A/N: I can only say thank you. Here's Novigrad, Part One.

Disclaimer: I only own Rusa and other OCs.

Novigrad

The merit of a woman depends on two things: flattery and respect. A woman of class must be able to distinguish between the two or else be forever known as a common strumpet. At least, this was according to The Golden Sturgeon's finest barmaid, whose lightly-freckled skin complemented warm auburn hair tumbling across broad shoulders. Bea could not have been more than twenty years of age but while the freckles gave her a certain innocence, the small smile dimpling her cheek allowed Rusa to reach her own conclusions: the woman was a seasoned flirt.

Sitting in a dockside tavern overrun by foul-mouthed, fouler-smelling sailors, fortune hunters, and rogues of all varieties did little to validate Bea's claim that either she or Rusa resided in the bracket of 'classy'. Nevertheless, the barmaid assured her they'd nothing to worry about and would succeed in life rather than end up a local favourite at Crippled Kate's. Wringing the ale from the hem of her skirt, Rusa drew back the sack passing for a curtain. Dusk was falling along with a piece of fish netting haphazardly pinned to the ceiling above. Bea frowned and brushed her shoulder, careful not to show discomfort. Rusa concentrated on the dockhands currently loading a ship. Bea was a woman of low station who made the best of what she had. Rusa couldn't deny her that.

They arrived in Novigrad three hours ago. After depositing Rusa at The Golden Sturgeon—"May I suggest the mead?"—Thaler rushed outside.

"Sweet Nettie," he cooed and Rusa gaped in disbelief as he abandoned her. She took a window seat and mouthed her disapproval through the dirty glass. Thaler squawked in the distance and waltzed into Crippled Kate's. Oh, she knew all about Sweet Nettie, was privileged enough to learn of Sweet Nettie's skills all the way from Mulbrydale to Hanged Man's Tree.

"Sweet on the outside, even sweeter on the inside, catch my meanin'"?

"No."

Thaler chuckled. "'Course you don't. Know what the lads say about her?"

Hanged Man's Tree was becoming rather appealing.

"'Ain't nothin' sweeter than gettin' Sweet Nettie all wettie!'" he sang and snorted out something close to laughter. Rusa couldn't decide what was worse: the image of Thaler in compromising positions or the fact that she was doubled over in her saddle laughing.

"Ever been to a brothel, my dear?"

Rusa stopped laughing. "Technically, yes."

"Technically?" Thaler drawled and swivelled in his saddle.

"Flotsam's inn doubles as a whorehouse," she recalled, remembering Triss's not-so-subtle insult to Sîle de Tansarville.

"Whorehouse!" Thaler's face scrunched in dismay. "Ain't no need to denigrate a legitimate business with language like that. Ever heard of the Passiflora? Finest brothel this side of the Pontar."

Perhaps too fine for Temeria's Head of Intelligence who preferred to take his business to Crippled Kate's for three hours. In the meantime, Rusa listened to Bea's natterings about men with a half-hearted smile that, had the barmaid been shrewd enough, would have signalled the end to conversation long ago. As dusk gathered over the Pontar, Rusa watched as Thaler hobbled towards The Sturgeon, toothy grin plastered across his face. Bea gave up her seat with a disgruntled sigh.

"No need for the lecture, love," he said as Rusa prepared a stinging remark. Thaler tucked a dirty dishcloth into his shirt and studied a piece of pork loin. Finding it satisfactory, he devoured it without a word. Rusa couldn't resist commenting on his appetite and received a wounded look.

"Had to work extra hard tonight. Ridin' across the continent leaves one a tad sore." Thaler fluffed another napkin over his lap. "But to resist the siren call of the brothel? Not many men willin' to do that."

Rusa started when they locked eyes.

"What you been doin' while I been away, anyhow?" he asked and gave a gleeful snort. "Don't tell ol' Thaler you made your way to Passiflora."

"There are worse ways to make some coin."

Thaler rubbed his chin. "Now that you mention it."

Rusa leapt up and paced their small section of inn. "What's the plan, then?" His mouth slackened. "No, don't bother. Let me understand this." Bea offered her a tankard in passing which she declined. "To get to the Temple we need to go to Temple Isle, which—no thanks to you—I've found out is across St. Gregory's Bridge, which—again, no thanks to you—I now know is located in the Gildorf district—"

"Near the Passiflora."

"—the library is on the lower level of the Temple."

"We?"

Rusa balked. "I'm sorry?"

Thaler removed his dishcloth and sat back. "I've no intention of accompanyin' you."

He waited for the inevitable tongue-lashing but received none. The girl simply deflated and flopped into her chair. The sight left him strangely dejected.

"Come, lass, no bein' out of sorts in The Sturgeon, it's bad for business."

"Because business is booming," she muttered, scraping remnants of the previous night from the table. A raucous laugh sounded from the bar and Bea flittered over with a coquettish smile.

"Need a room for the night?" she asked, eyes bright. A successful flirtation.

Rusa and Thaler bickered over their choice of lodgings with the former finally conceding to the merits of somewhere like The Sturgeon in regards to blending in with the crowd.

"Last thing we need is people whisperin'," offered Thaler but Rusa maintained her indignation at being grouped with a band of malodorous drunks. "Besides, you won't be sleepin' much."

She cast him a shrewd look. "You don't have the energy, surely?"

He was momentarily stunned before collapsing into a deep belly laugh. After gathering the attention of several unsavoury patrons—Bea's methods of distraction were masterful—Thaler wiped away a tear and wriggled his eyebrows.

"We can explore all that another time," he insisted and Rusa quelled the nausea creeping into her stomach. He clapped his hands and drew back the sack. "No, you won't be sleepin' much, love. Behold that there moon. Perfect lightin' for a little reconnaissance, wouldn't you say?"

Rusa arched a brow. "What are you hiding?"

"Where'd you get your information from anyway?"

Thaler knew the answer, of course. She'd formed some kind of bond with Bea while he was away. She was harmless, yes, but the speed in which Rusa had entrusted confidential information to a stranger concerned him. Surely Vernon should have seen to such reckless behaviour. Then again—he studied the woman currently struggling with a stringy pork loin—recklessness often lead to action. Not necessarily a good thing but in the stagnant world of politics often seen as the only course. Often, but not always. And this is where Thaler played his ace.

His decision to introduce Rusa to the sordid underworld of espionage was confirmed during their stop at Crossroads Inn. Two men seated at a corner table spoke in hurried whispers and when Thaler caught wind of their conversation he studied Rusa's reaction. The whereabouts of a certain Redanian delegation heading East was important news and would serve to increase her political awareness. When she darted across the room at the call of a round of gwent, Thaler reconsidered his role and settled on unofficial (no doubt unwanted) mentor. The girl was smart, quick, efficient. But she was also headstrong and prone to vocal fits of frustration. It wasn't his intention to extinguish this fire completely. Merely, coax it in another direction for her own good. The fighting spirit was vital but subtlety and patience were an art form. No better place to practice than a city built on the seedy foundations of trickery and cunning.

Vernon's influence had its limits. A shrewd battle strategist, he otherwise had little time for cloak-and-dagger tactics. Consider the options, prepare for the onslaught. There were others willing to navigate the labyrinth for him. A military veteran intimately connected with a powerful network of spies. A commander on the frontline of battle with his eye on the fringe. A man with his finger on the pulse.

But Rusa possessed skills Vernon was unable to cultivate. Their interactions at the herbalist's inn revealed as much. They unsettled each other; fed off each other's frustrations; adopted each other's energy. There was a bond, of course, Thaler recognised this. A meaningful one strengthened by the peculiar circumstances in which they'd been thrown together.

He tracked the pair from Maribor back to Henrietta's inn. Several arguments and the odd tantrum later, Thaler decided that if the girl was to learn the ropes Roche wasn't a suitable teacher. He didn't dare raise the issue with the commander. She was proving to be quite the distraction; so much so that Vernon abandoned his unit to the whims of Henselt's men to seek her out in Vizima. A questionable decision and one Thaler did broach during their final conversation by the hearth. He was reassured Ves was more than capable of holding down fort.

Rusa differed from Roche in one important aspect: she was liked. Trusted by individuals who despised one another. To forge some kind of relationship with Vernon Roche whilst maintaining a connection to his arch-nemesis was no easy feat. She worked both sides without the need for manipulation and deceit. A natural leader with the ability to maintain her integrity amidst the chaos. Someone who could hold her own among the nobles and the peasants, the holy men and the crooks. Thaler saw the potential: if she was so inclined, Rusa could command the very horde she made light of back at Henrietta's.

But it wouldn't be the one she expected. Gathering forces was one thing, securing a steady stream of intel was a different game entirely. Indeed, they sat on a goldmine here at The Sturgeon. If she'd only listen. Thaler was a seasoned player but he was one man. Bearing the weight of a beleaguered Temerian intelligence network on his scraggy shoulders took its toll. In the wake of the civil war and Foltest's death, the underground weakened as Redania and Kaedwen took advantage and wove their webs, severing Temeria's fragile strands in the process. The effects of this rippled through Thaler's travels. Information was no longer exchanged with the Temerian representative and, if it was, he paid a hefty price. He'd been cut from negotiations, ignored at proceedings and, more often than not, left to his own devices. Once considered the real bulwark of Foltest's reign, Temeria's intelligence was now a laughing stock, outdated, under-utilised and, to Thaler's unending despair, under-served. He chuckled. Head of Temerian Intelligence. Shit, he was head of fuck all.

Lucky for him he was a wily old rascal who tended to land on his feet.

He shifted uncomfortably when Rusa laughed on seeing Bea slap a customer before booting him out the door.

"Unsuccessful flirtation," Rusa mused, eyes dancing at the excitement. "She'd make a good enforcer, wouldn't she? Could form an alliance with Crippled Kate's to protect the girls from unsavoury characters such as yourself."

It dawned on Thaler then that he was forever a man with a motive. It was inevitable in his line of work. The benefits of Rusa's sincerity could be invaluable. For him, for Temeria. Honour among thieves had become a thing of the past. The turbulent political climate of the Northern Realms created a mire of false promises and casual betrayals. But this didn't have to be the case. To outwit your opponents, you need to change the game.

"Should mention that to her," mumbled Rusa. She looked at Thaler expectantly.

It was settled. He'd provide the girl with the tools needed to navigate the underworld and the rest would write itself. With a little guidance, she proved herself more than capable at Henrietta's. He returned a toothy grin and hastily shoved a small but incessant prick of conscience to the back of his mind.

"I believe St. Gregory's Bridge is closed," Thaler said with a wink. "Not the best source of information you got there."

Rusa's cheeks reddened, previously suppressed tongue-lashing returning with a vengeance. Thaler indulged her. She held out for this long after all.

She was barely able to squeeze the words through her teeth. "Oh, you believe, do you?" He dodged an incoming projectile. "Well, I believe you're full of—"

The spy surrendered his hands. "It's all about perspective, love. Only an obstacle if you make it one."

"A noble sentiment."

Thaler made to adjust his monocle and grimaced. Naked, that's how he felt. And without the pleasurable side to boot. All thanks to the small fist balled up next to a sinister looking knife across the table. The expression on her face lingered somewhere between anger and resignation. She breathed heavily through her nose. For the first time, Thaler truly took in her appearance. Dark rings under the eyes, green contrasting sharply with reddish eyelids, cheeks further hollowed since their initial encounter. He gave her a subtle once-over and noted no change in weight.

"You been sleepin'?" he asked and Rusa smiled tightly.

"The bridge. I need to cross it."

"Do you?"

Rusa inhaled slowly. "You know, for a master spy you're a deep sleeper and I'm not adverse to murdering old men."

"Appreciate the honesty." Thaler rubbed his hands together. "So, to business. You need to reach the Isle but the bridge is closed. What are your options?"

"Swim," she blurted. "Underwater. Possibly die in the process."

Thaler shrugged. "A risk's a risk."

Rusa could have laughed. Temerian through and through was old Thaler. An odd surge of pride coursed through her.

"Force my way across," she continued. "Barge through the guard and demand an audience with their superior. Most definitely die in the process."

The spymaster returned a solemn nod. "Left Vernon behind for a reason, love. What else?"

"Enlist help. Get information"

That got the old man's attention. Thaler sat back, curious as to her train of thought.

"I imagine even holy men have to eat and drink. Who transports goods across the bridge?" Rusa frowned, ideas bouncing erratically. "Wouldn't be surprised if several attend the brothel but I'm not about to get a job at the Passiflora. Bound to be someone there who knows a way across, though."

Not precisely what he had in mind. Then again, what he had in mind verged on downright lunacy. Compared to his idea, swimming underwater sounded positively sane. But where was the lesson in that? Skip the swimming, dive in the deep end, stay afloat. Seemed reasonable. And, he reminded himself, a sure-fire way to ingratiate Rusa into Novigrad's bowels. A foothold in Novigrad would benefit Thaler. As in Temeria. A foothold in Novigrad would benefit Thaler and Temeria.

Again, the pesky slither of conscience. It was a withered old thing, dry and prune-like, but a semblance of morality remained and it was currently prodding the murkier areas of Thaler's mind with a sharp stick. The struggle must have registered on his face for Rusa stopped mid-sentence and gave him a questioning look.

"What's going on in there?"

The machinations of a man with nothing to lose.

Thaler chanced it. "I'm going to give you a name."

"Finally!" Rusa released a shaky breath. Too easy. "What's the catch?"

The spy smiled. "Not the King of Beggars…"

"And there it is."

Thaler breathed a dramatic sigh. "Loose lips at Crippled Kate's have been a sound source of intel over the years." He leaned in close and Rusa blanched at the stench of alcohol on his breath. "Word has it our respected Temple Guards got their own fightin' ring on the Isle. Brave citizens of Novigrad cross the bridge come nightfall to test their might against the holy men."

Rusa rolled her eyes at his attempt at a stage whisper. "I'll just go ahead and enter, shall I? Get pummelled close to death then go to the library. 'Founder of the Seraphic Order, give it to me. 'Scuse the severed arm.'" She ignored the cackle across the table. "As you said, the bridge is closed. No fighting tonight."

Thaler was momentarily annoyed. Roche had kept her all to himself. He'd not laughed openly in months even if it was at this poor girl's expense.

"This is Novigrad, girl. Always time for fightin'."

Rusa took the hint. "This ring is sanctioned by the Church?" Thaler dipped his head. She pressed on. "Sanctioned but not organised."

The nerves in Thaler's chest crackled in anticipation. Last chance, old man, you're sending her down a dark path. A sinister fucking alleyway, more like it. He ran a hand over his face.

"Who's behind it?"

Barely managing to keep his composure, Thaler replied, "Alonso Wiley. Fighters have access to the bridge but need to bear Wiley's seal as proof. He's ruthless, he's sadistic, and he's your in. A real whoreson and proudly referred to as such." Then, in an absurd attempt to lighten the situation, "Owner of the Passiflora, by the way."

Rusa froze. "If you're suggesting I disguise myself as a lady of the night-"

"Oh, I like that!"

"- you can forget it." A sudden wave of warmth and she was back in the Blue Stripes headquarters in Flotsam. She scrunched her nose. "You Temerian men are all the same. Surely there's another option other than the woman having to hoist up her skirts and breasts and parade around for your amusement."

Thaler set her with a serious stare and sat back. Warnings of ruthlessness and sadism didn't even cause a flinch. "Course there's options, love. Just profferin' the easiest one."

"Proffering, that's a big word. And agree to disagree. There's bound to be an alternative both easier and less degrading. I merely need to get into the Passiflora, not take up residency," replied Rusa and the spymaster was thrilled at her challenging him. The first steps towards standing on her own two feet. Oh, she'd managed well enough in the past but now, in his domain, survival skills she'd honed out there needed some adapting.

Thaler stroked his chin. "You'll need a reason for being there. How to get Wiley on his own, I wonder?"

Rusa held up a hand. "Please, you know exactly how I'm to go about this and are merrily steering the conversation until I reach the conclusion you've already made."

"If you say so."

"Stop it," she snapped. "I know so. I'm more than acquainted with your Temerian cat and mouse techniques."

Thaler ached to call out her hypocrisy, to pull her up on it. The girl sat in front of him, straight backed and rigid, too self-righteous to acknowledge her own alliance with Iorveth. When it came to cat and mouse the elf was in his own league.

He softened and noticed Rusa struggling to keep her shoulders from slumping. The girl was exhausted. And fuck him if he truly thought the cat and mouse techniques deployed by the Aen Seidhe outranked that of the Blue Stripes. Hypocrites.

"The bloody lot of us," he muttered and Rusa yawned, drumming her fingers across the table. Her limbs and eyelids felt equally heavy under the failing light. Bed beckoned. Whether that was an actual bed or some section of floor, she couldn't care less. The only thought that staved off sleep was the fact she hadn't figured out Thaler's plan. She was a stubborn woman and, she had to acknowledge by now, an occasional imbecile with a complete disregard for her own well-being and, well, sleep would have to wait.

"This Alonso Wiley," she said, rubbing her temples. "Does he have any interests other than gambling, fighting, and brothels?"

Thaler's eyes brightened. "Good question. Why do you need to know?"

Rusa refrained from gritting her teeth. "I need a reason to enter the Passiflora other than paying for their services. I assume Wiley has an office. I'll need to distract him and steal his seal. Sell him something? Relay a message to him?"

Thaler rubbed his hands and slackened his grip on the conversation momentarily.

"A patron of the arts is old Alonso."

Rusa frowned. "What kind of art?"

"All and sundry if rumour's to be believed," replied the spy. He made to run a finger over his monocle and stiffened when he jabbed his eye.

"Well, rumour's all I've got," she continued and dabbed the corner of Thaler's weeping eye with her sleeve. "Literature? Poetry?"

"Both, I'm quite sure."

"Undoubtedly familiar with Dandelion's work then," Rusa mused, encouraged by the small smile crinkling the man's cheeks.

"Oh, undoubtedly."

The two of them fell into a comfortable silence. Rumbles from the card game at the centre table created a dull drone throughout the room, accompanied by a staccato rhythm of clinking glass and sliding chairs. Rusa drifted into an endless stream of unhelpful thoughts. Wiley liked Dandelion. Probably knew him. She liked Dandelion and also knew him. Wiley was a sadistic brute with a penchant for poetry. She was a masochistic quadroon with a tendency to attract trouble wherever she went. And any man that proudly adopted the name of Whoreson was trouble.

There, amidst the din of the Sturgeon, struggling against the flutter of eyelids and sinking of limbs, Rusa made a last-ditch attempt at formulating a plan. Thaler, for his part, could only sit back in surprise. Sure, he led her to this point but she reached her own conclusion. Good thing, too, because he hadn't bothered with the finer details. He provided her with the skeleton and she fleshed it out. Not what he'd have gone for but, to quote his compatriot, the plan had merit. And Thaler was nothing if not adaptable.

Rusa slid off her seat and waved off his approval, adding, "Reconnaissance can wait."

Bea sailed through the crowd and accompanied her upstairs.

The Temerian spymaster was left alone with his thoughts. They were slow, like syrup, melting into the corners of a mind desperate for sleep. But Thaler had an engagement. Sleep would have to wait.

Walking through daytime Novigrad with Bea as a guide was an unforgettable experience. A shame, really, because Rusa's third run-in with a lusty sailor had her longing to erase the morning completely and return to bed. She had the room to herself, after all. Thaler's empty bed palette sat unused on the other side of the room. Another round with Nettie. Rusa shuddered.

Practically begging Bea to take a detour away from the docks served little purpose. For every well-meaning denizen, there were three shadowy figures skulking along the alleys, hunched over with hands in pockets, eyes peering over the high collar of their great coat. Rusa considered purchasing similar apparel so as to fit in. She certainly wasn't doing a good job of it, currently walking arm-in-arm with the Sturgeon's busty redhead. Dare she admit to herself that the stroll felt oddly pleasurable? A casual jaunt through Hierarch Square under the warm sun sprinkled with the occasional abuse hurled at them from the alcoves.

The purpose of their morning walk was simple. Vivaldi Bank. Rusa hadn't forgotten her conversation with Dandelion back in The Cauldron about Vergen's need for gold and a particularly frugal prince. If she managed to successfully appeal to Alannah D'arcy then Vergen needed to make room for new recruits. Temporary housing, a solid training arena, an overhaul of the stables, new weaponry. With a retinue of Mahakaman's finest dwarfs currently holed up in Vergen with naught to do but await Henselt's move, the construction should be completed in no time. She recalled, too, her conversation with Roche. Gold needed to secure allies against Henselt. There would be plenty leftover.

According to Bea, Vimme Vivaldi was a "real piece of work". Rusa waited for some insight but merely received:

"As stubborn as they come," Bea insisted before feigning interest in a flower stall off to the side. Rusa eyed the dwarf who was busy weighing gold bars at a makeshift desk outside the front window of the bank. The satin blue cape complimented a puffy gold undershirt whilst a white cravat tucked neatly under his bushy grey beard. He shot Rusa an imperious glare over his reading glasses then returned to his work. Rusa steeled herself. The dwarf only resembled Zoltan in height.

"My name is Rusa Elyot of Cintra and I wish to draw funds from a family bank account."

Several moments passed before he raised his head. Vimme removed his glasses, squinted, then slowly got to his feet. He leant against the front of the desk and folded his stubby arms.

"You do, do you? There be just one problem, missy." He turned out his palms and shrugged. "Yer got no proof yer who yer say yer are, lass, so mind yer be off with yer, yer hear?

If not for previous experience with some of the thickest dwarven brogue this side of Continent, Rusa would have surrendered then and there. Having waded through the bog that was Zoltan Chivay's ale-soaked ramblings, Vivaldi was a cinch.

"What kind of proof?" she asked, making her presence felt under the awning. A quick glance inside the bank, a small 'hm', and she joined Vimme at the desk. The dwarf grunted into his cravat and acted thoroughly engrossed in a scuffle happening on the far side of the square.

"Papers, lass. Proof of birth, proof of lineage, proof yer not some ne'er-do-well off the street." Vimme gave her the once-over - an amusing sight given the height difference - and mumbled something under his breath. "Can't help yer if yer can't supply the papers."

Rusa changed tack. Appealing to the dwarf's sensitivities was unappealing in itself but certainly worth a shot. Straight for jugular, emotionally-speaking. She racked her brain; clinging to any shred of vague memory worth exploiting. There was something. A memory she didn't care to dig up. It was foolish to think it wouldn't come to this. But desperate times... Careful not to step into the fire, she skirted around the edge.

"During the Siege of Cintra, before we were confined to the keep, my mother risked her life to see our funds safely transferred from the city treasury into trustworthy hands. The name Vivaldi carries weight throughout the entire Continent." Appealing to his pride surely couldn't hurt. Rusa continued, "For seven nights, she journeyed through the catacombs and sewers to reach the treasury unseen. The Black Ones surrounded the city. One false move and my mother would have met a fate worse than death."

Vimme seemed only slightly less interested in the rest of the Square.

"Nilfgaard had mages, of course. Powerful ones. Able to sense any use of magic within miles. But mother had no choice. She created the portal. Transferred the gold by hand with the help of someone on the other side." Rusa stood with her back to him and gazed into the Square. Her shoulders sagged. "I believe it was you on the other side, Vimme Vivaldi. You may not know me but you do yourself a great disservice pretending not to know my mother."

Rusa heard the dwarf suck in a ragged breath. She held her own, tight within her chest, afraid of what might happen if it escaped. Bea's red hair became a focal point among the crowd. It bobbed up and down with a lightness Rusa envied. She raked her fingers across her scalp and traced an invisible outline of Roche's scar.

"Yer best come inside, lass," grumbled Vimme and Rusa took a moment to compose herself.

It was late afternoon when Rusa left the bank. Bea was more than likely back at The Sturgeon, Vimme was closing early for the day, and she could only guess at Thaler's whereabouts. After negotiating the transfer to Vergen with the help of Igor Vivaldi's men, Rusa pocketed a small sum and spent a large part of the afternoon searching for suitable clothing for the evening's escapades. Something elegant yet worthy of the battlefield. An awkward combination. She was to pose as a scholar from Oxenfurt writing a biography on Dandelion. Alonso Wiley, longtime patron of the bard, was to be asked for a small interview regarding his favourite works. Wiley, delighted at the prospect and, she tried to convince herself, inevitably distracted when discussing Dandelion's poetic prowess, would allow Rusa to leave the office unharmed and in possession of the seal. Minor details such as her complete ignorance of Dandelion's repertoire, how to actually avoid the fighting ring, find the library, find the information, then make her way back from the isle were to be ironed out in the process. Rusa had to give herself credit. As harebrained a scheme as it was, she was staying afloat in the deep end. No thanks to the Temerian spymaster who'd done a disappearing act. As if on cue, Rusa made a note of the oculist as she passed through Glory Lane.

Business at The Sturgeon seemed to swing between downright dead and every man and his dog. It was currently the latter as Rusa squeezed her way through the throng and up to her lodgings. Thaler's bed remained unused whilst hers had been made with extra effort. The sheets were clean, the blanket brushed, and a small mountain thistle rested on the pillow. So as to not disturb the masterpiece, Rusa shoved Thaler's linen off to the side and emptied the contents of her knapsack. Garments of deep amber and royal blue formed a peculiar ensemble that more resembled an assassin's armour of choice than a scholar's robes. Rusa reasoned with herself. The road from Oxenfurt to Novigrad was perilous and she travelled alone. She fastened the side buckles of her hooded tunic and let it fall above fitting trousers that tucked into heeled boots. The looking glass revealed more than she wished to see. For the first time in months, she donned clothing of her own. For the first time in months, she saw herself honestly; a woman alone, confused, and head over heels in a steaming pile of political shit. A knock at the door sounded Bea's offering of evening tea. Dusting her tunic, Rusa whispered a quick "for Vergen" and asked the redhead to save for later. This plan would work or fail. She longed for some advice.

Well, you're fucked, either way.

The Passiflora pointed out to her during the morning walk was different at night. In the cold air of morning, not a sound escaped beneath the gilded doors and painted shutters. But here, under the night sky, the elegant brothel in Novigrad's equally elegant Gildorf District teemed with an energy that Rusa had to admit held a certain allure. The courtyard was fragrant and lush, the double wooden staircase carved with delicate engravings as it led to the front entrance. Rusa loosened her grip on the parchment she'd borrowed from The Sturgeon's manager; a stocky, pimpled woman who begrudged Bea's popularity but delighted in the steady stream of clientele.

There was no one manning the doors, which added to the feeling of discretion. Rusa frowned as she entered a foyer rich with silks and tapestries, dark oak paneling on the walls, mosaic tiles patterned across the flooring. A place like this without muscle would be ripe for plundering. All a facade.

Courtesans danced in every corner as men and women watched on. A minute of observation and Rusa determined that there was a no-touch policy until negotiations were finalised and coin was handed over. She hadn't been to Crippled Kate's, didn't want to visit Crippled Kate's, but wondered if Passiflora's women were treated better on principle. The goods must appear 'untouched' so as to satisfy the wealthy. The taste of bile swept across her tongue when a particularly beautiful she-elf was propositioned by an overweight noble with hair so slicked with grease it posed a fire hazard.

A buxom woman dressed in a beautiful gown that made Rusa's Cintran wardrobe fit for peasantry waltzed across the room. A smile so large it managed to manoeuvre her intricate coiffure simultaneously. The woman placed a bejewelled hand on the small of Rusa's back.

"Welcome to The Passiflora, darling. Angeline Vivant, Madame of our humble boudoir." They paused at an ornate writing desk. Angeline gestured Rusa to sit. "What do you desire?"

Rusa's tongue turned to lead. "I, uh –"

"Allow me to offer some suggestions," Angeline cut in, smile seemingly glued to her powdered face. She pointed to a brunette dancing sensually to the right. "Narcissa's a local favourite. Nothing too exotic for that one. Between you and me, darling—" she tapped her nose—"you seem the type who likes it rough. That be the case, Narcissa's your girl. Silk scarves? Toys and whips? Here at The Passiflora..."

Rusa fell into some kind of trance. Angeline's lilted voice was honey to her ears. That, or the heady mixture of perfumes was dulling her senses. The parchment crinkled under her fingertips and she batted off the languid haze.

Rusa cleared her throat. "Here on business, I'm afraid." Angeline's smile noticeably faltered. Narcissa, who seemed to have overheard them, looked dejected. "I've travelled from Oxenfurt. I'm a scholar at the Academy, currently writing a biography on the famous bard, Dandelion. I'm lead to believe your overseer, Alonso Wiley, is a patron of his work and I'd like to interview your boss, learn of his experiences with Dandelion and collect his valuable opinions on art in general."

Rusa held her breath. To say that went smoothly would be an overstatement. Angeline raised a finely arched brow. Several painstaking moments later and Rusa was told to take a seat in an ornate office located on the upper floor.

First impressions of Alonso Wiley deemed him a man highly aware of his power and not afraid to wield it. He'd barely entered the office when a young errand runner was told to "fuck off back to the gutter where I found you."

Rusa sat with her hands in her lap. Alonso stared down at her. It was a stalemate only broken by the crashing of a dinner tray down the hallway and Wiley letting loose a string of expletives that outshone even Zoltan after twenty ales. The man turned on her, a flick of a strained smile, then took his seat in the decadent armchair opposite. Tattooed hands ran through the curtain of oily black hair that tapered towards the neck. A solid but short man with tree trunks for limbs, he unbuttoned his waistcoat without moving his gaze from the woman in front of him. Rusa shifted uncomfortably. She was only a scholar, after all, and needed to keep up appearances. Several gold-capped teeth gleamed as he smiled.

"I make you nervous, girl?"

"Sir, I apologise for the unexpected arrival—"

Alonso waved her off, his meaty arm landing with a thud on the table.

"You got a name?"

Rusa bit the inside of her cheek and replied, without thinking, "Henrietta."

There would be, at the very least, a record of a Henrietta attending Oxenfurt Academy.

Wiley's eyes bored into her. Sizing up, looking through, sorting out. His smile was replaced by a grim line.

"Interesting. A name intimately familiar to the very bard you're researching."

Rusa scrambled to catch on. The Cauldron, Dandelion, Toussaint, Duchess...

"Ah, yes. His little weasel," she replied with an air of mystery that covered her genuine fear at being asked the details. Tuning out of Dandelion's musings was shaping up to be a regrettable mistake. The air was heavy as Wiley prolonged the silence. Then,

"Never seen a scholar looking like she was to steal into the night come the next breath."

Rusa kept his gaze. "I travel alone and dress for practicality over formality. No offence."

Wiley's bushy eyebrows shot up. "None taken." His eyes raked over her attire, lingering on the hood. "Just not acquainted with scholars appearing so... elusive."

Rusa bowed her head and apologised.

"It wasn't my intent to appear suspicious."

"Ah, wasted opportunity!"

Rusa did a poor job hiding her confusion as Wiley crossed over to a bookshelf and dusted a lengthy tome.

"'Elusive'", he stressed, thumbing the pages. "One of Dandelion's more famous ballads. Believed to be about the Duchess but he's never confirmed this. As you already know." Wiley watched for a reaction then shrugged, adding, "Also, a favourite of mine."

Rusa barely concealed her disbelief when he placed a hand on his chest, spat some phlegm into a worn handkerchief, and regaled her with a recital.

O'er glistening roofs you float
Through lily-strewn rivers you dive
Yet one day I will know your truths
If only I am still alive

Wiley bowed his head in silence. Stunned, Rusa could only applaud. This Whoreson was a walking contradiction. Hardened crime lord with a dash of romantic troubadour on the side. He tossed the tome onto the desk. The Adversities of Loving. To the side of the book, the stamp and the wax simmering above a candle.

Wiley placed a heavy hand on her shoulder and looked down at her. His eyes visibly darkened along with the atmosphere.

"You're here to ask questions, I suggest you start asking."

Rusa hardly opened her mouth when there was a hard rap on the door, followed by the shirtless body of a man tumbling to the floor. A soldier booted the man's rear and sent him flying towards Rusa's feet. Hands gripped her ankles for support and she sank back into her chair as scabby fingers slithered up her tunic.

"Found him outside Rosemary and Thyme," said the soldier. "Left for dead this time."

The soldier removed his bludgeon and smashed it into the man's ribs. An animalistic gurgle echoed through the room and Rusa jumped up, disgusted by the open brutality.

"What do you think you're doing!"

Wiley lounged in his armchair, unconcerned. The poor sod on the floor curled into a ball and stared vacantly at the carpet. The soldier sneered at Rusa, aiming the bludgeon in her direction.

"Leave it alone, girl, if you know what's good for you," he said. "This scum ain't worth defending-"

"That's not for you to decide," shot Rusa and Alonso smiled at his desk. The soldier was taken aback. A purplish hue crept onto his cheeks.

"You'll silence this bitch, Whoreson, if you wish to keep her in one piece."

Alonso shrugged. "I'm unsure of that myself, Marak. Come." He flipped the soldier a crown and gestured toward the door. "For your faithful service."

Wiley took his seat, demanded Rusa join him, then sent a disdainful look at the pile of snivelling mess on the floor. Similar tattoos, noted Rusa, and then the energy in the room thickened.

"My son, Cyprian." Alonso sniffed into his tumbler. "Otherwise known as Whoreson Junior."

Cyprian greeted her with a loud snore.

"A fucking layabout waste of fucking space," said Alonso and Rusa was careful not to show her discomfort. A son was a son, useless layabout or not.

"You think me unkind," he continued. "So you should. You're unacquainted with Cyprian, after all, and merely wished to defend a vulnerable man. Can't fault you there, Henrietta."

Rusa registered the name a moment too late. Alonso smiled.

"To business then."

Rusa blushed and grabbed a quill. Fortunately or unfortunately, Alonso saw fit to start things off.

"I first came across The Crimson Avenger when - the fuck's going on out there!"

A shattering of glass and stampede of boots sounded down the hall. Alonso jabbed a stubby finger to Rusa's chest - "Wait here" - then disappeared onto the landing.

Rusa wasted little time and fumbled with the wax before tipping it onto the parchment. She stamped it hard and fast, vaguely aware of the absurd image of a wild boar appearing on the seal. The raucous in the hall meant a flurry of bodies and a higher chance of losing herself in the crowd. Cyprian let out a ragged breath as she went for the door. Locked. The whoreson! On cue, the younger started coming to. He pulled himself upright, swayed from side to side, then fell and hit his head against the wall. Rusa recoiled at the crunch of his skull. Cyprian was out for the night. She jimmied the window and caught sight of the lattice work to the left. A fair climb down to the lower courtyard but manageable.

"Fucking whore... get over here and fucking..."

Rusa felt her ankle almost snap from its socket. A newly conscious Cyprian pulled her off the sill and threw her against the desk. Rusa heard the telltale unbuckling of a trouser belt and screamed as a hand clamped down the back of her neck and drove her cheek into the pool of wax.

"Struggling only gets me - oof!"

Cyprian doubled over, hands cupping his groin. Rusa spun around and levelled him with a vicious blow to the temple. She stood over the twitching body. Blood trickled from his ear courtesy of The Adversities of Loving.

Rusa stumbled onto the lattice and made hasty work of the climb. Elusiveness be damned, she wanted out. St Gregory's Bridge was manned by a slovenly looking guard and another one urinating over the side. The lout watched her approach and manoeuvred his polearm accordingly.

"Bridge is closed."

Rusa shrunk further into her hood and passed the seal. The guard eyed her suspiciously and tipped the hood with his blade.

"Blimey, looks like you already done enough fightin' tonight."

Rusa scraped the red wax from her cheek and offered him a flimsy explanation about being an assistant at Books and Scrolls in Hierarch Square. She congratulated herself on the lie as she crossed the bridge. Little victories on a night like this. The guard seemed genuinely concerned for her welfare and as Temple Isle approached, Rusa was inclined to agree. The silhouette of the Church spire stood firm against the moonlight. It leered over Novigrad, a beacon of false hope and corrupted faith. There was something sterile about the isle; something untouched and unapproachable that made her long for the pungent warmth of The Sturgeon.

A group of men presumably from the city huddled together by an inconspicuous gate under the main building. Fighting ring in the basement, how original, and Rusa shifted her attention to the soft glow of candlelight coming from an annex on the other side. Keeping to the bushes, she peered through the stained glass window and noted the hazy outline of tables and shelving. How to enter the library without accessing the main Church created quite the predicament. No lattice work to climb here and, panicking, Rusa's chest tightened at the thought of having to participate in the fighting ring simply to get in the building. Cursing Thaler eased the tension somewhat. Imagining her hands around his scrawny neck was enough to see her scouting the premises for another way in.

"You hungry, girl?"

Rusa launched herself into the bramble as a small hatch opened under a side window. A piece of meat presumably attached to a human hand dangled over the ground. The owner of the ringed hand remained out of sight as a cat trotted forward and sniffed the offering appreciatively.

"There's a-girl. G'night."

The hatch closed with a soft click.

Rusa squirmed through the bush, wincing at the thorns stuck in her palms and face. Satiated, the cat considered the newcomer. The subsequent mewling around Rusa's boots indicated the feline's approval.

"Sorry, girl - no time for play."

The creature's judgment was palpable as Rusa picked open the hatch, inhaled deeply, and squeezed her way through. A tight fit, suddenly tighter due to the claw digging into her calf muscle. Rusa balked and shook herself free, the momentum causing the rest of her body to catch up as she collapsed onto a pile of books. She kicked the hatch closed. Silence. The odd rustle of breeze against the window here and there. A side door was slightly ajar and housed what looked like the foot of a bed. The library was empty. Whoever fed the cat was asleep.

"Seraphic Order," Rusa muttered and crossed over to a random shelf. Plague and Poetry, Drowner Anatomy, Kovir Delicacies. Unless a plague caused a surge in Drowner activity and Kovir's response was to eat them, this shelf wasn't exactly themed. She tried her luck elsewhere in an aisle marked 'History'. The Secrets of Sodden, Lyria's Last Stand...

Orders of the Divine.

Rusa hitched the leather bound tome under her arm and scattered the contents of the nearest table. Running a finger down the initial notes, she saw it.

The Order of Friars Minor, also known as The Seraphic Order, is a religious order founded by Francis of Alness in 1209. Heavily criticised by The Church of Eternal Fire, Francis is considered a saint by opponents of...

For the first time that night, Rusa let herself smile. So, our King of Beggars shared the name of a Saint particularly despised by The Eternal Fire.

A scuffle of feet signalled company. A scruffy man in a torn nightshirt approached from the side door. Their eyes met. Rusa sat frozen, legs heavy, stomach squirming.

"Mother?"

The man removed his sleeping cap and smiled. At her? Through her. Rusa held her breath.

"Mother, come to bed, you'll catch a cold."

He offered his hand from the doorway. The same ring as the cat-lover and, Rusa surmised, the Temple Librarian. He was unsteady on his feet and glassy-eyed. Rusa recalled one night when Boussy suffered night terrors and 'awoke' somewhere between the dream world and reality. The boy was found sleeping in the kitchens next to the dogs.

"Mother, please."

Bloody hell. Rusa wasn't adverse to knocking a second man unconscious tonight but this would be significantly less satisfying than the ordeal with Cyprian. The librarian shuffled towards her, eyes vacant. Rusa's fingers tightened around the spine of Divine. Not as hefty as Dandelion's anthology but enough to knock a sleepless man firmly back to sleep.

"Mother?"

"In a minute, darling!"

The space between them warped and crackled with anticipation. Time stretched on as Rusa desperately sought a name in the papers scattered at the front desk. The librarian stood lifeless where she'd left him.

Something, anything, an official letter, a signature. A hasty scrawl pinned to a stack of texts caught her eye.

To be returned to Aldert Geert, Assistant Professor of Contemporary History at Oxenfurt Academy and acting Temple Librarian in Novigrad City.

A woman with nothing to lose is not only dangerous and wild but resourceful beyond measure.

"Back to bed, Aldert, I won't be long."

A pregnant pause. Then,

"Promise you'll come inside, Mother."

Rusa rolled her eyes and tried her luck.

"Already here, darling." She ushered him to the side door. "See? Safe and sound. Thank you for keeping the fire burning."

Rusa swore she heard Thaler squawking in the distance.

Aldert mumbled his good nights as she readjusted his sleeping cap. Rusa followed the click of the side door with a heavy sigh of relief. Unable to fathom the stacking absurdities since leaving The Sturgeon, she rushed to the hatch and practically propelled herself into the earthy moss of the flowerbed. The cat was gone. Rusa followed her example and retraced her path through the bushes, pausing by the riverbank. Crossing the bridge posed a problem. Clearly, the fighting ring missed the opportunity of her presence. And now, as she spotted the ramshackle fishing boat moored to the bank, she chose to follow up on a previous idea discarded long ago.

"Lucky Sendler; unlucky Aldert," she said, noting a Property of Aldert Geert etched into the panelling. The icy water was an assault on the senses as Rusa pushed the boat and waded up to her waist. She'd barely swung her leg over the side when an arrow pierced the water's surface. A chilling voice sent further shivers up her spine.

"Out. Now."

Two men dressed in black uniform dragged Rusa onto the bank and held an arm each. The third individual, the one who spoke, was an eagle-eyed sort with grey hair. Clothed in a similar uniform laced with white trimming, he leaned into her hair, inhaled slowly, then lead the walk back to the bridge. He clasped his hands behind his back.

"Explain."

Rusa made to move and was unceremoniously dumped to the ground, face scraping across stone.

"Bind her."

Rough hands twisted her arms behind her back. A heavy boot thundered down on the back of her neck. In a daze, she registered another voice. A familiar one. She chanced a look up. Alonso Wiley sauntered across the bridge, arms outstretched.

"What's all this, Chappelle?"

Another set of boots came into view. The thug on top of her brought her upright.

Alonso's expression was unreadable.

"Mistreating one of my fighters?"

Chappelle snorted. "Perhaps you need to be more selective. Found her by the riverbank trying to escape. Nothing but a coward. Not that it's any of your business, Whoreson."

"Ah, but it is my business. Novigrad is my business." Wiley fingered the cuff of Chappelle's blazer and smirked. "Too caught up in secret service duties to remember how it all works round here?"

That these two men despised each other was evident. And Rusa was caught in the middle without either one as an ally.

"We have reason to suspect she broke into the library," replied Chappelle stiffly, venom lacing his words.

Alonso laughed. "Seeking inspiration, I imagine. Prose and bloodshed go hand in hand—a thing of beauty it is; a spectacle of sacred word and severed head. Marvellous."

Chappelle waved him off and began the march back to the Church, Rusa in tow. She glanced beseechingly at Alonso who added, "Young Menge's awfully interested in leading the Temple Guard. Got a loyal following, too."

Chappelle hesitated. Alonso's wide mouth stretched into a predatory smile.

"That's your role, ain't it?" he said. "The fanatical whoreson will gladly see you burned at the pyre if it meant serving The Church. May I remind you who's keeping the pup on a leash?"

Chappelle turned on his heel and pointed an accusing finger.

"You're one to talk, Whoreson," he spat. "Mark my words, it'll be your own flesh and blood who knifes you in the back. I long for the day."

Alonso stared out at the river and rocked on his heels, thumbing the chain of his pocket watch. "Cyprian's under control. Not least for the fact that that woman right there smashed half his brains out."

Rusa's eyes burned a hole in the paving. Alonso was getting impatient. He held out a hand.

"I'll be taking the girl."

Finally, Chappelle signalled his men and sneered at the sickening sight of the crime lord striding back to his city, the woman stumbling after him like a wounded dog.

Outside The Passiflora, Wiley gazed up at the night sky. Rusa skirted the flowerbed and eyed him warily.

"Got what you came for then?"

She held her tongue. Merely stared at the man lighting a cigar, completely serene.

"I should thank you for dealing with Cyprian in such a fitting manner."

A smile filtered through the smoke. Alonso climbed the stairs and leant over the banister.

"You'll find the Grove near the theatre in Butcher's Yard. May I suggest taking some classes while you're there?"

Rusa was at a loss. "I—"

"Bedlam's sure to be expecting you. Heard you even figured out the password," Wiley said and tossed his cigar at her feet. He seemed at pains to keep his expression neutral. "Perhaps we'll meet again, Rusa Elyot. Give Thaler my regards. The debt is paid so he can fuck off on his merry way back to Temeria come morning."

Rusa simply stood in the garden of The Passiflora. Thoughts, hazy and fractured, drifted to the delightful memory of punching Thaler in the face. She savoured the moment. The fragrance of the flowerbed grew sour and putrid. Speaking of which, she'd a King to track down.

A/N: Phew! Thanks everyone. It's been difficult being unable to write as much as I used to. I hope you enjoyed - please let me know your thoughts! Are we liking the Rusa/Thaler dynamic? Are we missing the dynamic between her and someone else? Roche? Iorveth? Mmmm. Juicy.