At noon, on the way home after leaving Kalkstein's alchemy workshop, Angoulême trailed behind Victor with a guilty conscience. The young man's expression hadn't looked good since the moment they stepped out.
After hesitating for a while, she finally tested the waters. "Captain… you don't look too happy. Did things not go well?"
Victor shot her a vicious look. For a second he wanted to vent and snap at her—but unfortunately, whatever fatherly instinct had lodged itself in his head still had the upper hand.
So he said, in a bad mood, "This time I'm not going to praise you for reading the room. Everything went smoothly. I'm in a foul mood for other reasons. Don't ask."
…Anyone would be in a bad mood after getting mocked like that.
The whole thing, put simply, was this: Kalkstein had asked him a few metaphysical—abstract—questions. And after Victor answered without missing a beat, the alchemical elder promptly lectured the "junior" for being too ambitious.
He laughed at Victor for being young and yet reciting some "mature" thoughts he'd clearly copied down from somewhere else—then treating them like his own answers. He called it idiotic.
For example, at Victor's age and with Victor's experience, he was studying alchemy to pursue truth?
…Victor didn't even believe that himself. He'd never cared about "truth." What he wanted was power—power to seize his own fate.
So when his "deliberate pandering" got hacked to pieces right in his face, Victor had nothing to say.
At least it was only mildly embarrassing. No third party had been there to hear it. And after Kalkstein finished tearing into him, the man still said he liked him.
He liked the answers Victor had memorized—especially the part about being a "seeker of truth," which, to Kalkstein, was basically a perfect self-portrait.
So he was willing to share his alchemical notes and insights with Victor—so long as Victor paid for them. Kalkstein spread out the list of ingredients in his hand: ghoul blood, devourer marrow, drowner brain, graveir hide, cemetery moss, mole yarrow, white crape myrtle petals… more than twenty different alchemical materials in all, each with required quantities neatly listed.
There was no requirement to gather everything. "However much material you bring, that much wisdom you get," Kalkstein had said.
The problem was that many of the items on the list could only be obtained outside the city walls.
Which meant things had looped right back to the beginning: the task of "obtaining a permit to enter and leave Vizima" was sitting in front of him again.
Still, compared to yesterday, today came with one advantage: today he could go straight to someone who could be spoken to—and who could actually issue the permit.
The captain of the Vizima City Guard: Vincent Meis.
…
The Phantom Troupe found Captain Meis at the City Guard training yard.
When a guard ran off to report their arrival, Victor could see Vincent in the distance, holding a practice sword as he corrected his men's form and guided them through drills.
The dark-haired, balding, pot-bellied middle-aged man strode over from afar. He wore thin iron armor with a surcoat over it bearing Temeria's lily emblem. Deep lines carved into the sides of his mouth made him look older than he probably was.
Prepared for this, Victor produced the bounty notice he'd torn from the notice board—Bloodthirsty Vegetation. "Captain," he said respectfully, "I'm here about this contract. I'm willing to leave the city and deal with this bloodthirsty monster, but the sealed gates prevent me from serving you."
The captain sized up the young sellsword for a moment. The steel sword on his hip clearly wasn't just decoration, and his leather armor reinforced with iron plates showed real wear. The woman behind him didn't look like some ornamental tagalong either.
These two didn't seem like frauds, but whether they could actually complete the job was another question entirely.
Confident he'd measured their weight, Vincent folded his arms and said, "This is dangerous work, young man. I suggest you think again. Is four hundred orens worth risking your life?"
Victor placed his right hand over his chest and replied solemnly, "We've considered it carefully, Captain. We want the opportunity. The Phantom Troupe is willing to serve Temeria."
"The Phantom Troupe?" Vincent's brow creased with doubt. From north of the Yaruga to south of the Pontar, he knew most mercenary bands with any reputation in Temeria…
But he'd never heard that name.
Seeing the captain's confusion, Angoulême beamed and "helpfully" explained, "We only founded the company recently. Right now it's just the two of us."
That answer—so absurdly unconvincing—made Vincent shake his head.
Two more youngsters chasing thrills. People like that never understood what awaited them: death. He'd seen plenty over the years.
Sure, every so often a few of them came back with real talent and a name worth remembering—but if they had that kind of ability, he could always reel them in after they survived.
With that thought, there wasn't much more to say. Vincent waved a hand and called over a guard at random. "Jethro. Take them to the station, get them registered, and issue two city gate passes."
Then he looked at Victor and added, "And you'll give Jethro fifty orens afterward. That's the price of the opportunity. Understood?"
"Perfectly, sir."
…
By the time they returned home for the fourth time, night had already fallen.
It really was the capital of Temeria—every instrument Victor needed for alchemy could be found here. After finishing his purchases, he headed down to the basement and began setting up his own laboratory. Angoulême helped too, hauling items down from upstairs.
The first thing he set up, of course, was the foundation of his "miraculous" alchemy: the huge brewing cauldron—always scalding hot, always mysterious, and never entirely clear on what, exactly, it was simmering.
Once the carrying was done, Angoulême sat off to the side and watched her captain work. It wasn't that she didn't want to help; it was that the "alchemy apprentice" wouldn't let her touch anything. In Victor's territory, every beaker and every test tube had to sit in exactly the right place.
With nothing to do, she propped her cheek on one hand and idly swung her long legs. Then she remembered something. "Oh, right, Captain—about that amulet at noon. You said it could reduce the chances of catching the plague. What does it actually do?"
Victor's face was close to the cauldron as he wiped down the inner wall, so his voice echoed loudly off the metal. "Relax. That anti-flea amulet is a Ban Ard specialty. Made by a mage's own hands. The quality's guaranteed."
Then he raised his head—just in time to meet Angoulême's irritated glare.
"Hey. Don't start glaring," he said, not joking now. "I'm not messing with you. The plague spreads through flea bites."
"How do you know that?"
"If you don't even know that, how am I supposed to be your captain?"
A few blunt words堵ged off her grievance. Victor poured water into the cauldron, lit the firewood, and motioned her over. "Don't say I treat you badly. Today your captain's going to teach you a secret technique. If you learn it, you'll never go hungry again."
"Huh? What is it?" Angoulême's round brown eyes lit up with interest.
"Don't worry. Watch me once—it's simple. This is how you make delicious spiced boiled eggs."
"Here… toss these bay leaves and spices in with the eggs, give it a good stir, like this—glug-glug-glug, clack-clack-clack… and then—flash!—whoosh, and it turns into spiced eggs…"
As he talked, a faint shimmer flickered. He ladled a few eggs floating in the cauldron out with a soup spoon. Victor casually peeled one open and handed half to Angoulême to try.
"It's really good! And this method is so magical… can I actually learn it?"
"You either can, or you can't. One try and you'll know." When he said that, his voice turned calm and distant—carrying a quiet nostalgia and gratitude only he understood.