Chapter Fifty-Nine: The Great Banker of the Trade District

When the legendary king Desmond of Temeria was still a child clamoring for extra jam on his bread, the "dwarves" had already established themselves as the backbone of the banking industry.

From those early days, several prominent dwarven banking families—the Giancardi, Vivaldi, and Chianfani clans—began expanding their services, opening branches in major cities across the North.

This morning, Golan Vivaldi, the banker living in Vizima, first noticed an incessant twitching of his right eyelid, then observed one of his pet fish floating belly-up, and finally snapped his slipper’s lace. In dwarven tradition, each of these occurrences was a harbinger of misfortune.

He pondered countless possibilities, inadvertently pulling out several meticulously groomed beard hairs in his anxiety. He fretted whether his wife left behind in Mahakam had been seduced by humans or elves, and worried if the dye-laden merchant ship bound for Novigrad had met with disaster.

It was only when a young human, bearing the look of a mercenary and slinging a bag of herbs across his shoulder, knocked at his door and handed him a letter that all the ominous signs found their answer.

Leaving the visitor alone in his lavish drawing room, the banker hurried into his secret chamber, hands trembling slightly as he tore open the envelope. As expected, the letter was penned in the elegant, silver-hooked elven script of Yaevinn.

“Good day, my dear Mr. Vivaldi. Allow me to humbly report that our mutual enterprise once again requires your assistance…”

Having skimmed the letter, Golan set it to the candle flame, burning it to ash. Today, his usually soft chair felt uncomfortably rigid and left his back aching. He deliberated for a long time before picking up his pen and beginning to write a reply in the Common Tongue.

As for the youth waiting in the drawing room, he certainly wasn't sitting idle. He stood up and began to explore, confirming the reputation of the banker who lived in the bustling trade district. The surroundings were indeed impressive: pure silver candelabras, silk tablecloths, and a thick leopard-skin rug before the fireplace.

Several paintings hung on the walls, each intriguing. “First Landing” depicted the scene of humans arriving by ship to this continent. “The Three Hammer Battle” showed a moment from a dwarven civil war in Mahakam. “Pastoral Ode” painted a leisurely, abundant harvest at a rustic farm.

Victor’s gaze was then drawn to a painting titled “Glory of the King,” capturing the scene where “Pure White” Rafard refused the crown.

Rafard was a legendary sorcerer and alchemist who, with wisdom and power, mediated the long-standing discord among the Northern monarchs, ending the “Six Year War.”

Yet, when the people urged this sorcerer to ascend as king of Temeria, Rafard declined. This act became a tale sung for its noble virtue, and to this day, ballads in the city extol his selflessness.

Fixing his eyes on the exquisite painting, Victor stood for a long while, imagining the deeds of this alchemist predecessor, until a voice came from behind: “A noble act worthy of praise, isn’t it?” Golan Vivaldi remarked.

“Do you really think so?” The youth turned calmly. “Perhaps. But in the end, he still accepted the post of royal advisor and became the actual ruler of Temeria, since the king at the time was an imbecile.”

Rafard’s actions set a precedent for later spellcasters, who sought to advise “half-witted” monarchs, maneuvering the realm from behind the throne, thus establishing the tradition of mages meddling in politics.

Golan laughed cheerfully. “Sounds like you don’t quite approve of his choices? I’d have thought any human would admire him.”

“Approval doesn’t matter. I’m just a courier,” the youth replied, his tone indifferent, closing the topic.

He did not need to peek at the letter to guess its contents. With the Squirrel Party shouting for justice outside the city and the non-human banker within, their correspondence was unlikely to be about “a litter of kittens born at home” or “water plants blooming twice”—that sort of cheerful news.

Yaevinn and Golan certainly weren’t kin—the height difference alone made that clear, and their species didn’t quite match either.

None of it concerned him. Victor defined himself simply as a courier, running messages in exchange for the Squirrel Party’s promise not to attack, granting him safe passage through the woods.

Taking the banker’s reply and tucking it into his herb pouch, Victor then selected two books from the packed bookshelf in the drawing room: “Principles of Pathological Morphology” and “Forensic Medicine”—a bonus discovered while exploring, both pioneering works on anatomy, authored by Milo van der Beck.

“Mind lending me these? I’ll return them next time I deliver a letter,” he said, his tone making it clear he’d not considered refusal.

Indeed, Vivaldi did not refuse, only adjusted the terms—he sold the two books for a bag full of Orens, a true banker’s move.

…

A wolf school apprentice with a sterling reputation and a complete lineage, or a cat school apprentice with a notorious name and a dead master? I, Victor, chose to play the latter, for there’s no profit to be made from him.

Moreover, before I possess the means to protect myself, I won’t let anyone know I can perform “Beehive” or “Dancing Star.” Unless I wish to court disaster, these killing arts are the surest path to ruin.

…

During her morning reading, Catherine recalled Victor explaining yesterday, “Catherine, why is it that Wick, though younger than me, always thinks so much more?” The hawk gobbled raw meat, ignoring Angoulême’s latest foolishness.

“Knock knock!” The sound of knocking came from downstairs, interrupting the girl’s thoughts and catching her off guard. Ever since arriving in Vizima, no visitor had come to this house. Realizing this, she immediately buckled on her sword, then hurried downstairs to open the door…

…

After spending considerable time at the market selecting beef and scrutinizing spices, Victor returned home later than expected. At the door, he was surprised to hear pleasant female voices and laughter from within—two women’s voices.

Pushing the door open with anticipation, he was unsurprised to see the long-missed Miss Shani. Today, she wore no plague doctor’s garb, but a cotton-linen blouse, a russet high-neck dress, riding pants and tall boots, with a beige vest atop it all.

Faced with her lake-green eyes clear as a spring, Victor’s lips curled into a bright, sunny smile, reinforced by memories from his previous life and their shared exchanges. With no ulterior motives, she was, without question, the person in Vizima he liked best.

“Hi! I’m off today, found nowhere better to go, so I thought I’d visit you. Hope you don’t mind the sudden interruption?”

“Of course not. I’d welcome such interruptions any number of times.”

Setting his groceries on the cupboard, Victor winked at Angoulême to signal her to continue entertaining their guest, then carried the ingredients into the kitchen. “Shani, stay for lunch! I’m making red wine braised beef—you’ll love it, trust me.”

Locking the kitchen door, the youth stoked the stove, set a large pot to boil, tossed in a whole bone-in beef, salt, sugar, and assorted spices, then uncorked “East-East Red Wine” and poured the entire bottle in.

Lifting the long-handled ladle and plunging it into the pot, Victor was in high spirits. Today, for Miss Shani’s visit, he would offer his “incredible red wine braised beef.”