After leaving White Orchard and continuing his journey, Victor spent a night camping in the countryside. Then, around noon the next day, he finally reached his destination.
Vizima—the capital of Temeria, the kingdom's largest city—sat on the shore of Lake Vizima, where the Ismena, a tributary of the Pontar, flowed into it.
With thriving river and road traffic and a prime location, the city reaped staggering profits from trade. But naturally, that also meant the Catriona plague didn't pass it by.
The outbreak had sealed off several districts. The gates were under strict control, and Victor was stopped outside the walls—without a pass, no one was allowed into Vizima.
The decree had been issued by the city's mayor, Velerad, ten days ago. If Victor did the math, Angoulême should already be inside the city by now, buying a house as instructed and starting to set up their base.
He looked up at the towering, solid walls and the guards in bright armor. In broad daylight, it wasn't exactly convenient to attempt that ancient art known as bribery. With a resigned sigh, the young man headed toward the outskirts.
A city this big couldn't possibly cut itself off from the outside world completely. Someone would have a way in.
If this were a game, the quest that just triggered would probably be called: Get a Pass Into Vizima.
On the outskirts near each of the four main gates, natural satellite towns had formed—mostly wooden huts with thatched roofs. They were home to people who couldn't afford to live inside the city, or who simply couldn't stand the stink of Vizima's slums.
When Victor pushed open the door to the tavern outside the East Gate, a wall of smells hit him: smoke and cooking grease, booze and meat, vomit, piss, sweat, and the cheap, cloying perfume of low-rent makeup. He frowned instinctively and rubbed at his nose—and his gaze met the eyes of a woman sitting in the corner.
In an instant, Victor couldn't look away.
She was about twenty-three or twenty-four. Green eyes. Slender, sharply defined brows. Short red hair cut neat and practical, parted bangs framing a narrow face and a small nose. She was the kind of androgynous beauty that fit modern tastes perfectly.
Then his eyes drifted lower—and he corrected himself. Her figure wasn't androgynous at all.
She wore a lake-green traveler's outfit, a herb satchel slung across her body. A medic?
Realizing it was rude to stare, Victor gave a silent nod of apology. Then he looked around. The six or seven long tables were packed with farmers, drunks, thugs—so crowded that some people were forced to stand against the walls.
Strangely, only that woman had empty space around her. Both sides of her bench and the seat across from her were completely open.
As for the tavern staff—one flashy waitress was laughing and chatting with a group of patrons. One man grabbed her ass, grinning, and she rewarded him with a sharp slap across the face. Another waitress dressed more modestly, busy ferrying drinks and food.
Victor didn't bother them. He went straight into the kitchen and knocked twice on what looked like the boss's doorframe.
"Sir… do you have any rooms left?"
The innkeeper—fat as the suckling pig he was roasting—wiped sweat off his face and flicked it onto the floor. He turned, scowling.
"Are you f*cking blind? Of course I don't.
"Listen. If you want something to eat or drink, go find the waitress—the one with her tits hanging half out, wobbling around like some cheap whore. Don't tell me you can't see her. But you'd better keep your hands to yourself. Look all you want—touch, and I promise you'll find yourself in big f*cking trouble.
"Now get the hell out of my kitchen, you little b*stard."
Clink.
A dull tap against flesh—then a coin bounced off the innkeeper's face. Then another. And another. Orens hit the floor with crisp, ringing sounds.
Victor used five orens to hammer the innkeeper's expression from rage into a smile.
The man hurriedly pulled the suckling pig away from the flames and started picking up the coins one by one, his thick face forcing itself into something syrupy and sweet.
"Ah… honored gentleman," he said, practically purring. "What can Old Bad-Knee do for you?"
"I've got money. I want into the city. Do you know any way to get a pass?"
Old Bad-Knee took one of the orens, bit it lightly, and narrowed his eyes as he sized Victor up.
A young face marked by four knife scars. A dusty cloak over leather armor and a steel sword. He looked like an ordinary mercenary… but orens didn't lie.
After a moment, Old Bad-Knee raised his hand and wiggled five fingers.
Five orens were tossed over.
Seeing the cloaked youth pay so cleanly, the innkeeper immediately regretted it—maybe if he'd flashed ten fingers, he could've gotten ten.
Still, he didn't dare raise the price. Small people survived with small people's wisdom. Knowing when to stop was how you lived long.
"As for passes—if you can show enough proof of pious donations, the priests of the Eternal Fire can help."
Then his voice dropped even lower.
"Or if you just want inside… you can go visit the 'merchants.' Heard they've got their own ways. At night, you'll find them in that row of houses near the moat. But you'd better make damn sure your sword's sharp enough."
Clink.
Another gold coin smacked him in the face.
"One last question. That red-haired woman out there—who is she? The one sitting alone in the corner."
Old Bad-Knee blinked, confused for a second, then his face lit up.
"Ah! That's Lady Shani—doctor from St. Lebioda's Hospital in the Temple Quarter. We respect her. Without her, a lot more of us would've died from the plague."
Victor nodded. The way coin shut people up was simple and effective.
He helped himself from a food basket—four duck confit legs, a round loaf of bread, and a bottle of wine.
Then he tugged his hood down to show his hair, and pulled his Wolf School medallion out from under his clothes so it hung clearly in sight.
He left the kitchen, walked over to Shani's table, and asked politely, "May I sit here?"
…
At the question, the doctor's neat, striking brows lifted. She studied the newcomer—an outsider, clearly, because locals tended to keep their distance from her out of unspoken respect.
His young face had four knife scars. Not handsome, exactly… but not ugly, either.
Wait.
That medallion is…?
Victor read her expression and caught the silent permission in it. He sat naturally on the bench across from her.
A moment later, a large hand slapped down onto his shoulder.
It belonged to a hulking brawler—one of the tavern's muscle, the sort who ran private fistfights.
"Lady Shani," he rumbled, "want me to throw him out?"
Shani lifted a hand lightly, signaling it was fine. The big hand withdrew.
And from start to finish, Victor never even turned his head to look at the brawler. His attention was entirely on the woman in front of him.
Shani.
Any Witcher player would remember that name. Aside from the fact that she looked unexpectedly young, the initial flash of surprise Victor had felt at the door had already settled into something that felt inevitable.
Shani should look like this.
Good. At least she hadn't suddenly turned into some ebony-dark-skinned stranger…
"What do you want with me?" she asked. "Most people see the empty seats around me and decide not to sit."
As she raised her cup to drink, Victor caught a faint scent of roses.
"Mm… I just wanted somewhere to sit and eat, and this happened to be the only spot left." Victor smiled and bit into a duck leg. "Is that answer acceptable?"
"Heh… sure." Shani let out a soft laugh. "I don't really care. I've smelled far worse."
Then the young doctor looked closely at Victor's eyes—at his pupils.
"But I do have a question. Can you tell me where you got that medallion? Don't tell me you're a witcher."
"An apprentice," Victor said, hooking the medallion with his little finger so the wolf head bared its fangs. "I'm an apprentice of the School of the Wolf. Not mutated yet. You're asking because you've seen something like it before?"
Shani stared at the wolf head, paused, then nodded.
"Yeah… I have a friend who wears the same medallion."
"Let me guess," Victor said. "Geralt of Rivia, right?"