Unlike the bustling business district in the north, there were only the slums in the south, near the canals. Dilapidated shacks huddled closely to each other, covering dark alleyways in their shadows. Sheets and clothing were strewn haphazardly on both sides of the path, left there to dry. The ground was uneven and covered in squalid liquid. Heaps of refuse sat everywhere, the air contaminated by their stench.
The slums were where Moore and Susie lived.
“Welcome, witchers.” Moore was feeling a lot better after having the potion. He almost looked like he was in the pink of health. The man smiled. “Welcome to my humble abode. We don’t have anything really great here, but please, sit.”
“Serrit and I lived here for a while, or did you forget about that?” Auckes went inside and made himself at home. He lay down on the worn-down sofa near the wall. “I think the house is nice. At least better than sleeping on hay, with nothing but bugs for company. Witchers don’t care much about where we live.”
The house wasn’t really big. It was about the size of a regular room in an inn, and it was stark. There was only a table, chairs, a candelabra, a worn-down sofa, a rack near the walls for veggies and cutlery, and two baskets. There wasn’t even a kitchen in here, though there was something resembling a campfire in the center of the house, and they were surrounded by stones collected from the riverside. A rusty cauldron sat above it.
That was all the living room had. The second floor was separated into two bedrooms. The beds were more like floor coverings made out of hemp cloth and old, yellowing cotton balls. A few hemp clothing were hung on the drying rack outside the window. The most expensive thing in the whole house was a wooden stroller.
Roy thought this looked familiar. He quickly realized that the layout was the exact same as the house they lived in back in the village. Rent would have cost a few crowns if they were in a village, but they were not. It was a few times more than that, even if they were in the slums. This was Novigrad after all. The free city.
A few crowns weren’t a big deal for the witchers. They had money. But it was a big deal for Moore and his family, especially after the thugs took almost all the money they had.
Roy gave Moore about two hundred crowns, saying that the man would need it for food. He wanted to give Moore more, but the man wouldn’t accept it. He would have to improve their living conditions in another way then.
“We wrote a lot of letters for you over the last six months, but you and Letho don’t have a permanent address. We couldn’t send them to you. Will you come with me and take a look at the letters?” Susie asked lovingly.
Roy couldn’t refuse her, so he went upstairs. The other witchers stayed back on the first floor.
“Roy’s been out of it ever since he met his parents.” Auckes chomped on a crunchy turnip. “Poor kid. I wonder if he’s confused, sad, or touched.”
“Home is the heart’s shelter. Family reunions are priceless,” Serrit answered, perhaps a bit philosophically. “He’s just fifteen. I bet he’s gonna cry his eyes out.”
“You give him too little credit,” Auckes disagreed. He shook his head. “Witchers are mutants. We’re not that emotional.”
“Auckes, we can’t really understand how a regular human feels.” Serrit stopped for a moment. He and his brother were taken to the fortress when they were mere children. They never saw their family, nor did they know their names. Parents were nothing but another word in the dictionary. “But Roy’s lived most of his childhood as a regular person. It’s been a long time since he saw his family. Most people would cry during family reunions. He’s just too embarrassed to do that in front of us.”
“I don’t think so. Wanna bet on it? I bet a hundred… Twenty crowns! I bet twenty crowns!”
“You stashed away more money than I thought.” Serrit stared at his brother, and he smiled. “Bet taken, but I’ll be the banker. Any more takers?”
“Me. I bet twenty crowns Roy is going to cry,” Felix said coolly. “I taught him swordplay for some time. His stances tell me that he’s a sensitive and emotional kid. He’s easily moved.”
“What kind of reasoning is that, Felix?” Kantilla joined in, smiling. Zerrikanians had their own philosophy on this. “Tears are products of impotence. I never cried once since I killed my first arachas when I was thirteen. Roy killed more than I did, and he’s a man. He won’t cry. I bet ten crowns on it.”
“Alright, that’s enough!” Letho, who was on the sofa, massaged his temples. He hissed, “Roy finally gets to meet his family after one whole year. This isn’t the time to laugh at him. And you even started betting on something stupid like whether he’s going to cry? He’s your comrade. Have some sympathy!”
Carl was the only one who felt confused and melancholic. He was reminded of the parents the bandits killed. The other witchers didn’t feel a thing, like they were orphans.
“Ahem.” Since everyone wasn’t saying anything, Letho scratched his nose. He said, “I bet fifty crowns he won’t cry. He’s not as weak as you think he is. Nobody knows him better than I do.”
***
Fifteen minutes later, Roy came down the stairs happily, playing with the baby in his arms. “Smile, Mino. I’ll get you some candy.”
After a long talk with Susie, Roy stopped holding back his emotions and went with the flow. He then realized that the living room was a bit too quiet. Roy looked at his companions and realized that they were looking at him as if they were interrogating a criminal. “What’s going on, people?” Roy nodded at Letho.
For some reason, Letho nodded back, and he seemed happy. Auckes and Kantilla looked at him smugly too. Felix and Serrit, however, sighed. They looked a little ashen. “What did you talk about with your mother, Roy? You seem happy.” Serrit rubbed his thumb and index finger together. “Don’t you feel the least bit sad and touched? Don’t you feel any urge to cry?”
“Dad. Mom…” Roy shook his head. He smiled and popped the piece of potato into Mino’s mouth. The baby rolled his tongue back and rested his eyes. “I’m afraid you can’t help me this time.” Roy didn’t think his parents would know the flirtatious bard, Dandelion. “However…” He turned his attention to Vespula, but he didn’t say much after that.
“What do you need, Master Roy?”
“Ms. Vespula, you’re an outstanding bard, it seems. Do you know who Dandelion is then?”
“Dandelion? Oh, do you mean Julian Alfred Pankratz?”
Roy stiffened up a little. “I don’t think there’s anyone else with that name. Yes, Dandelion the bard.”
“Ah, I see.” Vespula let out a rather melodious gasp, and she frowned. She had a weird look on her face. “I know him, yes. He’s the industry’s darling. A talented man, but…” She stopped for a fraction of a second. “He’s narcissistic and fools around too much. And his personality leaves a lot to be desired. Why are you looking for him?”
The witchers exchanged a smile. “Do you know where he is then, Ms. Vespula? Our sources tell us he’s a resident of Novigrad.”
“Yes, but regrettably…” She pursed her lips. “I don’t know where he is. He’s probably having sex with someone right now. Maybe a man, maybe a woman, I don’t know,” she said, almost like she was complaining. “But someone does.” She took a sip of the stew. “A poem enthusiast would invite him to Novigrad’s Rosemary and Thyme every middle of the month and share his work with Dandelion. I joined that gathering once. Dandelion has a lot of lovers, and money is always a problem. He’s almost always out of it. This is a perfect chance to get some sponsors. He always attends it.”
“The middle of the month? That’s in a couple of days.” Roy thought, So we’ll just have to wait at the inn.
“To be precise, it’s tomorrow.”
“Who’s this poem lover then?”
“I think you’ve heard of his name. He’s a gang lord.” Vespula was starting to go into poet mode, and she recited, “Brutish and rich to no end, elegance and romance he befriends. If I remember correctly, his nickname is Whoreson Senior, and his name’s Alonso Wiley.”
Everyone froze for a moment. The boss of those thugs?
“Fate sure does love to pull funny jokes on its subjects.” Roy then remembered some details he had forgotten. Alonso Wiley a.k.a. Whoreson Senior, was an ardent lover of poems. Before he met his demise by his own son’s hands, he even left an inn called Rosemary and Thyme to Dandelion in his will.
And then Dandelion changed that inn into a ballroom.
“Alright, that just saved us a lot of hassle.” Auckes cracked his neck in excitement. “Time for a big one, boys.”
“What’s he talking about?”
“Just a joke. Ms. Vespula, you’ve helped us out a lot. Thank you. About that gathering of poem lovers tomorrow—”
“Oh, I have a request as well.” Vespula looked at all the witchers. She requested, “I’ve traveled a dozen kingdoms from Redania to Aedirn. I wrote poems of every genre, but inspiration has eluded me lately. It’s been six months since I made my last work. But now that I have the honor of meeting you, I just got an idea for a poem.” Vespula’s cheeks were rosy with excitement. “I can make a poem about witchers. It’s an interesting theme. And interesting themes mean innovation and inspiration. Can you take me along when you’re going around Novigrad for your work?”
She wants to write a poem about witchers?
The witchers were shocked. They said nothing. This was the first time they ran into something like this. Technically the second, but at least Kantilla was a decent fighter herself, but Vespula was just a bard who had no combat experience. Everyone vetoed that idea.
“What do you think, Roy?”
Roy didn’t answer. Instead, he looked at Vespula seriously. Realization struck him. “Pardon me for asking, Ms. Vespula, but do you go by any other names?”
“My stage name is Callonetta. You may call me Priscilla.”
***
***