Chapter Seventy-One: When Catriona Was Away for a While

Not long after breakfast, Dandelion and Angoulême strolled through the bustling marketplace in the trade district, their main errand being to purchase daily necessities for the poet. Somewhat embarrassed, he asked, “Angoulême, are you sure it’s really okay for me to stay with you like this?”

The girl turned to him with a suspicious look. “Hmm? What’s the matter? That’s not what you said the day before yesterday. Wasn’t it you, sprawled on the ground, begging me to let you stay for a while?”

“Nonsense, I don’t remember ever sprawling on the ground,” Dandelion retorted irritably. “Your knack for sarcasm has improved a lot lately—did you learn that from Vick?”

He adjusted the angle of his hat and blew a kiss to a little girl by the roadside. “—The other day I spoke so casually because we were strangers. Now that I know you better, and see so many ties between us, I worry more about being a bother or imposing on your hospitality.”

His expression grew solemn. “You all seem to live quite comfortably, but as the saying goes: ‘The quickest way to ruin a friendship is to talk about money.’”

Angoulême replied with a sunny smile, “Don’t worry. Victor and I travel all over, and our main business is doing good deeds and the right thing. The captain always says we don’t expect to make a fortune from our main work—after all, the Phantom Brigade is a mercenary company with a very successful side business, so most of the time we’re not short on money.

“As for taking care of a poet who’s lost his wallet and doesn’t have a penny to his name, that’s really not a problem. Didn’t you say that your name alone is worth thousands of crowns among high society? When you get your money, just share some with us and that’s enough.”

Flattered by the latter part of her words, Dandelion was so light-headed that it never occurred to him to ask what exactly the Phantom Brigade’s side business was—though even if he had, he would not have gotten a straight answer.

He tugged at his jacket, trying to look more presentable, and replied with a burst of pride, “That’s right, I am Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, Dandelion, the most outstanding bard in the North. Whenever I walk into a gathering of nobles, they scramble to welcome me.”

There was a subtle disconnect in this exchange between the flatterer and the flattered: the one who thought she was being flattering was, in truth, simply stating the facts.

In this age starved for entertainment, a bard like Dandelion—a renowned poet, composer, singer, and writer—occupied a place much like that of a modern celebrity. He was, more than once, swept behind embroidered lace curtains by noblewomen, only to be chased out by their husbands.

No one could pity him for that; he had never been able to keep his impulses in check.

Moreover, his music and poetry appealed to both refined and popular tastes, and among his admirers he was esteemed almost as an artist. This, more than anything, was the reason he so often managed to get out of trouble, escaping disaster by a hair’s breadth time and again.

...

“Will it really not disturb you, having the senior stay with you?” Shani asked.

“It’s fine; I love his poetry. Letting him stay on the third floor isn’t a bother at all—if anything, it makes things livelier,” Victor replied.

They stood at the rear entrance of Saint Lebioda’s Hospital, Victor carrying a large jug in each arm. While Angoulême and Dandelion shopped in the trade district, he and Shani had delivered the hospital’s weekly supply of disinfectant.

After handing over the jugs to the hospital staff and exchanging greetings, Victor and Shani wandered down Temple Street, deciding to stop for a drink and a chat at a tavern the boy knew well.

“I’m really not trying to badmouth Dandelion, but he’s always been a very ‘lively’ senior. He’s great in most ways, but his attitude toward romance is rather… spontaneous. You should be careful, Angoulême might get hurt.

“He has plenty of bad habits. Back at school, he was forbidden from coming within three hundred feet of the girls’ dormitory, because he’d flirt with every young woman he met. Thanks to his looks and silver tongue, he often succeeded too.”

All along the way, Shani spoke with heartfelt concern.

“It’s alright. They traveled together for a long time before. I’m sure Angoulême knows Dandelion deeply and in her own way—maybe she’ll tell you about it sometime. Besides, her type is muscular men; the great poet’s kind isn’t her taste at all.”

“If you’re sure, then good.” Victor stifled a yawn and changed the subject. “When I was out running this morning, I saw a lot of places taking down barricades. Looks like the city closures are almost over. Is the hospital...?”

Shani sniffed and replied, “…That’s right. I was just about to tell you, this is about the end of it. Thank you for supplying the hospital with disinfectant these past weeks. Those who could be saved have recovered; those who couldn’t, are gone.”

“You’ve worked hard.”

“It’s nothing. I chose this path, so this is what I should do.”

“Will things finally quiet down for a good while?”

“I don’t know. This year the measures came earlier, but last year, people kept dying right up until winter.”

Their conversation brought them to the Hairy Bear Inn. Victor pushed the door open and gestured for Shani to enter. It was still daylight, and the tavern retained an air of innocence.

The innkeeper, Gryphilin, glanced at the witcher apprentice without much interest, but when he caught sight of the doctor, he froze as if struck by lightning.

Victor and Shani sat at a clean table. “This is the tavern Angoulême and I come to often. It gets rowdier in the evenings, but during the day, it’s quiet like this.”

Before they could order, Gryphilin brought over a glass of milk and a glass of cherry brandy. Victor could understand the milk, but the cherry brandy puzzled him—had Shani been here before? Otherwise, how did the innkeeper know her preference?

The doctor arched an elegant brow, looking at the proprietor in confusion.

Gryphilin seemed somewhat nervous, his thick arms crossed over his stomach in a gesture of gratitude and humility. “Doctor Shani, the veterans of Brenna salute you.”

The smile vanished from the young woman’s face. She stiffened for a moment, then relaxed. “It’s what I ought to do,” she said.

Gryphilin maintained his humble posture, bowed again, then, still facing the doctor, retreated from the table.

Throughout, Victor remained silent, guessing that Shani might need a moment to collect herself. Battlefield medicine in the age of cold steel was a horror few could imagine.

After a long while, Shani murmured, “Red to red, yellow to yellow, white to white—stitch them together like that, and you won’t make a mistake.”

“What’s that?” Victor asked.

“The Battle of Brenna was my first real experience as a medic. That was the rhyme my field medicine tutor taught me for triage.”

Victor thought for a moment and understood. Battlefield medicine in this age was often little more than rough tailoring; such a simple, direct rhyme made perfect sense.

“There were only four of us, and we had to care for over a thousand wounded. I still don’t know how we made it through.”

“You must have been remarkable people.”

“We were, but good people don’t live long. Not long after the war, Marti was stabbed to death by a lunatic who fancied himself her husband. My tutor and little Airola both fell to the Catriona plague last year. Of the four of us in that field hospital, I’m the only one left alive…”

The turn in the conversation was so abrupt that the boy suddenly didn’t know what to say, and fell silent for a moment.

“…Such is the fickleness of fate,” he said at last.

She gave a brittle laugh. “You know, my tutor was a halfling, but to him, human or non-human made no difference. He taught me the value of life. His name was Milo Vanderbeek,” Shani added quietly.

The name sounded familiar to Victor, as if he’d heard or seen it somewhere before. Then he realized why Shani had been so delighted when she saw the two medical books he’d brought home from the banker.

…She’d never accept them under normal circumstances. Well, he thought, I’ll save them for her birthday—those two books will be the perfect gift.

He raised his glass of milk and toasted Doctor Shani.

...

That evening, after parting from Shani, Victor walked home with a spring in his step, only to be bumped into by a dwarf. The dwarf apologized and hurried on, but Victor stopped where he was.

Because, in that fleeting collision, the dwarf had said, “Mr. Corleone, Iorveth sends his regards and hopes to see you soon.”

Victor closed his eyes and tilted back his head. Suddenly, he recalled the look on the dwarven banker Golan Vivaldi’s face the last time he delivered a message.

No doubt the expression on his own face now was just as bitter. When someone like Iorveth, commander of the Scoia’tael district, sought you out, it could only mean trouble—serious trouble, at that.