The streets of Gildorf were quiet at this hour of the night, this was the time where Novigrad's elite and scum lived, far from the chaos of the docks and the squalor of the outer districts.
The bathhouse stood at the end of a narrow lane, its entrance marked by a simple iron sign that read Sigismund's in elegant script. It was unassuming from the outside, its windows dark, its door heavy oak banded with iron. But Sebastian could feel the warmth radiating from within, could hear the faint murmur of water and voices, could smell the steam and the subtle fragrance of oils and soaps.
Lambert pushed open the door without hesitation, the interior was a revelation. Marble floors gleamed under the soft light of crystal chandeliers. Pillars of polished stone rose toward a vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of nymphs and satyrs in various states of undress. He could smell lavender and rosemary, and everywhere around them were people.
Women in various states of dress, or undress moved through the bathhouse and long since abandoned modesty. Some sat at the edges of the pools, their feet trailing in the warm water, their conversations a low murmur. Others were being attended to by bath attendants, their bodies being scrubbed and oiled with practiced hands. The atmosphere was one of luxurious relaxation, of wealth and comfort.
A man stood just inside the entrance, he was fat, with a receding hairline almost bald and eyes that missed nothing. His clothes were simple but well-made.
"Welcome, gentlemen," he said. His voice was soft, respectful. "I am Happen. I will be your attendant this evening, if you would be so kind as to surrender your weapons, I will see that they are stored safely."
Lambert did not hesitate. He unbuckled his sword belt and handed it over, steel, silver, the various knives he kept hidden about his person. Happen accepted them with the same calm efficiency, placing them in a wooden rack behind the desk.
Sebastian followed suit, he removed his swords, his belt knife, the small dagger in his boot. It felt strange, being unarmed and vulnerable in a place like this. But this was not the sewers, this was not a place of monsters, he could afford to be vulnerable for an hour.
Happen nodded approvingly. "Your towels and robes are in the changing room to your left. Please make yourselves comfortable."
The changing room was elegant, wooden benches, copper hooks for clothing, fresh towels folded with precision. Sebastian stripped off his remaining clothes with a sigh of relief. The leather had been stiff with dried blood of monsters. His skin beneath was pale and clammy. He wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped through the door into the main bath.
The sight that greeted him was not entirely unexpected, but it still took a moment to adjust.
The bathhouse was built around a series of interconnected pools, their waters ranging from cool to steaming hot. The largest pool dominated the center of the room, its surface shimmering under the light of a dozen chandeliers. Around it, smaller pools were set into alcoves, each one offering privacy and intimacy.
And in these pools on the benches, on the marble edges, draped over cushions, were the bathers. Men and women together, their bodies on display without shame or pretense. Some were young, their skin smooth and unmarked. Others were older, their bodies bearing the marks of age and experience. All of them were naked, or nearly so.
Lambert had already found his way to a small pool near the far wall. He was reclining against the edge, his arms spread along the rim, his eyes half-closed with contentment. A woman dark-haired, pale-skinned, wearing nothing but a smile knelt behind him, working soap into his shoulders with practiced hands.
Sebastian watched for a moment, then shook his head.
'Of course,' he thought. 'Of course he knows the best spot in the house.'
He moved deeper into the bathhouse, past clusters of bathers whose conversations dropped to whispers as he passed. He could feel their eyes on him, the old scar on his chest, the wolf's medallion swinging against his collarbone, the unusual shade of his eyes. He did not look back.
He found a pool in a quiet alcove, tucked away from the main crowd. The water was hot, perfectly hot and the steam rose around him like a blanket. He lowered himself into it with a sigh of relief, the warmth seeping into his aching muscles, loosening knots he hadn't even realized were there.
He closed his eyes.
'That hits the spot.'
The water lapped gently against his chest, the sounds of the bathhouse faded to a distant murmur. His mind, which had been racing since they had entered the sewers, began to slow.
He did not hear the whispers at first, but thanks to his witcher mutations they reached him eventually, soft, feminine voices, barely audible over the steam.
"Look at him. Did you see his eyes?"
"Cat eyes. He's a witcher a real one!"
"Look at the scar on his chest. He's been through some battles."
"And his hair, so long and dark. I love a man with long hair."
"I wonder if all witchers look like that, I heard they're all mutants, but he's... not ugly."
"Mutant doesn't mean ugly.. He's handsome, look at him."
"He looks young too."
"Doesn't matter, it's the eyes that get me. Those yellow eyes, like a panther."
One of them laughed a low, throaty sound. "I bet he could do things with those hands."
"You are terrible."
"I'm just saying."
Sebastian's lips twitched, he did not open his eyes.
Then a new voice cut through the whispers, deeper, older, a voice of a man.
"Witcher. Of the School of the Wolf, no less."
Sebastian's eyes opened.
A man stood at the edge of the pool, his silhouette framed by the steam and the soft light. He was large, not tall, but broad, with a belly that spoke of good living and a face that had seen too much to be surprised by anything, and a leg that he favored slightly, leaning on a wooden cane that was more for show than necessity. He wore only a towel, wrapped around his ample waist.
Sebastian studied him for a moment. Then, very quietly, he said to himself:
'Oh. This must be Sigismund Dijkstra.'
He did not move from the water. He simply inclined his head.
"You are?" Sebastian asked.
The man smiled. "Sigi Reuven at your service." He gestured vaguely at the bathhouse around them. "I own this place, you see. A humble establishment, but one that serves its purpose."
Sebastian blinked. "Oh. Nice."
Sigi's smile did not waver, but he was amused.
"Not a fan of conversations, I see," Sigi said. He lowered himself into the water with a grunt, settling on the bench beside Sebastian. The water rose around him, lapping at his chest. "Well, I did interrupt your relaxing time. I apologize."
Sebastian said nothing.
Sigi's gaze drifted to Sebastian's chest, where the wolf's medallion caught his eyes. His expression sharpened.
"Forgive me for prying," Sigi said, "but I know Geralt of Rivia, I know the witchers of the School of the Wolf. Last I remember, there were only four of you." He pointed with his chin toward the far end of the bathhouse, where Lambert was still being attended to by a small army of women. "I've already seen Lambert over there, enjoying himself."
Sebastian followed his gaze. Lambert had acquired two more attendants. One was massaging his shoulders. Another was feeding him grapes, his eyes were closed, his expression one of utter, unguarded bliss.
Sebastian sighed. He looked back at Sigi.
"There's also Eskel," Sigi continued, ticking the names off on his fingers. "And the old Vesemir, and finally Geralt, of course. So who are you, if you don't mind me asking?"
Sebastian's expression did not change. "You really did your homework on Geralt. You're not just a bathhouse owner, are you?"
Sigi's smile widened. "Oh, come on. Cut the bullshit, will you?" He waved a thick hand dismissively. "I know you witchers share information, what you encounter on the Path, what you learn in your travels. My real name is Dijkstra. I was the head of Redanian Intelligence, doing homework on various people is kind of what I do." He paused. "I'm sure Geralt knows that, or perhaps he forgot to mention that bit."
Sebastian nodded slowly. "Yeah, I knew, just making sure."
Dijkstra's eyebrows rose. "Making sure?"
"Making sure you're who I thought you were."
Dijkstra laughed, warm and surprised. "Well, well. You're more like Geralt than I thought, he had the same habit of never being surprised by anything." He leaned back in the water, spreading his arms along the edge of the pool. "So who might you be?"
"A witcher like you said." Sebastian paused. "My name is Sebastian."
Dijkstra tilted his head. "Sebastian of?"
"Of nowhere, just Sebastian." Sebastian met his eyes. "Call me Seb."
Dijkstra was quiet for a moment. Then he smiled again, a smile that revealed nothing.
"How lovely," Dijkstra said. "Being visited by friends of Geralt."
Sebastian's jaw tightened. "If you want to kick us out, just do it. No need for all this... whatever you are doing here."
Dijkstra's smile did not waver. "Oh, no. I'm just being friendly. Getting to know one another, the moment I heard that two witchers with wolf medallions had come to my doorstep, I had to be here." He studied Sebastian's face the sharp cheekbones, the dark hair, the distinctive jawline. "You're from the south, aren't you? One of the Nilfgaardian provinces, I assume."
Sebastian's expression did not change. He had expected this, Dijkstra was a spy, a spymaster, reading people was what he did.
"I was saved as a child by Vesemir," Sebastian said. "I don't remember much, of where I'm from."
Dijkstra's expression softened just a fraction, just enough to show that beneath the calculation, there was still a man who could feel sympathy.
"That's... quite sad to hear," Dijkstra said.
Sebastian shook his head. "Not really, I don't feel anything about that."
"Witcher mutations..." Djikstra said calmly.
A pair of women approached the pool young, beautiful, their bodies wrapped in sheer white fabric that did more to reveal than conceal. They carried sponges and oils and small bowls of fragrant soaps. One of them knelt beside Dijkstra, reaching for his arm.
Dijkstra waved her away. "Our guest first," he said, nodding toward Sebastian. "He's had a long night."
The women's eyes shifted to Sebastian. They smiled warm, inviting, professional in the way that only the truly skilled could be.
Sebastian held up a hand. "No need to.."
"Stay still," one of the women said gently. She took his arm, her fingers warm and soft against his skin.
The other woman moved to his other side and they began to work.
Sebastian, who had been ready to refuse, found himself reluctantly surrendering.
Dijkstra watched with an expression of amusement. He was still sitting beside Sebastian, his hands spread wide on the edge of the pool, his expression one of relaxed confidence.
"So, Seb," Dijkstra said, his tone conversational. "What brings you to Novigrad?"
Sebastian's eyes were half-closed. The women's hands were working their way up his arms, over his shoulders, down his back. It was... not unpleasant.
"Visiting a friend," Sebastian said. "No other reason."
Dijkstra nodded. "I'm going to ask you a genuine question now, do you enjoy this city?"
/-\
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