(Content warning: Contains main characters listening to accounts of discovered victims of rape and murder. First hand descriptions of wounds. Also contains main character struggling with institutional and learned misogyny. Many characters use humour as a shield from unpleasant topics. Please don't hold it against them, or me.)

“I saw him, I did. I did. I saw him.

“He were tall. Standing on the edge of the rooftop as if it were nothing. Just standing there. Right on the point of the roof. He didn't sway, he didn't stagger. He just stood there. Solid as a fucking rock.

“I swear I'm telling the truth. I swear it sir.

“I saw him, I did. I did. I saw him

“He just stood there looking down at me and his handiwork. Sneering at me. You can tell after a while. If you live on the streets for long enough then you get a feel for people that sneer at you. Even when they aren't actually sneering, you can just tell that they are doing it anyway.

“Most people walk past you when you've got your hand out. Most just kind of hunch their shoulders and ignore you. Feeling guilty as they do. You kind of feel sorry for those folks because you know what they're thinking. They're thinking that it could be me sitting there on a blanket and begging for scraps. They're thinking that if they give to me then they should give to everyone and they can't afford it. Why this beggar and not that beggar.

“Then there are the people that stop, have a little chat, maybe pass over some food that they've bought from the stall or shop just down the way. Because they're worried that if they give us money that we'll just spend it on drink or fisstech. Which is not always unfair for certain people that live on the streets. They're the best sort really. You'd be astonished at just how much a small word can help out, even if you can't help with anything better.

“And there are the people that hand out the money. They range from someone sheepishly handing over a few coins to those people that magnanimously toss down a few shaved coppers and act as though we should be grateful for that.

“Which we are.

“But the sneerers. Those are the worst. They fall into all three camps of people. And sooner or later you get a sense for them. They look down at you and just kind of sneer. As though you are the lowest form of scum. Those are the people that, if I wasn't so desperate. I would spit in the hand that held out the coin.

“He sneered. He stood there on the rooftop, his face covered by sack-cloth and he sneered at me. I just knew it. He stood there, unmoving with a butcher's knife held at his side which was still dripping blood. One of those wide, weirdly curved fuckers that look so unpractical but when you see them used in the hands of an experienced and skilled butcher, it kind of makes you afraid.

“It was still dripping blood onto the roof next to him.

“I was so afraid that I was paralysed. I had fallen when I saw her lying there in the alley. That shit shouldn't happen to anyone and I knew her too. Lovely lass she was. Flower of the Night they call her. But I saw her there and I fell. I just fell. My legs had stopped working and I fell to the ground. I tried to crawl towards her but I couldn't move. I don't know why. I cursed myself for a coward and a fool but I still couldn't move. And I looked up to see the moon hanging in the sky.

“And then I saw him, standing there.

“He was tall I think, even if he was well above me. I think he was tall. He had shiny black boots on. The same as them Nilfgaardians wear when they're riding around but don't want to put armour on. Shiny black boots, almost up to his knees.

“I know a lot about boots. If you really want to tell whether a mark is rich or poor, look at his boots. They always forget the boots. Because you can't buy new boots and expect ot just walk around in them. Rich fuckers buy a new pair of boots and then keep them for an age. Just wearing the same boots over and over again. If you need to make money on the streets, look at the boots.

“He had spurs on. Silver highlights that seemed to catch and reflect the moonlight.

“Black trousers I think. But he had on this white tunic. I have no idea about how he must have kept it that white giving all the blood that was around the alleyway. But it was shining white in the evening.

“I couldn't see much detail because he had a large, voluminous coat on. A big black coat or cloak, the kind that any man would envy in the middle of the winter months. I would give a piece of myself for a coat like that. Full of pockets and folds to properly wrap yourself in. His mask was made of sack cloth with two holes cut out where the eyes were and where the rest of him was rich and fancy looking. The sack cloth was cheap and ragged.

“He had a hat on. A stupid, large, impractical hat. Like a tube on top of his head and he Carried a cane as well as the horrible Butcher's knife. A cane with a handle.

“But the thing that really caught at me. The thing that chilled my blood right down to the bone. The thing that I can't stop hearing. The thing that echoes through my skull even as I lay down to try and get to sleep.

“He laughed at me. He looked down from his position on high and I wasn't enough to flee from. I was barely even enough to notice. I had seen what he had done. The horror that he had made out of Nightflower. And he didn't care. He just didn't care. The sheer disdain that he felt for me, the utter lack of worry or concern.

“And he laughed. He laughed so hard that he could barely keep his balance.

“And I knew. I knew what had happened. I lay there in the filth and the muck. I lay there in the blood and the offal and the piss and the shit that had been torn out of the body of a good woman. I lay there with the tears running down my face, paralysed with terror and I knew, right down to the soles of my shoes.

“Jack has returned.”

-

It turns out that Skellige is not the only place on the continent with a rich storytelling tradition. Toussaint is very similar but where Skellige is a place of epics and poems. Of storms and omens and dark deeds performed in shadow and ice. Toussaint is very different.

Toussaint is a place of heroes and villains. There is darkness there, and deeds that would, frankly, cause more than one tale teller of Skellige blanche. But it is all done with a sheen of heroism. A Tale of Toussaint is primarily different due to what comes at the end. In Toussaint there is a truth that is not really found anywhere else. That truth is that Good will always win out in the end. Therefore, to make the triumph of good that much more profound, the darkness before it needs to be even darker.

Now I would be the first person to admit that Good and Evil are subject to the interpretation of the onlooker. One person's hero is another person's villain and I would never claim that that wouldn't be the case. The same with concepts of right and wrong where right is, too often, defined as whatever the whim of the ruling figure is rather than those truths that we take as being evident.

Such as “Murder is bad,” and things like it.

But if you sit and listen to tales being told in Toussaint you would slowly come to a different conclusion. Toussaint is a place of right and wrong, good and evil. Where heroes wear shining armour with bright colours and villains wear black, crimson, or otherwise dark colours with armour that is not properly maintained and has spots of rust on it in order to signify the villains greed and laziness.

Now I know that some of you realise that this, as a system, is abusable by people. By Sir Raoul “The White” not least. And others such as Sir Gregoire, who do not care about such things, can often find themselves in the position of a villain due to the fact that they would rather put their money in proper protection rather than in shiny paintwork or ornamentation.

But in that moment where the minstrel sits down on his stool on the raised stage area and the spell descends over the crowd. Then men are handsome, golden haired heroes, or unshaven but good hearted ruffians. Women are beautiful, demure and kind or the proverbial whore with the heart of gold. Villains are greasy, pale and wear dull black clothing or armour(shiny Nilfgaardian black with symbols of the Golden sun about the place seem to be exempt from this rule. Don't ask me why. I don't make the rules, I just comment on them.).

Rulers are always wise, deceived or under some kind of spell, Wizards always have long white beards and a twinkle in their eyes. Sorcerers (which are different for some unknowable reason) are sinister, urbane people who sometimes turn out to be working on the side of right for their own purposes. The older mentor, or guardian, figure of the protagonist always dies in order to buy time for the protagonist to escape. The chief advisor of the ruler is always untrustworthy while also lusting after the rulers daughter who is young, naive and beautiful, whether male or female.

And no matter what else happens. No matter how dark it gets, no matter how awful the villain's deeds. No matter the savagery of the monster or how awful the things are that happen to the character in question. The protagonist always gets the love interest, the Duchy is always saved and there is always, always rejoicing.

“I saw him, I did. I did. I saw him”

I will admit to having got over this kind of storytelling at about the age of nine. The part of me that was the historian was always wondering how the “rejoicing” was paid for. I always considered why the ruler would be happy with their daughter....

Or son. The dynamic of the rich child and the peasant born child meeting and falling in love was not always a poor boy and rich girl. I found that it often went the other way as well.

… marrying the street urchin of dubious birth when the invading armies could easily be bought off with a quick political marriage.

My tutor used to laugh at this I remember. It was the first time that I was ever told that I might make for a good historian. It was also the first time that I remember being told about literary theory and the prospect of allowing the reader, or listener, to make their own mind up about what happens after the story was over.

I didn't agree. I suppose that part of the problem was that I didn't want to stop spending time with the characters that I had fallen in love with.

But the spell, the magic of a Bard. Whether you call them a Balladeer, a songsmith, a poet, a story teller or a minstrel. That spell that happens when people pull over stools and chairs and gather round. With a drink in their hands and piece of food nearby. Where old people become young again and children sit with their eyes open and mouth agape in the smoky atmosphere of the tavern. The minstrel spends a little bit too long tuning their harp, Lyre or Lute in order to prolong the anticipation.

That spell, is more profound in Toussaint than anywhere else. In Skellige, the respect that people there pay towards a Skald is enforced by laws. Tied up in sacrosanct traditions that possibly predate the very society of the isles itself. But in Toussaint, the only reason to stop and listen is because you want to hear what the person is going to say next.

Why is it different in Toussaint? Why is it so important that people believe that the good guys win and bad guys always lose? I don't know but I do have some theories.

The first theory is that, on the surface, Toussaint is quite a splendid place to be. But just under the surface, life can be quite hard there. It involves lots of hard work under hot son during the day with cold and clear nights. When it rains people can't afford to take shelter. They need to be out there making the best of what they can.

“I saw him, I did. I did. I saw him,”

People are rarely poor in Toussaint, certainly, the beggars and the homeless live better than in any other place in the North with Soup kitchens and hospices around the place. Charity and Mercy being among the Knightly virtues after all. But that doesn't mean that life is any the less hard and even if you are poor or dispossessed then it is often down to your own mistakes rather than anything else. And the society is built on people having second chances. But that relative wealth is bought at the cost of very hard work. No-one is under any illusions. Toussaint lives and dies on it's wine industry. If that fails then they are all perfectly aware that the entire thing falls apart. Work hard and play hard is a way of life for the people of Toussaint.

So people need to have something to believe in. They need to believe that it is possible, however unlikely, that some dashing knight or beautiful lady is going to turn up and rescue them from the life of poverty. It's escapism at it's purest. I suspect that the truth is that the people of Toussaint know that this is the case. But in order for Toussaint to work, it's as though every man, woman and child in Toussaint is operating according to some kind of... unwritten rule. A law really, that believes that these fantasies are true.

The other reason is far darker and less pleasant. I stress that I don't know if this is true but it is one of those possibilities that I know to be perfectly possible. What if... What if the nobility know all of this. So they exercise and encourage these stories to keep people under control. What if they tell everyone that it's perfectly possible for the peasant farmer or street urchin to be taken in by a wealthy family, meet, fall in love with and eventually marry some hopelessly remote object of desire. What if the nobility know this and make sure that the workers and the farmers continue to do what they do in order to continue the dream that one day, they can make the leap. The one from the other.

Maybe I'm being unfair. Maybe.

Another possibility is that Toussaint has certainly got more than it's fair share of monsters. Insectoids abound. As well as the more bestial Vampires you can even find such rarities as Slyzards on the heights. And that is not including the less magical monsters. Big cats roam the countryside as well as boar that would cheerfully eat the Boars of Redania and give your average mountain bear a run for it's money. There are, the same as anywhere, an over abundance of curses and wraiths so Werewolves, barghests and the like are not uncommon.

And lest we forget. Toussaint was a Kingdom, now a Duchy, that was carved from lawlessness by the Knights Errant. Carved from horror at the edge of sword blades. Is it any wonder that they prefer to imagine those old bandits as inhuman monsters and those early knights as shining paragons of virtue who's virtue is reflected in the sheen of their armour?

“I saw him, I did. I did. I saw him,”

This is a topic to be studied by people other than myself. It would take wiser people tha I in order to be able to come up with that. But that's not what I'm here to discuss.

What I was talking about before I got distracted was that Storytelling is part of the blood of Toussaint. More so than the wine that they produce even. The story's of the place are what keep it going and make it into the world that it is. I suspect, now, that there are many reasons why it's called “The Fairytale Kingdom” and this is not the least of it. If you will forgive me getting poestic for just a moment, then it is the place where Fairytales are born.

And whether or not I like it, there is a new villain in the mix now. A new figure of awe and terror that people whispered about in the darkness. A new terror that parents would terrify their children into sleep with. In the South, they tell the tales of the Schattenmann of the Black Forest that cuts off the fingers and toes of small children that do not stay in bed when they are told. In the North, they are told of the Witch man and the Wild Hunt that will chase them in doors while more recently, the dirty and unclean wizards and Witches that will steal proper, flame fearing children from their beds.

That villain is Jack.

“I saw him, I did. I did. I saw him,”

All of these thoughts raced through my mind as I stood in the cells of the Dock Guardhouse and looked down at the frail, pitiable creature in front of me. There had been, or so the Knights believed, four victims of Jack so far and it had been this man that had been the primary witness of the third attack. He was a shrivelled up wretch of a man, gap toothed, hairy, unkempt, ragged, wild haired and obviously starving. He was not injured that I could see, but he was also, completely terrified.

He was kept in the cells when I got there and we had to go down there in order to check on him as the guards didn't dare bring him up to the surface in order to talk to him.

He was also exhausted.

“I sore 'im I did. I diiid. I sore 'im” Was just an example of his speech and as close to an example of his voice as I can muster. He whispered that phrase. Over and over again as he was hunched over on a stool that some guardsman had provided for him. He was all hunched over as though he was desperately trying to protect himself from something. Hands clasped together as though they guarded something precious.

I have no idea what that something was, but his entire figure suggested that it was something of incredible worth. The Sergeant of the Watch-house was a Toussaint man through and through and after he had told us that the man's hands were empty. His romantic soul shone through and he told us that the man was desperately holding onto his integrity. As though it was something that could be guarded and looked out for.

I was a little heartbroken by him if I'm honest. It was a bit of a wake up call to me. I could so easily see myself in his position. So very easily and I could, just as easily, see myself there at the end of a long road. If I ran away from everyone and took to alcohol in an effort to dull the pain that was my constant companion. Not the physical pain although that was a factor. But the pain of knowing that I had failed so utterly and so spectacularly.

I'm not going to argue the nature of my failure now in my search for Francesca. I know that there was nothing that I could have done and there are plenty of people around who can reinforce that for me if I am not strong enough to do that for myself. But this man... He was the kind of man that I could see myself becoming. Or have seen myself becoming if people like Ariadne and Kerrass had not been standing next to me.

If friends at University hadn't taken me in and looked after me after having been ostracised from family. And if Emma, Mark, Sam and Francesca hadn't been there. To remind me that not all of my family hated me.I remember looking down at the poor wretch and feeling my own tears, hovering unshed in a sheen over my sight, echoing the poor man's tears. I remember looking down upon him and thinking “There but by the grace of the Flame and several good people, sit I.”

Over and over and over again he would tell us the same thing through the tears running down his face, between the sobs that had destroyed his throat so that he spoke in a hoarse whisper. Along with the legend. “I saw him, I did. I did. I saw him,” was another phrase that he muttered, more to himself than to any of the guardsmen that had looked after him. Not to me or to any of the people that had gone to that cell to talk to him either. Over and over again he said. “It just ain't right. It's not right. Not like that. So beautiful a person. It just ain't right.”

After a bit of probing, it would come to light that he was also one of the town drunks and a petty thief to boot. But what he had seen had driven him to the guard. But that was the problem, in seeing what he had seen, he had sworn of alcohol for now and forever. So he was also going through alcohol withdrawal at the same time.

To finally get him to talk to me, Kerrass had to calm him with a gesture and a flash of green magic. When calm he seemed to share that same skill of storytelling. Apparently it's not unusual that the dregs of society share this skill in Toussaint. After all, what are people going to do with themselves when they are sitting round a small fire, trying to keep warm, passing around the last bottle of strong alcohol. What can they do for entertainment other than to tell each other stories.

“It was late.” He whispered, his eyes staring into the middle distance. “The Soup Kitchen is alright and everything. The good soup more than makes up for the shitty preaching that the guy in charge gives out with the rolls of bread. Harry and Kreskit were gonna stay there but the other problem with the Soup Kitchen is that the miserable fucker that owns it won't let you have a drink there.

“So I decided that I would head down to the Belles and see if I could scrounge up some milk (Freddie's note: Apparently Beauclair slang for strong alcohol.). The customers round there are normally good for a bit of extra coin. The added guilt of going to visit a brothel when they've got wives and children at home is normally a good incentive to try and get some extra stains off of the soul by giving out some coin to the beggars.

“It were a cold night too. So I rather thought that I might be able to do quite well out of it. A nice bit of shivering does a world of good to the atmosphere, gives an extra bit of weight to the guilt that people feel and it also meant that I would pretty much have the place to myself. So I went down there and had picked out my spot. The men on the door were known to me and normally fairly good to bum a bit of pipeweed out of them or a bit of a drink.

“It sounded like everyone was having a good night in there. Lots of laughter, noise and music coming from the downstairs and lots of sounds of.... another nature coming from the upstairs windows if you know what I mean.

“Pickings were good to be honest, winter is always best for it which is just as well as being able to find some small work from the vinyards is all but impossible in this time of year. So I were in pretty good spirits really. Laughing and joking with the men on the door and I was confident that I would be able to send one of them back indoors to get me a bottle of something suitably cheap if you know what I mean.”

He paused for a long moment after that for the ghosts of memory to chase across his brain.

“She came out late. Not so late that she was going to be staying, but still pretty late. Us on the streets call her Nightflower. We know that she goes by Flower of the Night. But that's a little bit too posh for us. So we call her Nightflower. She's always been kind to us and is always good for a bit of a chat and a bit of gossip. She remembers what it was like you see. She grew up on the streets for a couple of years before it became clear just how beautiful she was gonna grow up to be. Beautiful enough that the streets would become dangerous. Beautiful enough to find work.

“So even if she has no money, the oppotrunity to stand and talk with her is a blessing to someone like me. I know what I am. I am the filth that you scrape off the sole of your boot. I'm a thief, a liar, a drunk and a cheat. No sense denying it. But in that moment, talking to one of the most beautiful women in the world. When she smiles at you and laughs at one of my stupid jokes. You find yourself thinking that it all might be worth it for some of the beauty in the world.

“She has that trick you know. The trick of making you feel valued and loved. As though you're the most important person in the world. Sometimes, that's a greater gift than money.

“She stopped to say hello, same as she ever would and told me off for not being indoors where it were warm. Scolding me on the grounds that she didn't donate to the homeless shelters and the soup kitchens for me to freeze to death out here. She looked around I remember. Looked around as though she was afraid of something, nervous about something. But then she didn't see it and she seemed to relax a little. As though one of the cares on her shoulders had been lifted. She laughed a little before lifting her hood up and walking off into the night.

“She wore a dark cloak. She always did. Under that cloak her beauty was on display with all the artifice that the dress maker could ensure. She would stand out in the room like a rose in the nettle patch but the moment that she wrapped herself in that cloak, you wouldn't be able to pick her out of a crowd. That's if you could see her at that time of night.

“Off she went and we thought nothing else about it.

“I spent a little while longer there. Generally speaking you know when it's time to turn around and go home. In this case home was a blanket near the hearth of the Soup Kitchen, so I could get first pickings from the morning soup. It's an instinct really, born out of many years sitting out and waiting for a moment like this one. It's when the sounds downstairs die off, but the ones upstairs are still going if you follow.

“At that time of night, anyone upstairs is staying for the duration and will be eating breakfast there. So I counted my earnings and got one of the doormen to go indoors and fetch me a small bottle of something. I couldn't afford much so the spirit were cheap but I'm not fussy when it comes to that kind of thing. I'm not as bad as I have been. I once ate my own vomit because I didn't want to waste the vodka that I'd drunk. But I will still take spirits that others would ignore.

“They gave me a flask and told me to be on my way. They weren't harsh about it. It was just... the cost of doing business you know?

“So I walk back to the soup Kitchens feeling well pleased with myself. I took my time too. I didn't want to share any of the milk with any of the others you see. After a while it becomes a real risk that you are going to be there with your bottle of hard won alcohol and then all your mates are asking for a sip to take the edge off the cold and the hardship and the self-loathing that comes with it all. And of course you do that because you remember those nights when a snifter from a friend's bottle is all that kept you going on the cold and hard nights.

“But I wanted to savour it a little. I had won the stuff and I wanted to savour it. If you go into a situation like that with a bigger share of a bottle then people take more liberties you know? I don't mind helping some friends with a little sip. But if there was a bigger bottle then people take more.

“I know what that makes me sound like. Believe me I know.

“So I were on my way back, taking the side alleys out of habit. We all knew about that lady that had been attacked a couple of nights before and so you take the side alleys so that you don't get involved in anything. It never pays someone like me to get involved in anything political and that thing looked and sounded political to me. So I avoided it like the fucking Catriona.

“And you mark my words. No-one knows the streets better than the beggars. Even the thieves think that they are smarter than us but at the end of the day, a thief who knows the fastest route to the fence and the hideout is nothing compared to the beggar that knows that the difference between a hot meal and a warm blanket is who gets there first. I know that because I have been on both sides of that argument.

“So I were taking the side alleys home when I see something out of the corner of my eye. I don't know what it were. I swear to you that I have no idea what it was. I've thought about it since but I can't tell you what it was. I remember that it was strange and seemed... odd to me. My first thought was that it was some kind of wraith. They might be less common in the cities and things, but that doesn't mean that they don't turn up. Spurned people still happen in the city, not just out in the farmland. But then again, there have been less problems with that sort of thing since Lord Geralt moved in nearby.

“I met him once, Lord Geralt I mean. He was in the soup kitchen asking about some messages that a friend had been delivering.

“But I saw something. The second thing I thought was that it were a nipper out on the streets. There are rules to living on the streets and one of those rules is that you never leave a kiddie behind. Fuck knows what could happen to them if you do. Freezing to death is the very best thing that they could hope to come across.

“But you never leave a kiddie behind. You take them in, find them somewhere warm to sleep and get some food in them. Their lives are hard as it is and the last thing they need is some kind of grubby old man taking advantage of them. Normally, we take them off to the orphanage outside of town. The guards on the gate are understanding about that kind of thing and they let you back into Beauclair if they know that the reason you left was that you were taking a Kiddie off to the orphanage. They've been known to get shirty otherwise.

“So you never leave a Kiddie behind. So I went to look didn't I. I wish I hadn't. I really wish I hadn't.

“I took another long pull from the flask on the grounds that if I had to try and talk a kid out from whatever hiding place that they had found, then I would need to be relatively charming. I'm really bad at being charming when I'm sober. I tend to try and steal things when I'm sober.

“So I come round the corner. Slowly. If it were a Kiddie then I don't want to scare them off or otherwise make them run away as there were no way that I would catch them. I'm not kidding myself. I'm not as young as I was and I didn''t save wisely. I spent all my ill-gotten gains on booze mostly. Booze and women.

“But I went with quantity rather than quality. In both cases.

“Blood doesn't look red in the moonlight. It looks black. But even despite this, there is no denying what it is that you're looking at. Moonlight removes all colour from the scene so that it was bathed in blacks, whites and silvers.

“There were blood everywhere. It was like a butcher's slaughtering yard. It were only a small alleyway but it was like walking into a battlefield. I once heard a joke, that part of the reason that Knights wear so much armour is because they are just trying to keep all the blood and guts on the inside. That when a Knight has died in combat, then quite often you take all the armour off and the blood just runs out. I remembered that joke as I shuffled into the alley. I remembered that joke because it made me think that this is what it would have been like. Walking into an armoured suit when the person inside it has died.

“There was a figure lying on the ground a little bit further up the road. I couldn't see who it was at first because she was on her back and facing away from me. She was obviously dead. No-one looks like that was still alive. I crept forwards. I don't know why. She were dead, there was clearly nothing I could do for her. In my more unworthy moments I think that I might have been looking to see what I could salvage from her body.

“I hope not. But the fear is there nonetheless. I came round, carefully putting my feet down so I didn't get any blood on them. I didn't choose to do that. It was just an instinct really which seems odd because my other instinct was to run, the fuck, away.

“I recognised the dress first. Nightflower always liked blue dresses. I don't know why but she always liked blue and this was no different. Slightly more revealing than the dresses that the noblewomen wear. But slightly more modest than the dresses that the other girls wore. Showing off more but leaving more to the imagination.

“The dress was torn, all but destroyed. Ripped really.

“I remember moaning a denial. I refused to believe it. I knew it had to be true. The dead woman had the right coloured hair, the dress was the same and although this place wasn't on the way back to where her house was...

“Of course I knew. We all knew. She makes enough to keep a cook who acts as a maid as well and she's always good for some leftovers out the back door.

“But I didn't want it to be her. It seemed wrong somehow. I didn't want it to be her. But it was her. It was always her. And the worst thing was, that the only reason that I could recognise her was because Jack had left her face untouched. Her eyes staring out of that face in a stark and terrifying horror. As though she was looking at something that was tearing her very being apart. Because of course it was. Her mouth open in a scream that no-one had heard.

“She had been stabbed, over and over and over and over again. And where she hadn't been stabbed, she had been slashed and slashed as though by a madman in a fury. A frenzy really. There were also... bits of her stacked next to.....

“I can't.... I can't....”

“....

“She was barely even a body by the time he was done with her. She was barely even a thing. I've seen cow caracasses look stronger and better held together than she was. I've seen dead pigs that looked more like meat. She didn't look like a body. She looked like offal. She looked like an empty leather bag of leather.

“And she was still warm. She was still warm. How could she still be warm?

“...

“It won't surprise anyone that I vomitted. I felt dizzy. I still didn't believe it. Nightflower couldn't be dead. She couldn't. I still can't believe it. She was the one of us that was going to make it. She was going to get out. She was going to retire to the country and get a nice little cottage somewhere where she was going to raise goats. That is if she didn't meet some rich kind of a Lord that would sweep her off her feet and look after her. She was the Princess to us all. All us folk on the streets.

“And she were dead. It was awful, I nearly fell down. Which was when I heard him.

“He was laughing at me. He was standing on the rooftop looking down at me. And he was laughing at the horror that he had caused.

“I recognised him instantly. Of course I did. There isn't anyone in Toussaint that doesn't know what he looks like. They still tell the stories about that night in the taverns and in the small gatherings of people all over Toussaint. Of course I recognised him.

“And he laughed. At me, at her, at us. He laughed at Toussaint and Beauclair and the guard and the beggars and the people and everything and I just lay there. I don't remember falling but it was as though I had been knocked from my feet by the force of his... scorn.

“I wept from the force of it. He seemed to stagger as though he had been knocked from his perch by the force of his laughter. He was almost bent double with the hysterical shouts that he had. Before he seemed to straighten. He tugged the lip of his hat in this kind of mocking salute to me before he turned and jumped down.

“I don't know how long I lay there. I remember turning and looking over at Nightflower and longing for her eyes to blink. For all of this to be some kind of nightmare.

“I turned and crawled. At first it was hard but then I came to my feet and started moving. I was sober now. Gods and Prophets but I wanted to be drunk. I got to the end of the alley and retched again. I didn't know what to do. I literally turned to head towards the soup kitchen but then a thought came to me that I couldn't leave her like that. I couldn't leave her in the dirt and the filth for the rats and the flies to get to her. I couldn't.“So I went back. I took what passed for my winter cloak from my shoulders and draped it over her. So her face was covered at least. It wasn't big enough to cover the rest of her.

“I remember walking to the guard post. It seemed to take a long time and I was constantly looking up. I was constantly waiting for Jack to jump down and end my miserable life with the flick of a sword and blow of a club.

“Heh. In all honesty it's a miracle that the guards didn't arrest me there and then for the murder themselves. I was covered in blood and filth. I suppose it was a good job that they knew me though. It took them a while to get my story, I was sober but the alcohol and the... rest of it had cut gouges out of my brain.

“They keep telling me that I was brave to come back here. They keep thanking me for it as though I did something remarkable. I didn't. I lay there, cowering in fear while that prince of fuckers stood there and laughed at me. Me and the woman that he had ruined. The wonderful woman, the perfect woman and he had killed her.

“I loved her. We all did and now she's dead. I had to come back. I had to tell someone before... before...

“...

“I'll tell you this My Lords. I am a drunk, a drug addict, a smuggler in my youth, a thief and yes, I have been a murderer in the past. It were him or me both times and I'll hold my hand up to it. But I've never raped a woman, I've never killed in cold blood and I've only ever fought in self defence.

“There are just some things you don't do. You just don't do them you know? Tell me that you know that?

“You don't do what that bastard did to her. You just don't. It don't matter if it was a boy, girl, man or a woman. It doesn't matter if they're Elf, Dwarf, Halfling, Lord, Lady, Rich, Poor, Foreign or local. You just don't do that to a person.

“You just don't.”

He wept after telling us his story and they made him drink a sedative so that he would get some rest. I asked what was planned to do with him and no-one had an answer for me. As we walked away though, Captain De La Tour commented something.

“Even scum have standards.” He said.

-

I closed my eyes for a long moment after Syanna dropped her shock declaration about Jack and listened to the room.

It was all but silent. I could hear the crackling of the fire and the movement of the armour as the Knights breathed in and out. It felt like... It was one of those moments. The moment before the beginning of the storm, the moment before we had headed out on our “Quest” in Skellige. The moment before the fighting had actually started back in Angral.

Apparently there is a name for it although I have no idea what it is. The poets call it “The calm before the storm” but I find I don't like it being phrased like that. I mean it's technically correct as I said earlier, but saying “The calm before the storm” makes it sound more beautiful than it actually is. Warriors and soldiers refer to it as the moment between when the “advance” is sounded by the horns and the soldiers all look at each other for just a moment before one of them puts that first foot forward knowing that they all might be about to die.

It says something about me that I find that moment kind of exciting.

Why?

Because another time that this moment comes is in that moment immediately after the girl says yes but before you start kissing.

I listened to it in that moment. I felt it in my fingers and my toes. That same cold and ready feeling that comes before a fight is due to start. I thought about it for a moment and asked myself how I felt about it. Did I like it? Did I want it? Or was it it something that I needed to be frightened of and monitor to make sure that I didn't... lose myself in it.

I had just realised that I didn't know the answer, but also that this was my future. Of constantly monitoring feelings and emotions to see if I needed to be scared of what my body or my mind was telling me.

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Someone cleared their throat and it startled me into action.

“You all knew that this was happening.” I said quietly as I opened my eyes. It was not a question and no-one answered it. “You all knew that this was happening and you chose not to tell me about it.”

I found, much to my surprise, that I was angry.

“Freddie.” A woman's voice. “We...”

“What do you need from me?” I asked the Knight Commander and rose to my feet. I had not moved or spoken to interrupt whoever it was that had started to speak. But I did so and they lapsed into silence.

“There are two problems.” Syanna told me. Her expression was neutral, if guarded. “The first is... Is it Jack or is it a copycat? The second is, if it is Jack, how do we deal with it?”

I nodded as I took that in. I shifted, there was something in the back of my robe that was scratching between my shoulderblades.

“So...” I prompted.

“So we thought that you could come, listen to our accounts, look at what evidence we've gathered, speak to the witnesses and then make a recommendation. The remit of the Knights of Saint Francesca is such that we are not to take on impossible tasks by ourselves. But to enquire of specialists if we do not have the knowledge and the experience ourselves. This is me, doing precisely that.”

I nodded and took a deep breath.

“Ok. I need to think and get dressed as I can hardly come with you in my underclothes and a robe.” I turned to leave and was most of the way to the door before Mark took my arm and stopped me.

“Freddie, you're sick. You can't...”

I shook his arm off violently. More violently than I intended and Mark stepped back, shocked.

“You knew.” I hissed, again I was surprised that I was quite as angry as I was. “You knew that people were being attacked, raped and murdered.” I took my time saying it, forcing my voice to stay calm and level. I didn't want to break and whimper it, burst into tears of rage or let my voice shake. I reached for strength and it wasn't there so I took my time.

“I assume that you have come to ask for my help before?” I asked Syanna who was also looking a little... wide eyed. She nodded.

“You knew.” I went on. “You knew that people wanted my help. That my help might have saved people. And you kept it from me.”

“We didn't want...” I know that it was Emma that was speaking that time because I saw her.

“We went to a party last night.” I snapped and closed my eyes so that I could fight for control. “People were being attacked, raped and murdered. And we went to a party last night.”

I turned my back on them, all of them and walked into my room where I stood and trembled for a moment. The door opened and closed behind me and I spun, anger on the edge of my tongue.

“It's only me.” Anne told me. “I came in for whatever you need.”

“I need a shirt.” I told her after a moment's thought. “A shirt, warm tunic and trousers. Boots as well if we're going to be riding and I rather suspect that we are. Probably a warm cloak. I suspect that Im going to be susceptible to the cold at the moment.”

Anne nodded before a slow smile crept across her face. “You look better. Righteous anger looks good on you.”

“Does it?” I wondered. “That's good because I'm shaking like a leaf.”

She came over and hugged me briefly. “This is advice that you've probably heard before, or a version of it anyway. It was something that I was told when I was first given to the Brothel. The Madam told me that a client only sees what you show them. If you show them happiness then they will see that. Bury your doubts and your fears and your pain and show the world that you are having pleasure. They will believe you because that's what they want to see. Then one day, you might even have a bit of pleasure as a side-effect.”

I felt the stirrings of humour. “So you're saying that I should fake an orgasm.”

She laughed. “Humour suits you as well.”

“I know what you're saying.” I told her. “You're telling me to fake it till I make it.”

“Pretty much.” She agreed as she pulled out a shirt. “Now get out of your robe while I pretend that I'm your servant for a bit. Just don't get used to it. I am neither nurse or servant.”

“I remember.”

I often find it easier to do as the beautiful women tell me. It makes for a quieter life.

She helped me on with my shirt and tunic. I rather insisted on putting on my own pair of trousers which made her giggle a little at my expense before I pushed my feet into my boots. The clothing was the warm stuff that we had been given as part of the package from the tailor. None of it would be wearable in the North without people making Peacocok jokes. But some warmer clothes had been added in case we were to go riding around Toussaint.

It was certainly warm but I will admit that I found it a little uncomfortable. It felt tight across the shoulders and didn't seem as though it fit me properly. The closest I can suggest was that feeling that you get when you get dressed in the early part of the morning when it's still dark and your mind is fogged with lack of sleep. Then you put your tunic on the wrong way round. It still fits but it doesn't quite and you struggle with it until you realise that you put it on the wrong way round.

That's what it felt like.

But I wore my old boots. At least my feet would be warm and comfortable.

Anne helped me into my new fur-lined cloak which, again, felt a little too large and unwieldy. But at least it was warm. She came round the front and straightened the collar and pulled my belt into the proper positioning with my dagger in place of a sword.

“There we go.” She declared. “A regular little Knight Errant Lordling.”

“I know you mean well.” I told her. “But did you, or did you not, just insult me rather grievously.”

She turned her head on one side. “It could go either way.”

She leant forward and kissed me briefly and it struck me that I was standing very close to a beautiful woman.

“Not that I'm complaining.” I told her. “But what was that for.”

“For luck.” She said. “And you really do seem better this morning. Now off you go before the already tense situation in the room next door starts to get even further out of hand.”

She swatted me on the ass on the way out.

The other room had barely moved. The only person that was out of position was Mark and I guessed that this was because he was given to pacing.

Emma came over to me. “Freddie, I know you're angry but... you are sick. You can't....”

“I don't want to hear it.” I told her as calmly as I could manage. “I am going to help. Because I can.”

She opened her mouth to start speaking and I held my hand up to stop her.

“I know.” I began. “I know that this was kept from me as an effort to help me, and out of care for my... fragile state and illness.”

I looked around the room. Emma was defiant, but I thought I could see doubt in there as well. Mark was sullen and thoughtful. Ariadne was wearing her mask of calm which meant that she was probably quite agitated. Laurelen and Kerrass looked resigned.

“Believe me when I say,” I was talking carefully and calmly again, there was still a lot going on and I wanted to be very clear when I said what I to say. I had to clear my throat and start again. “Believe me when I say that the only reason that I am not walking out in disgust is that you did what you did out of care for me. But I am appalled that you have behaved in this way. I hope it is obvious, that if I could have helped with this, and your delay cost some poor woman her life or.... her virtue or worse. Then that is on you and I will be the first person to lay the blame.”

“Freddie...” Mark began. Emma looked as though I slapped her.

I cleared my throat again. “I am going to go and help now.” I said, still speaking as slowly and carefully as I could. “I am also using this time to try and calm down.”

“Freddie...” Mark tried again.

“Believe me when I say.” I interrupted. “That we are not done with this topic of conversation. I will decide what I want to say when I am calmer, and I shall address this by tomorrow morning at the latest.”

I took a deep breath. Emma wouldn't meet my gaze any more.

“But for now,” I went on, “Your concerns are not unfounded. I also need some things.”

Ariadne nodded slightly and climbed to her feet.

Kerrass finally moved, pushing himself away from the hearth. “What do you need Freddie?” He asked.I nodded. I realised that I had been most afraid of what those two reactions would be.

“Ok first, Laurelen?” Laurelen stood up from where she had been sitting in the corner of the room.

“I am here.” She said. “What do you need?”

“I need either you, or someone, to go to my publisher at Oxenfurt and bring back a copy of my unedited reference book on Jack, we might need it as I don't have all my notes with me and the book is far better for reference should we need it.”

Laurelen nodded. “I shall go and use the transport gate directly.”

“You know which one is my Publisher?”

She nodded as she walked over and put her hand on Emma's shoulder. Emma's eyes were tearing up a bit and the two women hugged.

“I will be back later today.” Laurelen declared. “Where can I find you if not here?”

“I don't know, Knight Commander?”

“The Chapter house. Or they can direct you.” Syanna said.

Laurelen left quietly in the company of one of the Knights.

“Ariadne,” I went on, looking over at her. She met my gaze calmly. “Everyone's concerns about my health are... not unfounded. Come with me and....” I took a deep breath. “And keep an eye on me for that.”

She nodded. “Always My Love.”

“And Kerrass.” I said. “I don't know how to say this. But if Jack is out there, then I need you to... I need you.” I tried to think of what else to say to add to that. But those words seemed to cover it. So I shrugged to show that I was finished.

“Never leave your side Freddie.” He seemed to think. “I just need to get a few things.”

I nodded as he disappeared back in the direction of the rooms.

I tried to think. This had always seemed to come so easy to me.

“Knight Commander.” I spoke before I knew what I was going to say.

“Lord Frederick.”

“If Jack is out there, attacking, killing and raping. I trust that recent confrontations will not modify your care over my sister. I love her dearly and would not lose her to this.”

I think I'm not imagining Emma sobbing at that but I did not trust myself to look at her without losing control of my voice and my composure.

“I cannot double her guard as I do not have the manpower.” Syanna told me. “I shall speak with Captain de la Tour and see if he can spare some men to add to your family's protection.”

I nodded at that.

“Ok then. I would just like to speak to Ariadne briefly, in private, while Kerrass is preparing.”

Syanna nodded. I noticed that Mark had knelt next to Emma's chair and was hugging her. I held my hand out, which Ariadne took and I led her into the corner of the room.

I looked at her for a long moment. She was as close to her image, her mask, of humanity as I had seen her in a while. A sure sign of some kind of distress.

“I... ummm.” I paused. “Not gonna lie, but I could use a hug?” I asked, dismayed by how small my voice was.

“Oh Freddie. Oh Love.” Her mask dissolved and she wrapped her arms round me. “I'm so sorry.” She whispered in my ear. “I am so sorry. I promise that I will never do it again. I'm so sorry.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Your sister asked me not to tell you. Ordered me in fact” She pulled back and I saw, again, a Vampire weeping. “And I will admit that at the time, it seemed like a good idea. Later, I argued with them but they insisted and I am not your family yet. So...”

“Fuck that.” I snarled, a little harsher than I wanted to. “You are my family now. Fucking hell, you are my world.”

She hugged me again at that.

“I won't lie.” I said into her ear. “I am really hurt and really angry and we're going to need to talk about that at some point.”

“We will.”

“But I love you.” I told her. “I wanted to remind you of that.”

She nodded. “Thank you. And I love you. I will never stop.” Something in the way she said that caught at my soul.

Then, lightening fast, her mood changed as she pulled back a bit, gazing at me critically. “You seem better.”

“That's good because I'm shaking like a leaf.” I told her.

She visibly considered me. “I must speak with Anne before we go.”

Kerrass emerged from the corridor with a couple of bundles that he was still tying up and slinging on his back. Ariadne came after him wearing some kind of travel dress.

I didn't notice. I was frowning and staring into space. I would like to say that I was thinking. Considering everything that I needed to say, everything that I needed to do and what I needed to look out for. But I feel that the truth is much closer to my simply staring into space.

I also understand from witnesses, that both Emma and Mark tried to approach to talk to me but chickened out at the last moment.

We left afterwards to find that horses were ready and we mounted up. We were just leaving the palace courtyard when I shook myself and shivered.

“Nothing to say to me Kerrass?” I wondered.

“No.” He said after a while.

“Why?” I wondered.

“We made a mistake. It's not the first time and it will not be the last. I don't know,” he shifted in his saddle. It was neither his horse, nor his saddle and he was still getting used to it. “It kind of feels a little bit as though I have nothing to apologise for while, at exactly the same time, knowing that an apology is not nearly enough.”

He sighed and shifted his weight again, adjusting some of the packs and bundles that he had insisted on tying to his horse. I recognised his alchemy kit but beyond that there were several other sacks and blanket wraps that I didn't recognise.

“It was a mistake.” He said. “I wanted to tell you because I had said that I would never hold anything back and I absolutely meant it at the time. But there is no denying that the last time I told you something, it made you ill for quite a long time afterwards. Emma and Mark insisted and, like Ariadne, I didn't feel as though I was... I didn't have the right to go around them.”

“That's.... an excuse Kerrass.” I told him.

“No.” He argued. “It was an explanation. I make no excuses. I also don't want to pass the blame but your family didn't want you involved. And after what happened last night, I am not entirely sure that they are wrong to do so.”

I nodded and we rode on in silence for a short while.

“As I said to Ariadne.” I told him. “I cannot deny that I am upset and angry about this. We will need to talk about that at some point.”

“I know.” He admitted.

There was a set to him. The same kind of posture and facial expression that told me that I wasn't going to get any further than that. The one that he would get upon him when he thought that I was skirting near subjects that were to do with Witcher secrets back during the early part of our association.

“How long have you known that it was Jack?” I wondered at him, shifting my shoulders. The cloak was heavier than I was used to.

“I didn't.” He said. “I had heard rumours and things but that always struck me as hysteria. I knew that there had been attacks and, as is the way with such things, especially in Toussaint, there were people that see Jack in the shadows any time that people have been attacked and murdered horribly. That's how his story spreads after all.”

I grunted at that. “Did you offer your services or try to pursue the matter yourself.”

“I offered.” He said. “But my help was declined.”

“Oh?” Knight Commander Syanna wondered, breaking in to the conversation. “I had not heard that.”

“I went to the Chapter House after the first attack became public.” Kerrass told her. “I was told, politely and firmly that my help was not wanted and my presence was unwelcome.”

Syanna stiffened for a moment before sighing. “It would seem that I still have some work to do then.”

“Factions in the knights?” I wondered.

“There are always going to be factions.” She admitted. “We predicted that from the start, indeed we tried to harness it in the name of friendly competition. Between the warriors and the investigators. The noble blooded and the common born. It was always going to happen but one of our core things is supposed to be that we would not look down on qualified help.”

“Interesting.” Ariadne said.

“I will admit that that was supposed to be about Local guides taking the Knights to the bandit encampment but...” Syanna shrugged.

“How likely is this going to be standing on people's toes?” I wondered.

“Some.” Syanna admitted. “Damien, my sister and I wanted to consult you immediately. As did Guillaume and some of the more experienced knights who either know of you, survived the Fish market with injuries or have worked with Lord Geralt. But there are quite a few that feel as though they want to prove themselves. Without realising that there are things that we can't handle. And that's part of the point of making us different from the old Knights Errant.”

“Any other issues?”

Syanna sighed. “We thought you were spurning us. We had been told several times that the message had been passed on and that you hadn't responded. So a few people will be offended that you have “finally deigned to show up” and lend us your aid. I will make what happened clear though as soon as I am able.”

I nodded and let myself drift along, back to the problem.

I was torn. I didn't want to theorise or come up with anything before I had actually seen some of the evidence that Jack had come back. I didn't want to come up with anything or a course of action. But I couldn't help it.

Why would he come back? That was the main question that was bouncing through my mind. Generally speaking, the only time that he would arrive anywhere was when the people of an area stopped being afraid of what was round the corner. What was the thing, the monster, that hid in the darkness of the path? What was watching you from just outside the torchlight at the end of the alley way or underneath the shadowed arches of the old stone bridge in the rural tracks of the countryside.

That was when Jack would arrive and start throwing his weight around. But the story of Jack's passage was still fresh in people's minds. People were still talking about him in fear. It was part of the reason that we had been able to justify writing a book on the subject. That if we let people know that Jack was out there, hiding on the edge of vision. Then he wouldn't need to come back.

So why would he come back? That was the biggest question that was running through my head. Not “was Jack really back?” But why would he come back. There didn't seem to be a great deal of point to it.

There wasn't enough information of course and I was fighting to not allow myself to spend too much time thinking of potential solutions to the riddle.

But, I am also forced to admit, that it was rather pleasant to have a question to answer, a mystery to solve that wasn't anything to do with worrying about my own mental state.

We rode out of the capital and along the road past the famed estate Corvo Bianco until we reached and crossed the river before turning South and South East. It was another beautiful day in Toussaint, the cold sun reflected off the frozen water of the river. But now that I was looking for it, I could see signs that all was not well in Toussaint. There were still children skating on the ice, but I noticed that they would periodically look up at the sky to see what time it was. Even despite the fact that it was well before noon by the time we had departed.

There was a lot of that kind of thing. The fields were mostly deserted anyway. It was, after all, only just past the middle of winter and we had a long time to go before spring. But we could see lookouts and other things moving around. People were doing some work, the kind of rebuilding work that would normally come with the middle of winter. Making sure that there was enough firewood. But there was a frenzied element to it. We came through one little village and the villagers were soaking bundles of hay in oil to help them burn.

“Making sure there's enough light.” Kerrass commented.

A large and angry group of men came out of the tavern. I had seen worse mobs, and larger. For a start, the person who was doing the talking was in the front of the group rather than hiding in the back. But they marched up to our group.

And they were all armed.

“Well Commander.” The front one began. “Still polite but there was an anger to his words. “Are you going to take us seriously this time?”

Syanna sighed. “I never didn't take you seriously Mayor Jerone. The simple fact of the matter that Toussaint is a big place and it is going to take time to catch the bastard.”

“You'll forgive me.” The man said, clearly dissatisfied with what Syanna had said. “But it doesn't seem as though you have things in control. We can help.”

“I agree.” Syanna agreed. “You can help by staying indoors and keeping track of everyone in your village.”

“But...”

“What you can't do is go around assaulting strangers and foreigners because you don't like the look of them.”

“We are protecting our own.” The mayor said. “If the Knights can't protect us then we need to protect ourselves.”

Syanna's posture and voice hardened. “I would remind you, Mister Mayor, that the formation of a militia is prohibited. By which I mean any mechanism that you might invent to take the law into your own hands. That includes the formation of vigilence committees, neighbourhood watches and any other fancy words that you have learned out of the poetry books.”

“But...”

“Law enforcement is a matter for the Knights in the countryside, and for the Guard in the city. By all means report anything that you see that might be suspicious. But pre-emptive action will be dealt with just as seriously as we will deal with the perpetrator of these horrible crimes. I promise you that.”

She turned her horse and led the rest of us out and past the village.

“What was that about?” Ariadne wondered.

“People are afraid.” Syanna told us. “When they are afraid they get angry. And they need to direct that anger somewhere. Last night as well as our finding another victim of... well...” She sniffed. “But as well as having to worry about that, a merchant was passing through. Fairly rich man from further South and so the locals decided that he was the killer and took him out to lynch him. Their evidence seemed to mostly be that he was a foreigner and that, therefore, it must be him.”

“The killer or that he had summoned Jack?”

“They couldn't really say. Their opinion seemed to go both ways. We stopped it, but only just and now the man is demanding reperations from the Duchess.

“Lovely.” Kerrass muttered. “So Vigilantes as well as Jack. Nothing is ever easy.”

“You would be disappointed if it was.” Ariadne tried for a joke.

“No.” Kerrass argued. “I would admit, that I always love it when I can walk into a place, spot the monster, oil my blade and then kill the thing. Something nice and simple. In, out and back on the path. That's the way that we want it.”

I saw the follow up joke and decided to go for it. “Be honest though. When was the last time that happened?”

“I seem to recall a certain village with some Nekkers.” Kerrass replied quickly.

“But that was complicated by my arrival though.” I argued. “SO it was hardly a “standard” contract. And I seem to recall having to help you with that as well.”

“True.” He allowed.

We continued to ride along, increasing speed to a gentle trot as we started to get outside the more populated areas. In my continuing struggle to keep my brain …. I suppose resting is the right term. In my continuing struggle to keep my brain resting on the problem of Jack. I was half drifting in and out of the conversation that was happening around me as we rode.

The road started to bend away from the river as we started to climb up through the hills before we came out into an open valley. We had been riding for a little over a couple of hours from the palace itself but with the way the terrain was, it was almost possible to believe that we were completely isolated from the rest of... well, the continent really. We were just heading into a small village when we took a sharp turn to the left where we seemed to be heading towards a row of trees. Tall fir trees that were planted evenly which suggested that they were part of the natural boundary of something. While also acting as a wind break for the land behind it.

We stopped briefly as we just entered the tree line as Syanna drew herself up.

“I saw you out there Bertrand.” She called. “You too Eloise. You are supposed to be sentries where the idea is to watch. Not to be guards where part of the idea is to be seen. And if I can see you then an approaching enemy can see you as well.”

An armoured figure stepped out from behind the trees on one side where another figure approached from behind the blind spot.

“Sorry Knight Commander,” came a male voice. “But it's really hard to stay hidden when you...”

“Don't be sorry.” Syanna snapped. “Be better. Now how were you going to try to excuse your miserable performance.”

The figure stiffened. “The armour makes it hard to be stealthy. The sun is always glinting off the side.”

Syanna nodded and turned to the other figure. “And you. What excuse do you have?”

“The armour is cold.” A girl's voice. “I need to move to keep warm.”

“So both of you excuse yourself on the grounds that wearing armour makes it hard.”

I had to stifle a smile and forced myself to look on disapprovingly. Syanna's chosen method of leadership and teaching, seemed to be to make people hate her in order to prove her wrong as well as uniting them all against her. I presumed that she would become more genial as the Knights gained in seniority.

It works, but only if you also praise for the good ideas as much as you are harsh on the negative.

“Well...” The male shifted his feet.

“How could you make it better? How could you adjust for both problems?” Syanna demanded. “How could you stop your armour from glinting in the sunlight and giving away your position? And how can you keep yourself warm, so that you don't need to shift around as much?”

The two armoured figures shifted their weight and looked at each other.

“Take the armour off?” The girl suggested hopefully.

The temperature noticeably dropped.

“And when,” Syanna bit off every word, “you need to act suddenly and don't have the time to put your armour on. How do you expect to survive?”

Neither of the two figures had an answer to that.

“Consider the problem?” Syanna demanded. “Present your answers to Sir Teodric and tell him why you have to do so. I will follow up with him.”

“Yes Ma'am.” Both figures saluted.

“Return to your posts.” Syanna snapped, ripping off a quick salute.

We rode on. There was a guard post down the line where a Knight stepped out. He was wearing a somewhat lighter suit of armour than most seemed to carry. He had an open faced helm on and he gave the amusing impression of a large, rotund man as he moved.

It was an illusion though as the appearance of the extra weight was due to all of the extra padding that he had wrapped around himself.

He had a large horn at his side.

“Knight Commander.” He saluted as we approcahed. He was an older man with a grey moustache evidence on his face. At his side rested a large axe alongside a huge curled brass horn. There was a shield near the guard post.

“Sir Philbert.” Syanna acknowledged.

“Lord Frederick finally deigning to help then is he.” The man sniffed. “Could have used him a couple of...”

“Lord Frederick was not aware of the situation.” Syanna told him before I could object. “It had been deliberately kept from him.”

“How does one manage to ignore...” The older knight seemed skeptical and to be fair, I could hardly blame him.

“When one is surrounded by people deliberately preserving his ignorance.” Kerrass answered for me.

The Knight shook his head in amazement.

“I would appreciate it...” Syanna went on. “If it were passed around that Lord Frederick had little choice in the matter. Now, who else has been and gone? Any unusual traffic?”

The Knight headed back into the guard hut.

“Are you alright?” Ariadne asked me quietly.

I shifted in the saddle. “I'm ok. Collar's a little tight on this shirt.”

Ariadne's eyes searched my face for a moment before she nodded to her satisfaction.

The Knight came out of the hut with a large, leatherbound book that he offered to her. “The Captain is here. There was a Lord and Lady Belleme here that were demanding what we were doing about all these attacks as well as a delegation from the quarry who were demanding something similar only with much cruder language.”

Syanna examined the book with a frown, running her finger down the entries, before nodding. “Very well.” They exchanged salutes again and we rode on.

Abruptly we left the tree line and came out into a large open area that was covered in Vines. Well cut back at the moment and workers could be seen patrolling the pathways between the vines, checking on the status of the vine frames and the fencework. Effecting repairs and replacing those parts that needed replacing.

For a while there, thoughts of Jack or wonderings as to why this might all be happening were driven from my mind as I looked around myself. It was beautiful here.

In the distance I could see the old Manor house that formed the centre of the old Vinery. It looked like a cross between a residence and a fortification which I suppose was part of the idea. Even at this distance I could see armoured figures moving around and training. Groups of horse people were riding this way and that way. I could see a tilting pitch with the usual mechanisms of torture. The Jousting dummies, the pendulums and the like.

But over all that, it was actually quite peaceful. The sheltered nature of the land gave it an odd feeling of calm despite the frantic atmosphere.

And as we rode further in, I could also see signs that the land had been heavily rennovated so that any kind of attacking force would struggle to make any way. The road that we followed had many twists and turns in it to confound a direct approach. I could also see disguised archery steps and shelters and I further noticed that all of the field workers were armed.

Syanna and Ariadne were chatting away.

“I insist that all of the Knight recruits work in the fields.” Syanna said.

“Why?” Ariadne wondered as she looked around. Kerrass snorted at Syanna's comments.

“I have found that physical labour is the great leveller. Ideally I would want to subject all of the pricked up privilidged idiots that arrive and want to be a Knight to the kinds of deprivations that I have had to suffer as well as the sorts of things that I know that Master Kerrass has had to go through. Send them off with a fixed amount of money and expect them to fend for themselves, that sort of thing. But I am more than a little aware that I am a vindictive bitch and that very few of my recruits would actually make it back. It would mean that any that did come back could be moulded into a formidable force but... Annarietta insisted that I not upset so many people so quickly.”

She pulled a face as she said it, forcing a chuckle from Kerrass and Ariadne both.

“But I wanted a trial.” Syanna went on. “I wanted something hard and unpleasant for them all to be doing so that I could... test them I suppose. Any number of people could pass tests of swordsmanship, riding or learning. But to be the kind of Knight that I want to see protecting Toussaint, you have to be willing to do the unpleasant jobs. Common folk idiots need to realise that becoming a Knight is not a quick way out of the fields into an easy job with lots of acclaim, shiny armour, swords and maidens throwing themselves at you.

“Noble-born idiots need to know that being a Knight also involves hard work. Learning alongside people who's blood is not as blue as the rest of them. They need to be able to associate and converse with farmers, merchants, sailors and beggars without their coming across as unpleasant, superior boors.

“So I wanted a test. Something hard, physical, skilled and unpleasant. You can't just walk into the vinyards and expect to be able to summon perfect grapes from the field, or build a wall or dig a ditch. You need to learn how to do it.”

“Why?” Ariadne wondered. She was fascinated.

“Becuase I wanted to test their conviction.” Syanna said. “I wanted to know if they would stick it out. That they wanted to join the knights. Otherwise there wasn't that much point in the matter. A test. If they really wanted it they would work through the horrors of ditch-digging. Get over their preconceptions of what it is to be a Knight in order to buckle down and do the work.”

“And this is how you expected your men to act when you lived on the road?” Kerrass wondered.

“It was.”

“So are you training knights or bandits?” He wondered.

Syanna laughed. “You would be surprised at the similarities between the two. Both tend to have a code of honour, even if it is unrecognisable to you. Both have rules and both are expected to do their part. In my experience, robber bands are just as selective on how many members they accept, so that they can preserve their quality. Knights and bandit bands alike cannot afford to carry dead weight.”

Kerrass had nothing to say to that.

I found that I had a question.

“How much of the land has been reshaped by you, or Emma for that matter, since you took over from Crawthorne?”

“Two points.” Syanna responded. “Your sister's innovations are to do with the farming innovations although, to be fair, most of what she did was to hire people based on competency rather than thir blood and family history. The previous man who ran the place was a descendant of some Bastard of the Crawthorne line and was therefore trusted to keep the place running smoothly. Your sister immediately sacked him, much to his relief actually, as he was only a young lad, and hired one of the oldest, most withered field workers to do the job. I'm told that people are expecting the next years harvest to be... impressive. I can't speak for that but certainly, the wine produced is of a better quality.

“My changes were the cosmetic ones. We moved the road and made it less straight.”

“That must be a lot of work.” Ariadne commented.

“Not as much as you might think. There were tracks between some of the fields to help with moving goods. Also, or so I'm told. Once vines have taken hold, it actively takes work to get them to stop. It was easy to move the vine frames to where we wanted them to go. But I didn't want it to be easy for attacking forces to ride up to our gates so I wanted a twisty, windy road. I also put in the firing steps. As well as sword, lance, mace and axe, I expect all of my Knights to train with Long bows and cross-bows.”

“You would still struggle to keep out an army.” Kerrass commented.

“Yes. But it did two things. It inspired confidence in what we were doing as well as providing lots of hard, back breaking toil for me to use to break in the new knights.” She grinned nastily.

What I had first thought of as a central building actually turned out to be a small complex of several buildings. There was the, obviously quite old, main residence that I guessed to have been part of the original winery. There were still visible signs of it having been, only recently, changed from being part residence, part winery operations place, to some kind of barracks and there was still work being done to correct various things. Door ways that would once have been entrances to large warehouse areas were still being walled up. Decorative walls were being removed and so on.

But further over there were other, much newer buildings. Recently made, with all of the rennovations that modern industrial architecture built in. I could not, for one moment, tell you what these rennovations were so please don't ask. All I can say is that it was easy to see which buildings were new and which buildings were old. Something to do with the stone work and the way that the construction was... Oh, I don't know.

All I can tell you for sure was that there were a few dwarves that were, again, still at work on some of the stone work and there were also several trolls that were helping out as well. My understanding is that trolls have a natural affinity and love for stonework that outstrips even the dwarven love for such things. The only difference being that... And I might be being unfair to one group or the other so I apologise. Dwarves are often craftsmen on this scale. They can work together to make a building and come up with innovations. Where as Trolls see each construction as an individual piece of art. A group of dwarves could build a bridge but a Troll would do it himself and consider it a point of pride.

“The first thing we had to do was to move the wine production out of the chateau itself.” Syanna was still commentating. “We also wanted separate quarters for those servants that would still be on the land as well as the field workers. Your family, absolutely refused to be involved if any of those people that made their livelihoods from the land or the building would be losing their jobs or their homes. But neither did we want the new Knights to be able to order servants around. I wanted the Knights to be self-sufficient and used to the idea that no-one was going to come and maintain their weapons and armour for them. They needed to be able to fetch their own food and empty their own chamber pots as well.”

Kerrass smirked at the image.

“The Wine production funded us but we, again, needed a seperation, the one from the other, when it came to wine and Knights. Some of the Knights that were coming to us were quite young and we didn't want them drinking the wine that we do, after all, depend on. We also didn't want people to confuse wine workers for servants and start ordering them around.”

She gestured towards the servants quarters and the Wine facilities respectively.

“So after that we have training yards where we do all the drills that you might expect. Fighting versus various weapons and on various odds. We also have an archery range and missile weapon ranges for throwing axes and daggers. As well as that, our stable facilities are quite extensive and we have several training paddocks where our new Knight recruits get their horsemanship up to scratch.”

She gestured and pointed out those areas as she spoke about them.

“And you put all of this together in the year since you took over?” Kerrass wondered. “That must have cost a fortune.”

“And it did. Part of that was from what remained of the Crawthorne fortune. That helped but there was a lot of guilt floating around at the time and I had absoultely no shame at all about using some of that when it came to gathering donations from the other families that had allowed the Knights Errant to slip into what it had become.”

She sighed.

“I am being harsh on those Knights. It is true that I was mistreated by those men and still others had turned into bullies, bigots and the worst kinds of racist, classist, mosgynistic snobs. But many of them were good men who were trying to do their best within the system. Sir Guillaume de Launfal is the best example of that.

“Those men came to join us here and I will freely admit that I have been hard on them. But I must also admit that they have shown, repeatedly, that they do try and become better than they had been. But we are not perfect and while I work, every day, to overcome my prejudices against the Knights Errant, they work everyday to overcome their old prejudices against common born fellows and the like. We are making progress but it is slow. I say this to warn you that it is almost certain that you Witcher, and you Ma'am, may have a few issues with certain members of the Knights. But feel free to correct them on their assholery.”

“We will do that.” Ariadne smirked as Kerrass nodded.

Syanna smiled a little.

“Fortunately,” she went on, “we have a common enemy in people like Sir Morgan and Sir Raoul. All the old guard who stand there and tell everyone that things were much better “back in the day”. Those people can all suck my raging purple dick.”

We rode into the courtyard and some younger men, no more than eleven or twelve, came to take our horses. I dismounted and nearly stumbled. The trousers were certainly warm enough but they were a little too tight to be entirely comfortable which meant that I felt as though my legs were too short for my boots.

Kerrass took his packs off the back of the horses and looked around.

“Impressive setup you have.” He commented.

“Thank you. I was actually going to see if I could talk you into coming and leading some lessons. I keep asking Lord Geralt but he refuses.”

Kerrass nodded. “I don't think our training methods would be... of benefit to you.”

“You might be surprised. At the least, you could give a lecture on proper identification of monsters.”

“There are many people better suited to that kind of thing.” Kerrass told her. “Lord Frederick for example. The most I could do is scare the shit out of some people but they wouldn't learn anything worthwhile from me.”

“Some people could do with that.” Syanna mused.

“Not to interrupt.” Ariadne began. “But I would rather that Freddie not be outdoors as much. After Yesterday...”

“No, you're right.” Syanna admitted, interrupting before she turned and led us indoors.

She led us to the main door of the building. Two Knights stood on either side in their full Plate Harness. They looked more like Golems than men. Artificially created things of metal like the enchanted sentinels that I had seen on my travels with Kerrass.

The thought occurred for a moment as to how dangerous it would be for a wizard to create a Goelm out of metal rather than Stone or fire and wondered if it was even possible before I turned aside from that train of thought.

Which happened because Syanna opened the doors and a hammer of sound struck me bewteen the eyes. From the relative peace of the outside it seemed that there was a hive of activity going on inside the building itself.

I looked in and the first thing that I saw was that the chandeliar had been lowered and a younger man, maybe eight or nine, was changing the candles. An older girl of around fourteen was practising her swordsmanship by striking at the candles to stop the strike half way through the candle to flick them out of the holders before pretending nonchalance to the youngster who, as I watched, realised what was happening and harrangued the now giggling girl.

The room itself must have once been a quite nice entrance hall. It was wood pannelled on either side with the floor being made from blank stone. There were discoloured patches on the walls where I would guess that portraits had once hung to have been removed by the new people dwelling there. Now there were chairs and small tables on both sides of the room where small groups of Knights would be sat at, maintaining weapons and armour and laughing at the japes and tomfoolery of the other, mostly younger, occupents of the room.

The room was dominated by the picture of Saint Francesca (As I hope I made clear, I now regard the two figures as being completely separate. One figure, Saint Francesca and the other as being my sister. It's the only way I can reconcile the one with the other.) It was the same portrait that Sam and I had carried onto the field of the tournament all that time ago, what seemed like a lifetime ago now. And for all the frantic activity in the rest of the room, the Knights, squires and trainees seemed to treat the portrait with a reverance that was missing elsewhere. None of them passed the painting without bowing to it.

There was a large table down the middle of the hallway that was kept stocked with food and drink. Again, it was not waited on by servants, but rather the food and drink was brought out of the Kitchens by the Knights and Squires themselves. I would later learn that it was done on a rotation system. Sometimes it was just their turn to cook the food, wait the tables and clean the latrines.

At the back of the hall there was a set of stairs that led up to the Mezzanines. There were doors leading off from the halls and upper corridors in all directions and for every man and woman that was playing, resting, eating or maintaining something. There was another man or woman moving around with a book, a piece of paper or otherwise moving around with a purpose.

It was the kind of place where you would have to scream at the person that you were talking to in order to hear yourself.

One group of Knights were playing at throwing daggers at a board where the scores had been marked. Another was doing something similar with throwing axes.

I saw another couple of, presumably knights. A young man and a woman sat together. This was no sweet embrace and if I was any judge, they would soon move beyond the heavy petting and outright snogging to taking things even further. Hopefully to a room but if not, it would appear that they would have no shame in consummating their feelings in front of the crowd of friends that were half jeering and half applauding.

Two figures, an older knight and a younger were duelling up and around the room. There was a central table that many of them were trying to eat at. The younger duellist leapt onto the table to the dismay of those people still dining and continued their fight accordingly. The older giving points on the technique used.

It was like an assault on the senses. Taste, hearing, sound, sights. Bright colours all around me.

Syanna led us through it easily leading the way. The crowd did not part before us. She simply ignored it all. The Duellists moved between us with an “excuse us.” From the elder of the two, the younger was so focused on what he was doing that he barely even noticed that we were in the way.

She led us up some stairs and along a landing. We passed a group of knights on the stair that were playing cards for small scraps of paper. Another group were playing dice. As we moved along the landing I heard a cheer from down below as the couple had risen from their chair and bowed to their audience before, hand in hand, had left through another door to the complaints of the onlookers.

I was fascinated. When I had imagined a chapter house of Knights, this had been far from what I had expected. I had expected pious young men and women, working hard and moving around with a purpose. This had looked more like what I had experienced in the halls of the university when I had first gone to live there. Only turned up by a factor of something ridiculous.

I suppose that my preconceptions come from the fact that most orders of knights that I am aware of have been religious ones. So it was strange to my eyes that this was not the case.

“Excited by the young couple Freddie?” Ariadne teased as the door closed, cutting the room off from view.I looked down at her and again, not for the first time and, hopefully, not the last. I realised that I was taller than she was.

“Soon Freddie.” She breathed, her smile mischeivous. “Soon that will be us.”

“Ahem.” A male voice clearing his throat. “I know that the Knights of the Saint and the way that they comport themselves are surprising to those of us with better... manners.”

Syanna snorted as we turned and saw Captain De La Tour glaring at the Knight Commander. “I suggest we get down to business.”

“I have some other business first.” Syanna said. “So it doesn't get lost in the shuffle.” She opened the door again and bellowed out a name. “Gaspard.” She all but screamed. “Bring Etienne too please.”

Then she came back into the room.

“Maybe we could...” De La Tour tried again.

“We are.” Syanna said as she looked at some of the papers in the room as I took the opportunity to look around.

I wandered round the room, trying to take as much in as I could on a straight pass through. There was a lot.

It was an office space or a meeting room. That much was clear. There was a large central table that seemed to be covered in maps and papers of various kinds. Again, the walls were wood panels with small squares and larger areas which told that various paintings and tapestries had once hung and protected the wood and the varnish from the Sun.

The walls were also covered in small bits of paper that seemed to be covered in someone's handwriting. There was a large fire, over which hung the rooms solitary decoration which was, as had to be assumed, a painting of Francesca. It was a picture of her sat at a desk writing something.

“This room was once a school room for young members of the Crawthorne family.” Syanna had seen where I was looking. “We were originally going to use it as a similar purpose for those members that we were taking in, for whom their reading, writing and mathmatical skills were not quite up to where we wanted them to be.

“And now?” I wondered.

“And now we use this place to talk about Jack. To try and see a pattern or to try and guess what's going on.” I nodded and picked up a piece of paper from the table. It was a map of what looked like a village or a small town of some kind. There were several crosses on it, marked in red ink.