Pushing open the heavy wooden door, Victor was hit in the face with rolling steam. He drew in the damp air, took two steps forward—and heard the door close behind him.
Inside the VIP room, the men—towels wrapped at the waist, smaller towels draped around their necks—focused their gaze on Victor.
They were Novigrad's Big Four.
Victor returned their attention with a bow.
Judging purely by first impressions, they were: a hook-nosed old man, a punk-haired dwarf, and two bald brutes. So it really was true—being bald was practically part of the job description.
Whoreson Junior's face broke into a smile. "Ah! Victor—come here. I've been waiting for you."
A wooden chair sat beside the pool, a lute resting on it. Victor picked up the instrument, sat down, and looked perfectly at ease.
The hook-nosed old man was "Whoreson Junior," Alonso Wiley. The punk-haired dwarf was Cleaver.
And though there were two bald men in the room, it took one glance at their builds to tell which one was Sigi Reuven.
According to what Victor remembered from books, Sigismund Dijkstra was nothing like the common image of a small, wiry spy—he was a seven-foot brute of a man.
The bathhouse owner's hulking frame, pale skin, and thick, heavy bulk made him look slow and dull at a glance—so much so that it was easy to imagine him as a pig that had just been scrubbed clean.
While Victor tuned his lute, Sigi Reuven boomed out "information" about him to the other three: a brave sellsword, an excellent witcher apprentice, a song in the woods outside Flotsam that made a thousand people weep, praise granted before King Foltest himself, and the feat of crossing the Korath Desert alone.
The Korath Desert lay far to the southeast, between the Nilfgaardian Empire and Zerrikania. People living along its edge called it "the Frying Pan." For anything that couldn't adapt to thirst and savage heat, it was an extremely lethal place.
Listening to all that, Victor lifted an eyebrow.
A thousand people weeping was pure nonsense, and as for crossing a desert—he was the supposed hero of that tale, and he was hearing it for the first time in his life.
In other words, at some point, his "legend" had quietly grown again. And because it sounded plausible, even the King of Spies couldn't easily tell whether it was true or not.
Fame was convenient, sure—but the source of these rumors still needed to be cut off. Mister Dandelion needed to learn this properly: some things you could tell, and some things you did not just make up because it sounded good.
For now, Victor could still smooth over the worst exaggerations. But if the bard kept traveling, the tall tales would soon turn into outright fantasy—and when the backlash came, Victor would be the one paying the price.
Soon, the tuning was done. Victor plucked the strings—and began to play and sing.
…
Evening, Gildorf.
After finishing his performance schedule at Sigismund's Bathhouse, Victor returned alone to Whoreson Junior's mansion first.
In a small sitting room, he sat at a table with Angoulême, Yoana, and Fergus, enjoying fresh-baked biscuits and rich red tea.
When Victor described what had happened at the bathhouse that afternoon, Angoulême looked stunned. "Wow! So, Vic—you just met Novigrad's Big Four all at once? And you bathed with them too?"
Yoana and Fergus were just as bright-eyed. From border watchposts to street gossip, the Big Four's influence in this city was undeniable.
Victor took a small sip of tea. "I didn't bathe. Putting aside the Eternal Fire's hierarch, if Novigrad's most powerful people gather in one place, it's not going to be for a soak, or for one poem.
My performance was just a bit of entertainment during a break. I sang, took the thanks, and left."
He said it like it was nothing. The other three thought about it and agreed—yes, that was the only way it could realistically be.
"But they loved it, right?" Yoana asked. "Did you get anything for it?"
Ever since hearing The Return of the Dragonborn, she'd become Victor's most faithful listener, fully convinced his songs could win over anyone.
Victor swatted away Angoulême's wandering hand, stuffed the last jam biscuit into his mouth, and spoke around it. "Mm. After I played, Mister Alonso was still so moved he teared up. Cleaver clapped twice, just to be polite. The Beggar King—Francis Bedlam—barely smiled.
But the one who surprised me was Sigi Reuven. I didn't expect much from him, but he genuinely appreciated the performance—he applauded hard, and he even asked whether I was settling into life here."
After answering Yoana, Victor turned to Angoulême. "The thing I told you to handle—how did it go?"
Angoulême glanced at Yoana, then nodded. "So… we went to scout the Putrid Grove. There is a suitable shop, but business there really isn't thriving—"
"Listen to me," Victor cut in softly.
Angoulême shut her mouth immediately. Yoana and Fergus, seeing that, didn't dare argue either.
Victor continued. "Right after the performance, I spoke with the Beggar King. I told him I want to open a shop on his turf. I also asked Mister Alonso for an appropriate amount of coin as my performance fee.
So. We stay one more night. Tomorrow we leave Gildorf and move to our new home in the Putrid Grove—then we start our business."
With those instructions delivered cleanly and simply, Victor left on his own and went back to his room.
Fergus and Yoana both turned hopeful eyes toward Angoulême. She only shook her head. "It's useless. The boss has already decided."
Then she left the two of them behind and followed Victor into his room.
She closed the door, lowered her voice, and asked, "Vic… did you see the future? Is Whoreson Junior not trustworthy?"
Angoulême couldn't think of any other reason Victor would insist on drawing a hard line—especially when the man had been so friendly, even hinting he'd gift them a property in Bits, where the middle class clustered.
Victor pulled the curtains open. Sunset slanted in through the glass.
"The official answer is: I have to stand on my own. Bell Town's tradition can't be broken."
Then the leader turned to his crew and delivered his prophecy, crisp and clear.
"In the future… when Whoreson Junior dies, the Second will most likely become an enemy. Sigi Reuven is too clever—I don't want to owe him. And as for Cleaver… nonhumans will soon have enough trouble just surviving."
Angoulême drew in a sharp breath, then pressed, curious. "Do you know how long until that happens?"
"Whoreson Junior's body can hold out at least five more years… but I'd bet the Second won't want to wait that long."
"You won't warn Mister Alonso?"
"He's Whoreson Junior. That bastard doesn't need warnings. If the Second manages to pull it off, it'll be because of love… or betrayal."
…
Late at night, Victor sat by the fireplace and meditated.
This performance had been the perfect excuse. Everyone in Novigrad worth meeting—he'd met: the Beggar King, Cleaver, and the bathhouse owner. He'd gotten himself on their radar and shown just enough value that moving around this city later would be far easier.
From that angle, he really did owe Dandelion for what he'd done.
If the "Dragonborn Bard" hadn't received praise linked to King Foltest, and if Dandelion hadn't promoted him so relentlessly, Whoreson Junior would never have bothered with Victor at all.
And without that, Victor wouldn't have been able—on his third day in Novigrad—to stand face-to-face with the city's four powers. Without fame, he would've met nobody.
The road the bard had paved for him was priceless.
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