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“Muzzle that dog,” the lord says, waving a hand at Lambert, and the guards close in around him - far too many of them, when Lambert is unarmed (because the lord fucking insisted on him leaving his swords at the door, gods damn him, and a single boot knife isn’t enough to make a real difference) and unarmored and knows that fighting back would be a very, very stupid thing to do. He lets them force him to his knees, lets them cram a rag between his teeth, lets them bind him, and doesn’t let out a single sound of pain when they wrench at his arms and dig their knees into his ribs.
Motherfuckers, the whole lot of them.
They leave him kneeling there, bound and gagged, while the lord ostentatiously goes on about his business, talking to the other people who have come to have audiences with him as if Lambert isn’t there at all. Lambert seethes.
There’s a chance that when the lord has had his fun, he’ll have Lambert dumped at the edge of his lands - with or without his swords, bound or unbound, unharmed or beaten almost to death, Lambert doesn’t know which it’ll be. And there’s a chance he’ll throw Lambert into the dungeons. And, of course, there’s a chance he’ll decide to have his guards slit Lambert’s throat. But killing a witcher in cold blood is fairly unusual. The beating, now, that’s a lot more likely.
Lambert sighs soundlessly. He really does hate the Path.
He glances up at a slight hint of movement where there oughtn’t be any - did a pigeon get into the hall? Maybe it’ll decide to take a shit on the lord’s head, that would be hilarious - and to his astonishment meets a pair of vivid emerald eyes.
There’s a person in the rafters.
A witcher, in fact.
The same damn Cat who’s been plaguing him for months, in fact. Gods damn it. Lambert can almost hear the mockery in the Cat’s lilting voice - “Leashed you like a dog, didn’t they, Wolf?”
But the Cat’s expression isn't amused.
In point of fact, the Cat looks furious.
That’s odd.
The lord waves a hand to dismiss the last petitioner, and gestures for the doors to the hall to be closed. “Well now, dog,” he says to Lambert. “I trust you have learned your lesson about barking at your betters?” He smirks at his own joke. “Or perhaps I should have my men beat it into you properly.”
Several of the guards step forward eagerly. The lord chuckles and leans back, as if preparing to watch an entertaining play or a bear-baiting.
And the Cat drops out of the rafters, soundless as his School’s namesake, to land beside the lord’s fancy chair and stab a wickedly curved dagger through the lord’s right shoulder and into the chair, pinning him in place. The lord makes a horrid screeching sound of agony; the Cat slams a second dagger through the lord’s left hand, pinning that to the chair’s arm like an insect to a wall, and sets the edge of yet a third razor-sharp knife to the lord’s throat before anyone else in the room can even draw breath to yell.
“Drop your weapons,” the Cat says, voice cold as midwinter wind.
There’s a prolonged clatter as the guards comply, some of them more quickly than others. Lambert watches in bewilderment. What is the Cat playing at?
“Over there,” the Cat says, pointing to a corner of the room well away from any doors. “Except you,” he adds to the scribe who is frozen in terror at a little table near the lord’s chair. “You go untie the Wolf. Now.”
The guards retreat warily into the corner; the scribe knocks over his chair as he stands, winces, trips over the chair’s legs, tumbles down in a heap, and comes scrambling upright again to skitter towards Lambert, face an unhealthy-looking green-tinged white. His hands tremble as he works at the ropes, and it takes him twice as long as it ought to, but at last the knots fall away and Lambert stands, yanking the gag out of his own mouth and tossing the rag away.
“Go and get his swords,” the Cat orders the scribe. The lord is making high-pitched noises like a trapped rabbit. Lambert can’t find any pity to spare. The Cat was careful - if the lord doesn’t do anything stupid like try to lift his hand or pull away from the knife in his shoulder, he probably won’t even be maimed once he’s healed.
The scribe skitters over to Lambert’s swords and picks them up as gingerly as if he thinks they’re going to bite him. Lambert stretches out the pins and needles in his limbs and the stiffness from the prolonged uncomfortable position, and takes his swords when the scribe offers them, slinging them into place with an internal sigh of relief.
“Where’s your gear?” the Cat asks.
“Left it with my horse,” Lambert says. “Out by the gate.”
“Sensible,” the Cat says, smiling thinly. “So. It’s you this gutless fool offended. Should I cut his throat?” It’s as casual a question as if he’s asking Lambert about the weather, or to pass the salt at table. He clearly wouldn’t bat an eye if Lambert said yes.
Lambert meets the lord’s wide, terrified eyes. He could say yes. With his swords and a head start, he can make it out of the manor and probably out of the lord’s lands, too, before an effective pursuit can be mounted.
But if he does that, this fief and all the fiefs around it will be even more hostile to witchers than they usually are until everyone forgets that a witcher murdered this dipshit lord in the middle of his own hall.
“Nah,” he says. “Then you’d just have to teach his heir the same lesson.”
The Cat hums. “I suppose that’s true enough,” he agrees, and looks down at the lord. “Do you think this one has learned anything useful?”
“Good question,” Lambert allows, and steps closer, smiling nastily down into the lord’s terrified eyes. “What lesson have you learned?”
The lord’s gaze darts from Lambert to the Cat and back again; he is panting with fear and pain. “I - I will not so insult a witcher again,” he grates out.
Lambert snorts and shrugs. “Good enough, I suppose.”
“Really, Wolf, you ought to make him grovel a bit more,” the Cat lilts.
“Hard for him to grovel when he can’t move,” Lambert points out. “I’ll be satisfied to take my pay and get the fuck out of here.”
“How immensely practical,” the Cat purrs. “How much does this fool owe you?”
Lambert names the fee he’s owed - with a bit on top for the hassle of being tied up and nearly beaten bloody - and the Cat nods and looks down at the lord. “Well?”
“Bring the witcher his money,” the lord croaks. The terrified scribe bobs a clumsy bow and goes scurrying off to a locked chest near the back of the room; it takes him two tries to unlock it, and he drops several coins while counting them out, but after a few minutes he comes scrambling back to offer Lambert a fat purse. Lambert takes it with a sharp grin.
“That’ll do,” he says.
“You ought to thank him,” the Cat murmurs to the lord. “If it were up to me, you would be missing a few important pieces just now. Go on, now. Be polite.”
“Thank you, master witcher,” the lord whispers.
“Much better,” the Cat purrs, and yanks his dagger out of the lord’s hand, then the curved blade from the lord’s shoulder. The lord curls in on himself, clutching at hand and shoulder in turn and making a thin whining noise of pain.
“Shall we?” the Cat asks Lambert, with a flamboyant bow and a gesture towards the door.
“We shall,” Lambert replies, just as haughtily, and leads the way out of the manor, hearing the guards and the scribe hasten to their lord’s side, calling for bandages and healers.
His horse is right where he left it, and he swings himself astride and offers the Cat a hand. The Cat grins up at him and takes it, leaping lightly up behind Lambert, and Lambert spurs his horse into motion; the gelding won’t be able to carry two for very long, but it’ll be long enough to get the fuck out of this damned fief, or at least far enough away that they won’t be hunted down tonight.
The Cat holds onto Lambert’s waist, long-fingered hands warm as brands even through Lambert’s tunic and shirt, and doesn’t say anything until Lambert reins the horse in, deep in the woods where no one will dare pursue them.
“Stopping here for the night, then, Wolf?”
“Aye,” Lambert says. The Cat hops nimbly down; Lambert dismounts and starts untacking the horse, and the Cat begins gathering wood and clearing a spot to build a fire.
“Where’s your kit?” Lambert asks as he sets down his saddlebags. The Cat has his swords and knives, and a small pack on his back, but no bedroll or baggage.
“Lost pretty much all of it in a bog about a week back,” the Cat says ruefully. “Kikimoras.”
Lambert wrinkles his nose. “Fuckers.”
“Unfortunately I think if we rename them that, it might cause more problems than it solves,” the Cat says, grinning.
Lambert snorts. “Yeah, fair, the last fuckin’ thing we need is a bunch of blithering idiots trying to swive kikimora queens.”
The Cat laughs, green eyes sparkling. “Precisely!”
Lambert takes the purse off his belt and tosses it gently; it lands with a clink at the Cat’s feet. “Take it. Should get you most of what you need, I’d guess.”
“You earned it fair and square,” the Cat points out, frowning.
“And if you hadn’t come along I wouldn’t have gotten the coin or left that fucking manor with my skin intact,” Lambert retorts.
The Cat tilts his head, regarding Lambert thoughtfully. “I’ll take half,” he says at last.
Lambert grimaces. “I owe you more than that,” he says uncomfortably. He doesn’t like owing debts, never has.
“Surely I should set my own price for my deeds,” the Cat replies. “And stabbing that supercilious vermin was its own reward, to be perfectly honest.”
Lambert snorts. “Yeah, fair, it looked pretty satisfying.”
“I admit to being surprised you chose to leave him alive and mostly unmaimed,” the Cat says slowly.
Lambert shrugs and sighs. “Enough lords are shitty to my brothers without giving another one a fucking grudge. And my brothers don’t have Cats following ‘em around.” He scowls at the Cat. “Why are you following me?”
“Oh, that,” the Cat says, with an eloquent shrug. “Because you’re interesting, of course."
Lambert blinks. "I'm what?"
"Interesting. I've never seen anyone use bombs as precisely as you do, and the rant I overheard at that apothecary in Verden was inspired." The Cat tilts his head and gives Lambert a hopeful look. "I've been hoping you'd let me buy you a drink. Or if you really wanted to offer a reward…" He trails off, batting his big green eyes exaggeratedly.
"What?" Lambert snarls.
"Well, doesn't the daring hero usually earn a kiss?"
Lambert stares at him, jaw hanging open a little. "A what," he says at last.
"A kiss? Lips on lips? Possibly swooning?" the Cat lilts, grinning. "You seem like you'd be good at it."
"I what," Lambert says blankly. That is…not something he's ever been accused of before.
"Nobody with that clever a tongue could possibly be a bad kisser," the Cat explains cheerfully. "And like I said. You're interesting."
Lambert blinks several times and runs a hand over his face, trying to figure out where this conversation got completely out of his control. Probably somewhere around the beginning, if he's being honest. "You want a kiss. From me."
"Only if you're interested," the Cat says, shrugging. "I mean, if you want to just buy me a drink and call it good, we can do that. I'm not going to demand kisses. They're no fun if they're not freely given."
Lambert regards his companion for a long moment, brain whirling madly. The Cat is a handsome son of a bitch, lean and lithe and agile. And he's clearly damned good with his blades, which might not be attractive to other people but sure is to Lambert. And he's smart and vicious and funny and saved Lambert's ass today, which Lambert does in fact appreciate.
Sure, what the hell. A kiss. And the Cat did say 'possibly swooning' -
Lambert takes a page out of one of those romances that Geralt pretends the bard slips into his bag (as if they don't all know that Geralt was reading the damn things long before he got a bard), steps forward, loops an arm around the Cat's waist and cups his other hand around the back of the Cat's head, and dips the clever moggy as he leans down to press their mouths together.
The Cat makes a high startled sound and flails for a moment before wrapping his arms around Lambert's shoulders and opening his lips beneath Lambert's, tongue tangling with Lambert's eagerly. It is, somewhat to Lambert's surprise, a damn good kiss; the Cat's teeth are sharp but gentle and his lips are astonishingly soft and he tastes slightly of cloves.
"Well," the Cat says as Lambert straightens up and sets him back on his feet, "I was right!" He grins brightly. "You are, in fact, a damn good kisser."
Lambert really hopes the heat in his cheeks doesn't mean he's blushing. The Cat hasn't let go of his shoulders, and his face is very close to Lambert's. His eyes are very bright.
"Not so bad yourself," Lambert mumbles.
"Why thank you," the Cat says, grinning more broadly somehow. "Good enough that you might perhaps be interested in doing that again sometime? Possibly on an ongoing basis?"
Lambert snorts. "What, you want to stick around?"
"Yes? I thought I was being fairly clear about that." The Cat examines Lambert's face for a moment, huffs a quiet laugh, and shakes his head. "Let me be incredibly blunt, then: I like what I've seen of you, I'd like to see more, I think we'd work well together, I'd be delighted to travel the Path with you, and if that includes kissing and more than kissing I would be very pleased."
That's…very clear.
Does Lambert want to travel the Path with a Cat?
Well, some random Cat, no. This Cat, who just saved his ass and is charming and clever and vicious and kisses like a dream?
"Yeah, sure," Lambert says, and watches delight dawn over the Cat's face, which is bizarrely flattering. "You got a name, or should I be calling you Cat?"
"Aiden," the Cat purrs. "And you're Lambert of the Wolves."
Lambert snorts. "I am," he says, and kisses his Cat again.