then Bell Town's proverbs weren't half bad—same deal: all truth.
"So will your journey continue?" Lambert asked. "Or are you going to wait here for me?"
"Who knows how long you'll be gone." Victor shrugged. "Once I've recovered properly and made some money, I'll head out on my own. Don't worry—after this it's mostly waterways. On a ship, there shouldn't be much that can happen."
Lambert thought for a few seconds. "True. If something happens to you on the Pontar too, then you're the unluckiest bastard alive."
…
The next morning, the boy stepped out of Vergen and, after eight days, finally saw the sun again—along with the city's enormous dwarven-forged iron gate. It was thanks to defenses like that, unbreakable as stone, that Vergen had repelled Kaedwen's powerful army twice.
Watching Lambert ride off, his back receding into the distance, Victor suddenly felt a sharp, unsettling certainty:
Maybe this is the last time in my life I'll ever see Lambert alive.
"Hey! Don't just throw narration in like that!" Angoulême snapped from beside him. "Do you hate him that much?"
Victor turned and glared at her, half annoyed, half amused. "And you're one to talk."
Her quick brown eyes didn't show the slightest embarrassment. She stared right back, righteous as could be. "I don't like him. He's always mocking people with his mouth. So I curse him a little. That's perfectly reasonable!"
"What does he mock you about?"
She puffed up angrily. "That bald guy says my hair looks like dry straw. And he calls me flat-assed, flat-chested, thick-waisted, and a little stump—"
"Stop, stop, that's enough." Victor pinched the bridge of his nose. It sounded like Lambert genuinely liked the girl. "Fine. I admit cursing him a little is reasonable. But he'll live a long time. That's my real feeling."
"If you say it's enough, it's enough." The girl crossed her arms. "You can order me around. You saved my life, and you're Ciri's brother. You're my hanse leader now."
Hanse leader made some sense. Saving her life was news. "You're saying I saved your life? How? We only met eight days ago."
Angoulême pulled out an empty vial.
Victor froze—then recognized it.
That was his grandmother's bottle.
Which meant what it had held was—
"The healing potion you gave Ciri!" Angoulême said. "Back at Stygga Castle, I got stabbed in the thigh." As she spoke, she hiked her skirt up without hesitation, revealing the healed wound high on her thigh near the hip. The scar was old, but clear enough to show how deep it had been. "I bled so much I was dying. Ciri made me drink that, and it saved my life!"
Victor politely turned his head away and waved frantically for her to drop the skirt. This was a public place. A girl should have some modesty—even if this wild one clearly knew exactly what she was doing and simply couldn't be bothered.
Victor's gaze drifted toward the distance. Lambert's figure had already vanished behind trees and brush. Sunlight washed over the land, and a breeze ran through the forest with a soft hush, carrying clean air.
Fine. One more helper, then.
When she produced that vial, Victor felt a vivid, strange thrill—because it proved his actions had changed something in this world. His grandmother's healing potion, plus his own generosity… a life that should have ended was standing here in front of him.
A miracle, carved out of fate.
No matter who she used to be, if I had a hand in pulling her back from death, then a piece of her belongs to me, Victor found himself thinking.
My person… my hanse?