Geralt found Sigi's bathhouse and was allowed in, although he had to adhere to the dress code. So wearing nothing but a towel, Geralt was lead through the bathhouse to a meeting Sigi was having with three of the Big Four, as the bosses of the Novigradian underworld called themselves. Francis, Geralt knew. The dwarf he did not, but assumed he was Cleaver. He was surprised to find that he actually knew Sigi, although it was by another name prior to Foltest's assassination. Dijkstra seemed to be doing well for himself, despite the metal brace that decorated his left leg, a gift from Geralt himself to the Rendarian spymaster. At least former spymaster. Each man was wrapped in a towel. The dwarf was fuming as he paced back and forth.

"Easy, Cleaver...," Dijkstra warned.

"Whoreson Junior's a dead man. I'll have my scribe send you a notice."

"You don't have a scribe," Francis said. "And we'll eliminate Junior when, and only when, all of us say 'aye.'" He then noticed that Geralt had entered. "Reuven, your guest."

Dijkstra turned towards Geralt to greet him.

"Why the fuck you let him in here?" Cleaver snapped.

"Because I want to talk to him. This is Geralt of Rivia."

"Good to see you again," Francis greeted.

Geralt nodded in acknowledgment.

"As always I'm out of the swivin' loop. Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm a Witcher," Geralt simply said.

"Problems with your plumbing?"

Geralt didn't give him the satisfaction of a response, tired to hell and back of the jokes about Witcher sterility.

"Nah," Dijkstra said. "It's under control. Geralt's a friend from the old days. Although..."

Geralt's enhanced hearing suddenly picked up on slamming doors and he turned his head to listen. "Got intruders. Someone just snuck inside the bathhouse. Several men..."

"What the fuck's he on about?" Cleaver asked. "Ploughin' fortuneteller."

"Shut up, Cleaver." At that moment, they heard screaming.

"Bloody hell, I fucking knew it!"

"No, you didn't. We're lucky we had a Witcher to give us warning."

"Any weapons tucked away?" Francis asked calmly as if he were asking about the weather.

"Just a few." Dijkstra opened a nearby chest. "Take your pick."

They each armed themselves and headed towards the door separating the private room from the rest of the bathhouse.

"First ever barney with my prick hangin' out," Cleaver complained.

One of the intruders caught sight of them as they came out of the room. "Whoreson Junior sends his regards!" he said before attacking.

They made quick work of the would-be assassins, Geralt refraining from using any Signs with the amount of innocents in the bathhouse.

"Good work, gents," Cleaver said when they returned to their private room.

"Terribly sorry for that incident," Dijkstra said. "My security failed. I'll get to the bottom of who, why, and how."

"They were Whoreson's scum. That's the bottom of who and how right there."

"Don't start that again," Francis said with a sigh. "Especially not in front of our guest."

"Who pranced in right before they attacked. Coincidence? Why do I doubt it?"

"Let's give him a chance to explain," Dijkstra said.

"I'm looking for Whoreson Junior, if a friend of mine hasn't already found him," Geralt simply said.

"Interesting," Francis commented.

"What do you want with him?" Cleaver asked, crossing his arms.

"Junior's gonna help me find someone."

"Whoreson's not helped a soul in all his miserable life," Francis stated.

"We'll ask him nicely."

A smile played on Francis' lips at Geralt's response.

Dijkstra turned to Cleaver. "See, Cleaver? Perhaps if you'd not called Junior an uncle-fucker and 'asked him nicely,'"

Cleaver rolled his eyes.

"He'd 'ave showed up today."

"Gentlemen, you out of your fuckin' minds?" Cleaver asked. "A chat session? Whoreson's out to get us, and he'll succeed, eventually. We've got to kill him first. So by all means, you sit here, soak, fart and watch the bubbles rise, while I send my boys to Whoreson's hidey-holes. They'll make some noise, flush the bugger out." He turned to Geralt. "And you, Geriatric, or whatever your ploughin' name is, wanna find Whoreson? Find me first."

Geralt had an instant dislike for the dwarf as Cleaver stormed out of the room.

"Looks like we gotta get to Whoreson before Cleaver does."

"Cleaver won't find him easy. Junior's good at hiding. He's got... peasant smarts." Dijkstra tapped his lips. "But you're damn good at tracking."

"Sigi?"

"Geralt's got a knack for finding people. And he's discreet, a value in itself. Don't know about his friend though."

"Leave you to it, then," Francis said. "I'll take my leave."

"I'll call on you tomorrow, Francis. We'll finish our chat."

Francis nodded before he, too, left.

"So, how about we get dressed?" Geralt suggested.

"Sure, sure. And then we'll talk. In private."

They met in Dijkstra's office.

"Right mess that was...," the former spymaster said. "Never thought I'd be glad to see the man responsible for my taking frequent baths."

"If you're any cleaner for it, gotta say it was worth breaking your ankle."

Dijkstra rolled his eyes. "It healed poorly, can you believe it? I must soak it in hot water at least six times a day now. Failing that, it bloody pounds like the bells of Beauclair at dawn."

"I had my reasons. Your leg'd be fine if you hadn't gotten in my way."

Dijkstra had tried to use Geralt to reach Ciri so he could use her in a political scheme. Once Geralt realized what he was doing, a fight had broken out leaving his men unconscious and Dijkstra with a broken ankle.

"I see. Well, I promise you that if I could go back in time, I'd do things quite differently on Thanedd. For example, I'd have my men kill you instead of just tying you up."

Geralt wasn't in the mood to talk about their past interactions. "Listen, Reuven... No, Dijkstra, just not in the mood for your code names, passwords, and other bullshit. I'm here on specific business. If you wanna listen, listen, if not, I'd rather you spared me your wit and threw me out now."

Dijkstra looked slightly amused. "Ah, what's the harm? Talk."

"Think Cleaver'll find Whoreson?"

"He might, he might not. But he'll burn down half the city trying. What waste. Leave him to it, I say, work alone."

"Any ideas?"

"If your friend hasn't already found him, Junior's got areas of the city where he's strong. Penetrate them, look around. But be discreet, none of this speed and fury and swinging your steel cock about. And I hope your friend doesn't do the same." He looked at Geralt. "Mind me asking who your friend is anyway?"

"Another Witcher named Juray."

"Juray... that name rings a bell."

"Of Riverdell. You might know her as the White Demon."

"Not who I was thinking of, then. Know of a Kaedweni noblewoman with a similar name I guess. Offshoot of the de Côté family there. Also, Witcher or not, probably a bad idea to send her to find him. He's called Whoreson for a reason."

"She can take care of herself. Pretty clear you and Bedlam don't want a war with Junior, though. Why?"

"Let me tell you what I told King Vizimir time and time again: war doesn't solve problems. It breeds trouble, trouble you then have to solve by other means. Make no mistake, someone's behind Whoreson's actions. I'll not end him until I know who."

"Your partners aware of your past? They know you're Sigismund Dijkstra, former head of Redanian intelligence?"

Dijkstra laughed. "Cleaver, Bedlam, and Junior, well, I'd call them my partners if we'd built a mill to grind flour for the folk in nearby hamlets. But we just need to stay out of each others' ways, agree from time to time. That doesn't make us partners. Do they know who I am, was? Bedlam, sure. The others most likely suspect. But we just don't talk about it. No need to."

"Hmm, makes sense to ask around, I guess... Junior might be in hiding, but he's gotta be collecting income, couldn't afford to cut himself off."

"Gambling, that's his biggest earner. Junior controls the largest casino in town. I'll never forget, Hierarch Himmelfart raised all kinds of hallowed hell there once. Bugger bet and lost his ruby ring. Then there's the arena in the city's bowels. Betting scheme generates near as much as the casino. They're always looking for hired muscle there. Suppose you could always search Whoreson's house, though I doubt you'll find there. Maybe some clue, though. Talk to Juray first. Find out what she's learned and perhaps you can figure out where he went together. Just be careful. Whoreson's expecting payback. I've no doubt."

Geralt started to leave, then turned back to Dijkstra. "Listen, Dandelion's missing. Any idea what might've happened to him?"

"Same thing that happens to anyone who steps on Junior's toes..."

"Meaning?"

"He's surrounded by splendid virgins who ply him with sparkling wine and pastries stuffed with nightingales' tongues."

Geralt gave him a look.

"Come, Geralt, what do you think happened to him? I reckon he's at the bottom of the Pontar, trussed up with the strings of his own mandolin."

"Lute," Geralt corrected.

"Far as I'm concerned he might as well be rotting down there with a godsdamn trombone."

"You wouldn't happen to have a bone to pick with Dandelion, would you?"

"Course I do."

"You serious?"

"Dead serious... Dandelion published a sonnet recently. Second stanza, the shit uses paired couplets instead of an inserted rhyme! Surely you understand how deeply offended the poetry lover in me was. The bastard shan't get away with it!"

Geralt was not amused. "I was being serious."

"As am I when I say I have no time to worry about your gigolo boyfriend. Got my own problems..." Dijkstra paused. "Problems you might be able to help me with. And if you did, why then I might be inclined to ask after Dandelion, establish what happened to him."

It was a fair offer. Not to mention Geralt wouldn't mind taking some of Dijkstra's gold on top of it. "Maybe I can help... What do you need?"

"I'd rather show than tell. Picture's worth a thousand words and all that tripe. Ah, and you do realize if you say anything about what you see here to anyone, it'll mean a razor between your ribs?"

Geralt rolled his eyes. "Figured as much."

"Excellent." He started to head to the door, before stopping. "One last request... Oh, let's call it what it is: a command. Don't draw your sword unless I ask you to."

"Fair enough."

"Come on."

Dijkstra led Geralt back to the private room and inserted a key into one of the pillars before turning it. The bath then began to drain, revealing a passageway.

"Be so kind as to follow me." Dijkstra lifted his left leg over the edge and climbed down the ladder, Geralt following him. As they walked through the tunnels, they could hear a steady thump, growing louder.

"Oh, Bart!" Dijkstra said. "Not again!"

"Bart?"

They rounded a corner to see a rock troll banging his head against the wall.

"Bart! Stop that! Now!"

"Bart bad..." the troll said as he continued to hit his head against the wall. "Bart make Sigi lose chorfun."

"Beating your head against the wall won't change that."

"Bart hurt." He finally stopped and turned around. "Bart less thinky. Bart less thinky, Bart sadless."

Geralt looked over at Dijkstra. "Where'd you get the troll?"

"From Zerrikania. Won him. Card game with a camel merchant."

"Your jokes are getting better by the minute."

"See me smiling? I'm dead serious."

"Bart eye bumpy horses. Hot there. Sigi Bart take. Good Sigi."

"Don't seem to have trouble communicating with the troll. Why'd you bring me down here?"

Dijkstra motioned to the nearby hole in the wall. "Take note of that hole. We'll come back to it later." He then motioned to the mostly empty room through the broken doorway they were standing near. "And see that door? Vault behind it? Until recently filled with Novigrad crowns and countless other valuables."

"Bart guard! Then boom! Chorfun go."

"Translating into Common, someone fuckin' made off with nearly twenty tons of my gold, and all the lighter stuff. And you...," He turned to Geralt. "Will help me get it back."

Well, isn't this just fucking great? Geralt thought. "Fine."

"You're not exactly bursting with enthusiasm."

"Witcher mutations. They strip us of emotion. I'd be jumping for joy otherwise."

Dijkstra just shook his head.

"All right. Oughta look around. But first, some questions."

"I'm all ears."

"Anyone see what happened?"

"Other than Bart? No. And the vault's location is known only to the treasure's co-owners. Well, and the thieves."

"What about upstairs? Anything unusual happen in the bathhouse the day of the break-in?"

"No. Happen swears it was calm as ever. The usual customers, no incidents. Bloody bucolic."

"How much was it all worth? Got an approximate idea?"

"Why the fuck do you care? Figuring your finder's fee? Don't get your hopes up."

"Know you too well for that... Just prefer to know what I'm looking for."

"Three crates of Nilfgaardian florens, a chest of emeralds, rubies, and topazes, silver candlesticks and platters...." Dijkstra waved his hand. "I could go on..."

"Shiny chorfun...," Bart added. "All gone."

"Just a guess, but I'm going to say that hole was how the thieves got in."

"You're a regular fucking master sleuth," Dijkstra snapped. "Any other brilliant deductions you want confirmed? The year, maybe? Bloody name of Redania's king?"

Geralt sighed while giving Dijkstra a dirty look. "No. But I am wondering, for instance, how that hole got there..."

"Hole no," Bart said before waving his arms. "Boom! Hole. Bart want look go... Bart look no, only sleep. Bad 'shrooms, head foozz."

"Boom?" Geralt asked. "Can you elaborate?"

"Boom... Big... Er...this like." Bart waved his arms around wildly.

"I'll elaborate," Dijkstra said. "Explosion big enough to blow that fucking hole in the wall separating the vault from the sewers."

"Gotten pretty good at communicating with this troll..."

"Lots of prior experience. Worked with idiots my whole life."

"Mentioned bad mushrooms, what's that about?"

"Pops mold. The spores are highly toxic. One whiff and you're dead. Unless you're a troll, that is."

"Yes... Bart. Bart troll..."

"Not talking to you, dimwit. Where was I? Ah, mold spores. They cover the walls of the sewers other side of the vault. Actually thought it was a good thing, you know, a bit of extra protection. Thieves found a way through it."

"Bart, you see them?"

"Bart through hole, want see boom got what. Breath 'shroom. Sleep go. Chorfun gone. Bad troll..."

"Now, now. Stiff upper lip..."

"Try to track down the thief yourself?" Geralt stepped over to the vault to examine it.

"Of course. Hired this lummox, Fonce, thick enough not to ask questions. We knocked back some pops antidote and entered the sewers. Soon after, I returned alone."

"What happened?"

"Lad started belchin' something horrendous. I mean, burps with so much mass the walls shook. Told him, Fonce, stop, you're in the presence of a count... well, former count, but still. And then he puked up. Up came most of the antidote, lost his protection. Tried to pull him out, then I heard a bubbling... Something crawled out of the water. I value the lives of my men, I do... But I value my own even more. Dropped Fonce and ran like hell."

Geralt thought about asking what that something was, but then realized Dijkstra wouldn't have known anyway. "Should look around the sewers. Got any more of that pops antidote?" He might be a Witcher, but he knew the resistance the mutations offered only went so far.

"I've a few vials left. Got the formula, too. Disgusting swill, to be honest. But it'll save your life." He pulled a vial out of his pocket. "Here." He handed a pale green mixture to Geralt.

"Thanks."

"You've naught to thank me for. Literally. You're no good to me if you suffocate. I'll be upstairs if you need me. Sight of this empty vault's giving me an ulcer. Good luck to you." Dijkstra turned and headed back the way they came.

Geralt stepped up to the hole and peered through it. He could see the mold that Dijkstra spoke of. "Jaskier...," he sighed. "What the hell have you gotten yourself into...?" He pulled the cork out of the vial of the pops antidote and drank it, making a face. Dijkstra hadn't been exaggerating. "And I thought Witcher potions were vile..."

He stepped into the sewer, investigating the area. His first stop was a pipe right outside the hole. "Edges curled out... Something inside blew it wide open, wall, too." He looked around. "Hmm... Bathhouse drain pipes seem to converge here..." He noticed a grate across the hall against the wall and went to examine it. "Explosion crumpled it like a piece of paper, and there's mortar on the bars. So, it was in place at the time of the explosion... Blast tore it from the wall." Geralt stood. "No traces of magic. This was no spell, it was a bomb... Now, why am I not finding pieces of it...? Could be the current swept them away." He followed the current of the sewage noticed bits of pipe here and there. He turned a corner to find several drowners. "Drowners. Of course. Must have been what Dijkstra heard." He made quick work of the monsters before continuing on. And finding a piece of the treasure. "Definitely came through here," he said, picking it up. He then came across a corpse "Must be the thug Dijkstra hired." He took a few more steps and found another one. "Dijkstra didn't mention anyone else... Must be one of Jaskier's crew. Vomit everywhere. Guess he had the antidote, too... couldn't keep it down any more than the other guy. Need to burn the corpses. Otherwise, drowners'll never stop congregating." He used Igni to set both bodies alight. "There... Maybe now the drowners'll go feed elsewhere." He followed the current to another grate and found something lodged against it. Geralt picked it up to examine it. "Bottom of a container. Silver cylinder, most likely. Runes etched in the bottom. It's warped, probably by the explosion. Bomb part, must be." He noticed a scent wafting from it and sniffed it. "Smells like... wyvern oil... and... caramel?" He had never made a bomb that required sugar of any kind, but was curious why wyvern oil had been used in it as well. He followed the trail until it emptied outside the city. "Trail ends here. Dandelion must've loaded the treasure onto a boat. Time to see Dijkstra."