Chapter Eight: The Unicorn and the Silver Eagle Crown

They arrived in Ardkarle at dusk. Kaedwen, the largest kingdom in the North, was known as the second greatest nation in the known world after Nilfgaard. Naturally, its capital, Ardkarle, possessed a grandeur and vibrance befitting its status.

Sheltered by imposing city walls, the capital boasted brick houses, stone-paved streets, twenty-eight thousand permanent residents, and more than twice that number in transient population. And women—women clad in silk, scented with perfume, their shoulder-length hair flowing.

After paying the entrance fee, Lambert led Victor to a tavern called "Lame Nat" within the city, settled their horses, requested a double room, tossed his pack aside, and immediately turned to leave.

Lambert’s hurried manner puzzled Victor, who couldn’t help but call out, “In such a rush—do you have something urgent?”

Lambert stopped, turned, and scrutinized Victor, then gestured for him to follow. They soon arrived at a place with large bathing tubs and attendants ready to scrub their backs, indulging in humanity’s oldest profession.

Perhaps Lambert expected to witness the awkward shyness of a youth’s first time, but Victor remained unfazed. In an era so turbulent and uncertain, seizing pleasure in the moment was only natural.

In the metropolis, at least the attendants bathed daily, so there was none of that overwhelming “brotherly camaraderie” one might find elsewhere.

Victor chose a half-elven attendant: blonde, with cascading waves, blue eyes veiled in a dreamy haze, slightly pointed ears hidden beneath her hair, tall and fair-skinned, and generous in spirit.

…

After expressing his gratitude for her attentive service, Victor didn’t linger to wait for Lambert to finish. After all, a witcher’s stamina far exceeded that of ordinary men.

He returned to the tavern, settled in a corner, ordered roast pork ribs with baked yams, garlic bread, and a large jug of hot milk. Amidst the boisterous chatter of the other patrons, he tried to glean useful information.

His prior preparations at Kaer Morhen had been too naive; without Lambert’s guidance along the way, the journey would have been arduous. Even caring for Loyal on a long trip required all sorts of tricks. Truly, reading a thousand books cannot replace traveling a thousand miles.

After eating his fill, he realized that simply listening in at the inn wasn’t enough to obtain valuable intelligence. First things first: money. Fortunately, he already had a plan.

Victor approached the tavern keeper. “May I ask, what’s the current exchange rate between crowns and ducats? Can I exchange a little here?”

Upon confirming the rate, Victor traded three ducats for one crown, then leisurely returned to his room and closed the door. With practiced hands, he set up a small pot, heated water over the fireplace, and counted the sixty ducats he had left. He selected twenty worn coins with faded unicorn crests and tossed them into the pot.

He kept an eye on the crown he’d just exchanged—a large profile of Radovid V on the obverse, the crowned silver eagle of Redania on the reverse—using it as a reference as he began to stir.

…

By dawn, Lambert had not returned; likely, he’d spent the night in vigorous exertion. After a whole winter holed up in Kaer Morhen, such release was understandable for an energetic witcher.

Well-rested, Victor didn’t mind. He decided to wander the city alone and find a place to break the new crown into smaller change.

…

Medieval cities were seldom praised for their hygiene—there was always the matter of excrement, excrement, and more excrement. But Ardkarle was built atop an elven ruin, and thus enjoyed a complete sewer system, as well as an aesthetic charm.

Northern crowns were easily exchanged for ducats, and with his pockets full, Victor bought modest quantities of saltpeter, sulfur, lime, phosphorus, charcoal, and other common materials at the market, careful to avoid attracting attention by purchasing small amounts from scattered stalls.

He packed the alchemical supplies into his herb satchel and continued his stroll, buying skewers of roasted meat to eat as he walked. This leisure lasted until he noticed a barbershop by the roadside.

…

Lambert finally returned to the tavern that evening, reeking of indescribable filth, his armor stained and damaged in several places.

The silver sword, wrapped in cloth when they reserved the room yesterday, now hung openly alongside the steel sword on his back, complemented by the gleaming cat eyes—unmistakable marks of a witcher.

“Boss, bring a big tub of hot water up to my room!” Lambert barked before heading upstairs, oblivious to Victor eating his dinner in the corner.

As Lambert’s footsteps faded upstairs, Victor overheard whispers growing louder.

“Witcher…”

“…Is that a mutant…?”

“Damn monster…”

“Freak…”

“…A creation punished by the gods and contrary to the natural order.”

“Product of evil sorcery!”

“A demonic creature, filthy and depraved from the depths of hell!”

Hearing more would only anger Victor, so he packed up his basket and carried his food and milk upstairs.

As soon as he entered the room, the stench nearly made him vomit. He regretted bringing food—how could anyone eat in such an environment? Lambert was shedding his armor, preparing to wash off the grime and blood, and the odor was truly intolerable.

“You bastard, gone all day—were you playing in a cesspit?” Victor snapped, though he guessed Lambert had been hunting monsters. He was in no mood to be polite to such a source of pollution.

Lambert unfastened a small pouch from his belt and tossed it in his hand, the sound of coins pleasing to the ear. “Easy job. A few necrophages in the sewers, not large, but voracious. There were several recent attacks.

I was called out by the guard captain first thing this morning—tight-fisted fellow wanted to pay only two hundred, but I pushed it up to three. Kept me busy all day.”

Victor had no interest in Lambert’s naked backside; he turned aside, set his food on the table, and sat down. “Ducats?”

“Did you expect crowns?” Lambert replied sarcastically.

Victor ignored the sarcasm, asking only to confirm the currency. He took a bottle from his herb satchel and tossed it to Lambert by sound. “Swallow.”

Swallow was a witcher’s healing potion: like all witcher formulas, highly effective yet extremely toxic.

Lambert caught the bottle and shook it slightly—the orange-red liquid shone brightly. “Good stuff. I’ll keep it for now; these wounds will mostly heal by tomorrow.”

“Suit yourself.”

After a while, the sound of water echoed, and the stench either faded or Victor grew accustomed to it. He resumed eating.

“I was downstairs eating earlier—when you came up, those patrons…”

“They said some unpleasant things?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t give a damn.”

Victor thought for a moment and added, “Next time, call me if you’re hunting monsters. Maybe I can collect some materials for use.”

“You sure? You looked ready to vomit when you walked in—quite the performance.” Though he couldn’t see, the mischievous expression was palpable.

Victor finished his milk and patted his belly. “Idiot! Sooner or later, you’ll discover that alchemy can do anything!”