After Sir Tailles and Captain Cranmer left, Grandmother Nenneke beckoned Victor forward to "help" her, saying, "Let's go to the greenhouse."
They left the side chapel. In the early-summer garden, flowers were in full bloom. On the way to the greenhouse, a few priestesses and students asked now and then if they should help, but Grandmother just waved them off gently and told them to mind their own work.
Victor knew perfectly well she didn't need anyone's arm. When she worked, she was nimble as anything. So this intimacy was a statement—meant for the people in the temple, and for the common folk who came seeking aid…
Still, after the little "play" that had just happened, Victor had plenty of questions he wanted to ask an elder. Angoulême had pieced together the outline and the outcome for him, but details decided success or failure.
Victor kept his steps steady and even, matching Nenneke's pace.
"Grandmother… you seem to have known Sir Tailles for a long time. Do you know why he hates witchers so much?"
Nenneke said flatly, "You already knew he was prejudiced. Why ask?"
"Because what he showed just now—his hatred—was far beyond what I'd imagined. It feels like there has to be a deeper reason."
She was silent for a moment.
Then, with a sigh, Grandmother said slowly, "That was… more than ten years ago. Back then, Tailles had just joined the Order of the White Rose and become one of Duke Hereward's favored men—"
"Uh… favored in that way?" Victor blurted without thinking.
It was genuinely shocking. He'd never have guessed that Tailles, with those thick brows and that square-jawed look, would…
"Heh. Who knows?" Nenneke chuckled. "It wasn't my concern. Young men run hot, and it's easy to steer them. At the time, his White Rose mentor filled his head with hatred for witchers—and the idea that defeating a famous witcher in a duel would proclaim his own valor.
"And then, right then, Geralt happened to come here to recover from his wounds."
Victor broke into laughter. "Wow… the White Wolf. Geralt of Rivia. The Butcher of Blaviken. And some young knight thought he'd beat him in a sword duel? That's ambitious. That's delusional."
"So they made it very 'practical,'" Nenneke said with an exasperated shake of her head. "They demanded that Geralt wasn't allowed to lay a finger on him—only defend, never strike back—and let himself be beaten. Otherwise, they'd hang him."
Victor raised an eyebrow. "And then?"
A hint of amusement crept onto Nenneke's face. "He tripped over a stone, sliced his own face with his sword, and screamed like he'd had a hand chopped off.
"Geralt kept his promise—never touched his body—so Cranmer restrained Falwick's anger and let Geralt go."
With all his Kaer Morhen experience—being creatively thrashed in sparring by Vesemir—Victor could vividly imagine exactly how Geralt had managed that. And he could imagine the size of the humiliation Tailles must have felt, even if it was humiliation he'd earned.
"Who's Falwick?"
"Count Falwick of Moën," Nenneke replied. "Tailles' mentor in the Order of the White Rose. One of the witnesses to that ridiculous duel."
A while later, they reached the uphill path.
"Grandmother… earlier you said you'd write to the duchess. Are you close with her?"
"Ermellia," Nenneke said. "For years, my apothecary has supplied her with aphrodisiacs on a regular basis.
"But she likely won't help with this. Hereward doesn't hate witchers, true—but he doesn't care, either."
Victor wasn't surprised. For Tailles to have been running the city's 'security' for years while the duke knew absolutely nothing would be unrealistic. "He doesn't care" instead of "he hates you" was already good news.
As they spoke, they arrived at the greenhouse. Victor stepped forward, opened the door, and let the archpriestess into the cavern.
Nenneke picked up her shears and bone rod and walked briskly into the rows of potted plants. "By the way… you were steady back there. For a moment I thought anger had gotten into your head and you were going to announce you'd leave immediately. The deadline you chose atailles them enough, though.
"But understand—you truly offended them. If it was going to be a beating before, now it will be a much harsher one."
Victor replied carelessly, "Then they'll have to catch me first. If they can't catch me, none of it matters."
Nenneke smiled. "I'll have a good horse prepared for you. Let them stew for a few weeks. Once they've grown lax, you ride out a few days early and you'll be fine."
Victor had other plans in mind, but he simply said, "Thank you, Grandmother."
…
Time flowed like water. In the blink of an eye, more than ten days passed…
And as it turned out, the food at The Limping Anton was truly awful!
Angoulême couldn't understand it. It was the same roasted basil chicken—so how could the difference be this vast? When her captain made it, the skin was crisp and fragrant, the meat tender and juicy. The inn's version looked similar at first glance, but the moment it hit her mouth she knew it was something else entirely.
Letting herself run wild had been fun, sure—but she was starting to miss her captain. Even though every other day Victor had Catherine deliver instructions—things to buy, reminders to read—without his sharp tongue sniping at her face-to-face, life seemed to have lost some flavor.
As her reading broadened her understanding, she also realized her original "just assassinate him" idea wasn't suitable. The biggest problem was that she didn't even know how strong the target was. What if he was another monster of a fighter like Iorveth?
And even if you lowered the bar by a hundred steps—if he was as strong as Toruviel, strong enough to trade blows and keep her tied up for a while—she'd end up surrounded by reinforcements.
So this time, her new proposal was traps.
Bear traps—the kind that had shone brilliantly during their forest pursuit. Even Ciaran had asked her in private why her trap hit-rate was so high. Unfortunately, she didn't know the answer either.
But she did know Victor never spent long setting them, and Tailles had clearly developed a fixation on the witcher apprentice. Every few days he personally went into the forest to confirm the captain was still in the temple and hadn't left, and to check whether the men he'd posted were growing slack.
So all she had to do was "arrange things" for him in the woods. Let him step into the trap, let the jaws clamp shut, and Tailles would be hopping around in blissful agony—then she'd stroll out and finish the harvest. Easy and cheerful!
The key point was that the only person acting would be Angoulême Corion. Everyone in the temple could testify the captain had nothing to do with it. The plan was perfect!
That pleasant feeling lasted right up until she opened the letter Catherine had brought her. The smug expression on her face collapsed at once—
"This plan is decent, but it has a fatal flaw. Your trap's lure relies on scent, and in a natural environment it dissipates quickly. That means there's a time limit. Unless you're being chased hard like last time, long-term placement isn't possible.
"Also, that's enough. You don't need to think about that person anymore. He won't be a problem for much longer.
"Did you finish the reading list I gave you last time? Use your time well—read more, learn more. I have high expectations for you. Don't disappoint me.
"Your captain,
Victor Corion"