Hearing the faint sound of a key turning downstairs, Angoulême cut off her "career" of describing nightmares to Catherine, yanked open her door, and pattered down the stairs—only to run straight into Victor, who had just come in.
"Something wrong?"
"Checking if you're okay."
One question clipped, one answer brisk.
"I'm fine. What could possibly happen to me?"
"Good." And with that, the girl took the stairs three at a time and ran right back up to her room.
Watching Angoulême's back, Victor had no idea what she was up to—why she wouldn't sleep properly and had sprinted downstairs just to ask such a pointless question—but he was still happy. What he'd told Shani earlier hadn't been empty bravado, yet seeing Angoulême with his own eyes made him even more at ease.
He'd only just gotten home near midnight, but unfortunately he still couldn't go to bed.
After cleaning up the scene at the Vizima Cemetery, he was carrying a lot of alchemical materials that needed quick, simple processing.
For example, the ghoul blood he'd bottled and stored in his herb pouch—especially the few vials meant for Kalkstein—needed to be taken out, mixed with anticoagulant, and kept cold.
Because even a mage's storage space doesn't stop time from passing. So, to avoid exposing what was unusual about his herb pouch, the freshest, "as-if-just-drawn" quality could only be kept for his own use.
…
The next day, morning at the Hairy Bear Inn was nothing like the noisy chaos of the night. It felt calm and quiet—
Though that description certainly didn't apply to the owner.
The man had a face like a bulldog, as if he was always clenching something between his teeth. When he saw Victor come up to the counter, he beamed, poured a cup of milk, and slid it across.
Glug, glug, glug—Victor downed it in one go, set the cup down, and said, "Are you this friendly to every customer? A free drink the moment they walk in? Or is it because I'm the 'Iron Fist'?"
"Neither," the owner said. "Even if you're the Iron Fist, you only get it free that night. One Iron Fist a week—if I made it free every time, this place would've shut down ages ago.
"This milk is for a witcher… apprentice. Don't worry about your identity getting out—Ramsmeat told me in private. We understand you want to keep up the mercenary front.
"Thank you for dealing with the archespores in the swamp. You did a real favor. If you hadn't taken care of them, no one knows how many more people would've died."
Victor put on an exaggerated expression of shock—so exaggerated it was practically distorted. "Wow. So there's no privacy left in the Temple Quarter? I turned in the contract the evening before last, I just withdrew my reward from the bank, and you already know."
"I knew the evening before last," the owner said. "Because business got noticeably worse.
"The archespores were most active at night, so the lumber workers would stop by dusk so they wouldn't get eaten on the road home. But once you solved the problem, those money-men naturally demanded overtime—said they had to 'make up the losses' from the past while.
"Careful. A few strong lumber workers have already gotten drunk and started yelling that they want to 'teach you a lesson.'"
"They're blaming the wrong person!" Victor protested. "Shouldn't they go teach the money-men a lesson?"
"Not wrong at all," the owner said flatly. "If they hit the money-men, they lose their jobs. If they hit you, no problem."
"I'm sure they were joking. When the foreman took me around the logging area, they didn't talk like that at all. It was all stuff like: labor is happiness, chopping trees makes me joyful… things like that."
The owner laughed. "So the 'new guy mercenary who doesn't want trouble' is just an act, and sharp-tongued, mean, and poisonous is your true face?"
Then he sobered a little. "Still—watch yourself. When they're sober, they won't do anything. But you can't predict what a drunk man will do."
As he spoke, he poured another drink and set a cup of "Vizima Champion" in front of Victor.
"You want to hit me too?" Victor asked. "A veteran of the Battle of Brenna—because I made your business worse?"
"Don't be stupid," the owner snorted. "Summer will pass soon enough, the plague will settle down, and once curfew lifts, Vizima will be Vizima again—one of the North's liveliest cities that never truly sleeps."
As he said it, Griffarin leaned against the liquor shelves out of habit, arms folded across his chest.
"I don't worry about business. This world never runs out of bastards who get dead drunk and try to ride on top of their horse.
"So let's talk real business, washed-up Iron Fist, archespore killer. You didn't drag yourself to my lousy tavern at dawn just to show off the four hundred and fifty orens you just got, did you?"
"Damn it!" Victor snapped. "Am I the only one who thinks people should keep secrets? Or does the whole world already know Victor's pockets are stuffed with orens? No wonder that lady across the street kept waving at me just now."
Smack—he slapped a newly acquired leather sack of coins down on the bar. "Too bad I really did just come to chat with you, keep in touch, build some goodwill. The person I actually need to see is Ramsmeat."
Griffarin worked his jaw and answered in a rough voice, "Relax. Your coin pouch isn't much of a secret. The women at the Eager Thighs wave at every man who walks by.
"And if you want Ramsmeat, you didn't need to come here. I'm not part of his gang—I just helped introduce you that day."
"I know," Victor said. "It's just that it's still too early right now. Feels more polite to visit a little later."
"Polite, and killing time?" Griffarin said. "Then you'd be better off going across the street and taking a proper bath. I can smell that faint corpse stench on you from here."
…
A few three-story old buildings of brick and timber stood here in a neglected corner on the western edge of the Temple Quarter.
"It's the one up ahead with guards at the door," said the man guiding Victor. His voice was low, his build broad, his skin dark—yet you could tell just by his face he'd only recently reached adulthood.
This member of Ramsmeat's gang was called Black Dog. Victor had run into him at the door after washing his feet and leaving the Eager Thighs.
"Thanks for showing me the way, Black Dog." Smiling, Victor placed five orens into the man's hand as a tip, then parted with him.
At that moment, Victor never could've guessed it would be a final farewell.
He would never see Black Dog alive again.
And Black Dog had another identity as well—Red Dog's mortal enemy within Salamandra. The grudges between them were long enough to fill books, and to tell the whole story, you'd have to start with a blue-haired girl at the Eager Thighs… her cousin's neighbor's friend's aunt…
…
When Victor entered the dining room, Ramsmeat was eating lunch. With his mouth stuffed full, he didn't speak—he only waved a hand to make his close bodyguards step back, then made an inviting gesture for Victor to sit and eat with him.
Victor was, in fact, hungry. He didn't stand on ceremony. He pulled out a chair and sat down, tore apart half of the roasted chicken that still looked relatively intact and dropped it onto his plate, then filled both their cups with wine.
At last he cleared enough space in his mouth to talk. Ramsmeat spoke a bit sloppily. "Was this deliberate? Visiting someone during their meal? Or did my friendliness last time give you the impression I'm hospitable?"
After burning through a lot of energy lately, Victor tore the chicken into bite-sized strips and stuffed them into his mouth. "Business. I'm here to talk business."
"The evening before last you cleared the cursed buds. Last night you started dealing with the mess at the cemetery. You're already this busy—what business do you still have with us?"
"Since you know I just cleared out the archespores, you must also know my coin purse is thick right now. Some things are controlled in the market, or hard to get—crossbows, for example. Or Zerrikanian blasting powder…" Victor paused slightly. "I think Ramsmeat's gang might be able to help me. Or at least know where I can buy them."
Ramsmeat stopped eating and stared at Victor for a moment, then calmly resumed his meal. "What are you offering us?"
"More orens?" Victor snapped off half a long loaf of bread, tore it into smaller pieces, and dipped them in thick soup.
"If you want contraband," Ramsmeat said, "King Foltest is only the foundation. You need something besides money to persuade me."
"This is to deal with the ghouls at the cemetery."
"For the public good…?" Ramsmeat scoffed. "Then go talk to the Order. They'll give you more than one crossbow."
"I will," Victor said. "Ghouls cost extra, though. And knights can't solve all of my needs."
By now Victor's throat felt dry. He lifted his cup and drained it, then continued, "Fine. You definitely know the alchemist Kalkstein in the Temple Quarter. My side work is collecting materials for him. Maybe Ramsmeat's gang wants potions."
It might've been Victor's imagination, but the moment he mentioned Kalkstein and potions, Ramsmeat's bald head seemed to shine brighter, and the long scar down his cheek looked almost like it was smiling.
"…Go on," Ramsmeat said, picking up the bottle and refilling Victor's cup for him.
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