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It arrived in Vizima a week after the pox, by which point three hundred people were already dead.
By the time Essi first laid eyes on it, the best estimates were all over two thousand. Mass graves were being hastily dug outside the city, and a steady breeze forced everyone to press a cloth over their noses to avoid retching.
“The practice is called ‘variolation’,” it explained to Essi and the dozen other still-healthy souls who’d accepted the ‘Humble Invitation to an Exciting New Experiment for the Betterment of Mankind!!’ notice nailed to a pole in the marketplace. They’d assembled in the back room of an apothecary who apparently knew ‘Mister Regis’ well, and vouched for its wisdom.
None of the others had yet worked out what the thin, mild-mannered thing calling itself Mister Regis was.
Essi only knew because Geralt had spoken of vampires, and had happened to be looking directly at the patch of empty wall beside Mister Regis when it had accidentally moved too close to a candle.
She’d have fled right then and there – except that Geralt had told her running from a vampire who’d already seen you, who was within grasping distance of you, was pointless. She didn’t want to die a pointless death.
So as it spoke – it seemed to like speaking – she kept very still and tried to devise a plan.
Maybe she could escape when it abandoned the ruse and leapt at them. Maybe she could even attempt to save a couple of the others while it was distracted sucking its first victims dry. Even if she failed, her last act would be a courageous one.
The young man sitting closest to Regis stuck a hand in the air. “Sir – sorry, I don’t understand. You want to make us sick now, so that we get less sick later. Um. How does that work? Doesn’t make sense.”
Essi had once had a tutor with terrible gingivitis who, not wanting his students to be discouraged, smiled often and broadly while always keeping his lips firmly pressed together. Regis was better at it; of course it was. It had been doing it for longer. How old was it, really? One hundred? Two hundred? It looked fifty, at most.
“An excellent question!” the vampire declared, black eyes twinkling behind its little spectacles, and proceeded to talk for forty minutes without once stopping to breathe.
By the time it was done, Essi had formulated two new opinions.
The first was that the creature, whatever other foul evils it may have perpetrated and may have planned, was, all else aside, an insufferable old windbag. (Almost made her feel sorry for it. Weren’t vampires supposed to be… well, seductive? Charming? Wasn’t that how they lured their prey? This poor devil had all the raw erotic energy of a potato. She imagined that even thinking of sensual matters in its presence would feel as wrong as thinking them in front of one’s doting grandparent.)
The second was that this might not be a ruse.
If all it wanted was their blood, it could have finished off the lot of them by now. But it actually seemed to care about this experiment and its results. Which – hmm. Perhaps that made sense. Perhaps the blood of those suffering from smallpox tasted bad. Perhaps Regis genuinely hoped to maintain the health of its new herd.
If so, Essi certainly wasn’t going to object.
This wasn’t her first outbreak. She’d lost count of how many acquaintances she’d seen vanish down the pox’s gullet. The last one, eleven years back, had blinded her favourite aunt, left her half-sister scarred beyond recognition, and killed two cousins. The one seven years before that had taken her baby brother.
The pox was a monster that put all others to shame. If everyone who was ever murdered by a vampire were piled up, you’d have a mountain it would take strong men several days to summit. If you did the same with every smallpox victim, those same men would be able to step off the topmost body and onto the Moon.
And this outbreak was shaping up to be the worst in her lifetime. People were fleeing the city in droves. Her neighbours were barricading themselves in their homes with enough food and water to last months.
As long as she slipped away before this creature could make a meal of her, why not take advantage of its cunning?
“Hang on – did you say Zerrikania?” said a woman slightly older than Essi, at last interrupting the vampire’s lecture.
Regis nodded. “Indeed! Variolation has been the custom there for several decades, with extremely promising resu-…”
But she’d already set her jaw. “I’ll not be having with no funny foreign rituals, thank you very much.”
She left. Regis didn’t stop her, though it did sigh heavily before turning to them and saying, “I shall not lie to you. The procedure is not without risk. If I administer it to one hundred men, it is possible that one would die as a result. But the rest would be safe, entirely safe, going forward. The pox would fling itself upon their bodies as a strong wind upon a stone fortress, and find them impenetrable. I do not promise a long and healthy life. I merely promise improved odds.”
When it was Essi’s turn, she took care not to look Regis in the eye.
It didn’t seem to mind; simply put its long glass tube up her nostril and blew the powdered scabs into her body, then smiled its close-lipped smile. “All done. May I ask, miss – the callouses on your palms – you’re a musician, aren’t you?”
She swallowed. Forced her voice to remain steady. “Bard. Play the lute. And sing.”
“I ask because one of the ways this disease spreads is via droplets sprayed onto others when an infected individual coughs or sneezes – for which reason large, densely-packed crowds, such as might be found in a tavern or theatre, increase the risk. If you’ve performed recently, you might well have already-…”
“Yes, yes, I know.”
“There’s an incubation period of ten to fourteen -…”
“I haven’t performed anywhere. Not for three weeks.”
“That’s good. I know you have to earn a living, but I would nonetheless advise you to refrain from offering any performances until the disease has left Vizima. Even if you yourself will shortly be immune, those who might come to hear you will not be. Crowding, for any reason whatsoever, must be heavily discouraged citywide.”
“Got money saved up,” she croaked, fear sweat trickling down the back of her neck. “Enough – enough to keep me going for a while. I won’t perform. I swear.”
“That’s the responsible choice,” it replied, approvingly. “Thank you.”
When it had seen to them all with its glass tube, it stood and addressed the room: “I plan to move around the city, offering the procedure to any who are interested. If you wish to contact me – if you have any questions, or you find yourself becoming sick – simply leave a message with the apothecary. While I cannot cure every case of smallpox, I have several remedies that will boost your immune systems and help with the pustules.”
Thanking a vampire, then turning her back on it and walking away, took every drop of courage in Essi Daven’s body.
A month later, when Dandelion came looking for her, he found her helping clear the streets of corpses, as well and rosy-cheeked as could be. The two bards held each other until their arms hurt.
When she told the tale of Mister Regis, the vampire doctor, he didn’t believe her – though he did think it would make for an excellent ballad.
***
A vampire, especially one with four centuries under his belt, was accustomed to just about every kind of reception, from screams to pleas to unsheathed swords to, occasionally, respectful nods. Regis had even been hugged, once or twice.
But it was only upon greeting Geralt’s company and giving them his name that Regis received, from the pretty fellow in the feathered cap, first a scream and then a hug.
“Splendid man!” Dandelion babbled, kissing his cheeks in gratitude while trembling in terror. “Saviour! Marvel! I owe you more than words can express! Please, please don’t eat me!”
As a result of which Regis, hungry for affection, prone to protectiveness when it came to slightly pathetic but nonetheless kind-hearted people, and not invulnerable to the twin lures of long damp eyelashes and bouncing golden curls, became very fond of Dandelion very quickly.
As a result of which Dandelion’s fear of him diminished with equal speed, for indeed Dandelion could forgive any amount of monstrosity in a person provided they had saved the life of one of his dearest friends (and, it went without saying, flattered him often enough).
As a result of which Regis and Dandelion made love several times over the course of their journey and were thoroughly infatuated with one another by the time they reached Toussaint, to one Geralt of Rivia’s weary bafflement.
As a result of which Dandelion, now glued to the vampire’s side, followed the company to Stygga and, in a rare show of athletic prowess attributable partly to adrenaline and partly to all the exercise Regis had been giving him, pushed Milva out of the way of an arrow.
As a result of which Regis retained more clarity of mind than might otherwise have been the case, and approached his duel with Vilgefortz strategically.
As a result of which Regis was alive and with Geralt a while later, on a certain day, in a certain place, and able to deflect a certain pitchfork.
Largely unaware of the chain of events her survival had set in motion, outside of what embellished tales Dandelion would eventually tell her, Essi Daven went about her life.
In her sixty-fourth year, she caught word of another wave of pox sweeping towards Vizima. Immediately, she gathered up all her friends, family, and neighbours, and marched them straight to the apothecary where waited a man who introduced himself as Mister Regis’s son, come to carry on his father’s work. He was doing it with needles these days, he informed them proudly, and had managed to persuade the Nilfgaardian empress to make the procedure mandatory for all children.
“Nice to see you again, sir,” Essi whispered, and winked at him.
His eyes widened with recognition. Then he smiled, involuntary and so broad Essi had to distract the girl he was treating so she didn’t notice the fangs.
The end