Running the fights is as good a cover as any, but Dijkstra has never really understood the sport’s appeal. If he wanted to see sweat-soaked flesh - taught muscle bunching beneath skin - he could go to the baths. If he wanted to slake his thirst for violence, well… he has other hobbies.
Still, the fighting ring brings in a steady flow of cash and allows him access to other unsavory enterprises in Novigrad. It keeps him at the center of things without being the focus. And in a place like this he can lean against the wall and blend into the smoke-thick haze of violence and greed, as inconspicuous as a man of his size can ever be.
Between rounds a figure appears at his elbow. One of his hired bruisers catches his eye, but Dijkstra calls him off with a subtle shake of his head.
“Sigi.”
It’s Thaler. Of course it’s f*cking Thaler, scuttling around the underground with the other rats. Dijkstra inclines his head in something that could pass for a polite greeting if it wasn’t for the sneer on his face.
“Got someone you should meet,” Thaler exhales an acrid cloud of smoke right in his face, unbothered by Dijkstra’s clear displeasure.
“Fine,” he sighs, “I’ll return to my office after this round.”
It’s well into the evening when he finally settles himself behind his writing desk and begins to shift through the afternoon’s correspondence. The light of the hearth dances, reflected in the crystal of a massive goblet filled with dark wine. He’s halfway through a long, luxurious drink when the heavy door of his office slams into the wall.
“The hell, Dijkstra, I’ve been waiting for f*cking hours.”
He groans. “Thaler made it sound like this was a matter of some urgency. If I wanted to see you, I’d just look in a mirror and say ‘Temeria’ three times.”
“Piss off, it isn’t me. I’ve a new contact. Someone who could be useful to you.”
Vernon Roche folds his arms across his chest, scowling in the low light. Without his special forces uniform he looks like any old bastard off the streets of Novigrad; scruffy and lean but with a wiry strength in his body, coiled and ready to strike at a moment’s notice. He’s dressed in cheap clothes that could belong to anyone, sweat-stained shirt open at the collar and threadbare trousers thin at the knees. Still has that stupid hat, though.
Roche is many things, but he’s no fool. If he has a lead or a contact it’s likely worth some notice. But that doesn’t mean Dijkstra is willing to tip his hand. Can’t have a man like Roche start feeling indispensable.
Dijkstra returns to his papers, lazily paging through a ledger until Roche barks, “Well?”
“In the baths. Have this contact of yours meet us. I need to soak my bloody knee,” Dijkstra says without looking up, “and you reek, as usual.”
Roche scoffs but leaves without protest.
Dijkstra is already up to his chest in scalding hot water, arms up on the tiled lip of the bath when Roche and another man enter through a side door. He enjoys taking meetings in the private baths, and not just to soothe his aching joints. It’s easier to take a man’s measure once he’s stripped bare. Roche is just as unimpressive out of his clothes as in them. His hair sticks up at awkward angles after being crushed by his chaperon and his pasty skin nearly matches the shade of the towel wrapped around his narrow hips. The man behind him is even less impressive, physically. Short, scrawny, pale skin covered with sh*tty tattoos and a paltry dusting of hair on his chest and belly. Unlike Roche, the man hasn’t even bothered with a towel, strutting around with his skinny ass on display. co*cky little thing. Dijkstra beckons them both over.
He feels like he should recognize the stranger. Something familiar about his appearance pulls at the edges of his memory, like he’s seen him in a crowd before. Grunting as he puts weight on his bad leg, Dijkstra stands and sloshes through the water until he’s towering over both Roche and his friend.
“Who’s this then?” The man barely flinches as Dijkstra’s hand comes up to cup his chin. He allows his face to be turned to the side and studied, but his shoulders tense up around his ears. The fellow is handsome enough, pretty almost. Maybe he’s Roche’s type… Foltest had certainly been a beautiful specimen, whatever else could be said about him.
“A stray. From the last war,” Roche grunts.
Dijkstra’s eyes drop to the man’s chest, to the Lyrian eagle messily tattooed over his heart.
“Don’t know many Lyrians.”
“Rivian, actually.”
“So, you do speak,” Dijkstra grins. He releases the man’s jaw and instead flattens his palm against the Lyrian insignia. Beneath the wide span of his hand he can feel the man’s heart racing. “I know a few Rivians. More than I’d like. Can I assume the eagle was a tribute to your queen? How touching.”
He doesn’t answer, but there’s no need. Dijkstra feels the man’s breath hitch, an aborted jerk of his ribcage.
“Is a good fondle your standard greeting? Or is this a treat because I’m a friend of Vernon’s?”
Dijkstra barks a surprised laugh. “Neither. Vernon doesn’t have friends. Now,” his hand drifts down the man’s chest until it settles in the dip of his waist, “what does a Rivian - who fought in the last war against Nilfgaard, with a Lyrian eagle inked on his tit* - want to do with Vernon f*cking Roche. And more importantly, me? I assume Roche here has at least hinted at my… enterprise.”
“I’m no patriot, if that’s what you’re getting at-”
“-Let’s have a name first, shall we?”
The man’s nostrils flare, but he answers obediently. “Gascon. Brossard.”
“Ahh,” Dijkstra purrs. “Brossard. Bandit, lapdog of Queen Meve… f*cked around with a mercenary company for a time, if I’m not mistaken.” Using his grip on Brossard’s hip, he pushes him backwards. Brossard snarls and stumbles into Roche, who grasps his arm to steady him.
“Not just any mercenaries,” Roche interjects, “the Iron Falcons.”
“Could have just said that at the outset, Roche. Save us some trouble. I thought the Falcons were hunted down during Radovid’s conquests.”
“We were, but a few of us slipped through the cracks.”
He turns his focus on Brossard, who is breathing through his nose in sharp little bursts, narrow chest heaving with rage. Roche tightens his grip on his arm and rests his other hand between Brossard’s shoulders. There’s an undeniable familiarity in the way he touches him. Interesting.
Things are finally falling into place in Dijkstra’s mind. Assuming Brossard is not completely incompetent, and if he’s survived this long he can't be, having the former head of the Falcons in his back pocket will be advantageous. The man should know how Radovid fights, how he thinks. Perhaps he even has other connections that can be manipulated by a deft hand. And if he and Roche are involved… having leverage on Vernon Roche is not something Dijkstra is ever going to turn down.
“Vernon, I think your little boyfriend would be happier back in whatever’s left of Lyria or Rivia. I’m sure Meve misses her dog.”
He says this just to get a reaction out of both of them and, by the gods, he does. Roche’s face goes bright red and he only barely stops himself from shouting by clenching his jaw so hard Dijkstra can see the tendons stand out in his throat. Brossard’s hands ball into fists at his sides, but he masters himself enough to grit out,
“I've got nothing to go back to. Everything I cared about in Rivia bled out in the castle.”
“Heartbreaking, I'm sure. And Nilfgaard-”
“-I hate Radovid more than I hate Nilfgaard. And as I said before, I’m no patriot.”
“Very well,” Dijkstra claps his hands twice, summoning an attendant bearing an uncorked bottle of wine and three glasses. "Let's talk business, then."
They drink a toast in the steaming water. Dijkstra plies his compatriots with more wine until they’re both flushed with drink and loose-lipped. Yes, yes he can use men like this. Vicious, clever, loyal men without a country- they’re dangerous, but useful.
Later, up in his vast, luxuriously-appointed rooms, Dijkstra brings out more wine and watches Roche and Brossard sink deeper into a drunken stupor and then into each other. When he reaches for them both and once again smothers Brossard’s sh*tty Lyrian tattoo with his hand, he doesn’t flinch away.
