Autumn's air was cool and pleasant. With her long hair hanging down and partly shading her eyes, Angoulême swept her bangs back a little, pinned them with a small cap, and tied the rest into a ponytail—planning to make an extra stop at the barbershop today.
The new leather armor on her body was the very first order Fergus's smithy had taken after opening. Just as they'd expected, business had been bleak for ten days running; so far they'd only managed to sell a small portion of the stock they'd hoarded from earlier.
She strapped her steel sword to her waist. The one she and Victor used now was a new make from Yoana: a "Skellige steel sword," weighing about three pounds.
She opened the window, let Catherine settle onto her shoulder, then strolled downstairs at an unhurried pace. From the kitchen she took out some raw meat and fed her companion.
...
She opened the door and headed to the back wing. Surprisingly, Victor wasn't working there—but the fire under the big cauldron hadn't gone out.
She leaned in for a look. Dozens of ducats sat sunk at the bottom, which meant the captain had only stepped out for a moment—probably gone to the front smithy to talk things over with Yoana. He'd be back soon.
Fixing up the house cost money. Alchemy tools cost money. Materials cost money. Their earlier savings were already burned through—and there were two more mouths to feed now.
So ever since opening day, the boy had spent nearly every day at home, cooking coins in the pot and sleeping. In between, he'd only gone out once, to attend a salon poetry recital.
Angoulême pulled the note from under the weight on the table. It was the captain's handwriting, a list of supplies for a member to buy, with a big bag of crowns and a shopping basket set beside it. Inside the basket was a crate of potions—half hangover cures, half potency tonics. She had to deliver them first to the alchemist who sold their goods on commission, and collect yesterday's payment while she was at it.
Getting back into the trade had been Angoulême's idea. The profit split was simply too tempting. Potions made by mages or other alchemists were priced so high the middle class couldn't afford them at all, while Victor's cheap, plentiful, "good enough" batches hit exactly what customers needed.
And after all those times she'd gone out doing the right thing and hunting down monsters, the girl wasn't short on a sense of purpose anymore. With her personality settling as she grew up, she also wasn't about to wave the Phantom Troupe's banner just to hawk aphrodisiacs.
...
She stepped out into the front smithy. Sure enough, Victor was there—she could hear him and Yoana discussing how to use dimeritium.
Angoulême wasn't an expert on that sort of thing. All she knew was that high-end weapons generally split into two camps: "enchanted weapons" and "anti-magic weapons." Enchanted weapons had spells bound into them, producing special effects and extra damage, while anti-magic weapons were forged with dimeritium, letting them disrupt casting and cancel out the added effects of enchanted weapons.
She didn't interrupt their talk. She gave Fergus a friendly pat on the shoulder as a greeting, then went out the door with her basket, Catherine riding along, dressed sharp and carrying steel.
...
Glory Lane was a ring-shaped street, divided into an outer ring and an inner ring. The inner ring was the core of Rotwood, and you couldn't enter unless you were one of the Beggar King's people—or someone who'd earned recognition. Ordinary residents lived only on the outer ring.
The girl didn't really want to get involved in anything that complicated, but the boy never gave up nagging her about "the business." Thankfully, Fergus and Yoana now shared the burden of the captain's nightly lessons.
Stuff like "How to keep yourself alive in Novigrad," "How to deal with the Temple Guard," "The art of bribery," and "If you can open a window, you can jump out of it,"—a whole set of paranoia-soaked field manuals for would-be victims.
By habit, she walked to Hattori's Dumplings and sat down, calling out loud and bold, "Eibhear! Twenty dumplings to start—ten chicken, ten potato-and-spinach. No onions!"
She'd found this dumpling shop on her third day after moving in. The owner was an elf who specialized in Redanian dumplings. Plenty of flavors, and every one she'd tried was genuinely good.
"Welcome, welcome! Angoulême, you've got excellent taste," Éibhear Hattori called back over his shoulder, busy at the stove.
Angoulême yawned. "Of course. The customer's always right."
She went to the seasoning counter, scooped up a lump of sour cream, and got ready to dip.
...
Once she'd eaten her fill, Angoulême circled past an Altar of the Eternal Fire. Stone shrines like that were everywhere in the city, an unending flame burning at the center day and night, turning Novigrad into a place that truly never slept.
She thought it was a waste of fuel, but she wouldn't say it out loud. The captain had warned her in solemn detail: people who complained about that had a habit of ending up as kindling.
She handed the small crate of potions to the merchant, took the satisfyingly heavy pouch of crowns, then headed to Hierarch Square to buy the things listed on the note.
In the world's most famous market, you could find just about anything—from exotic spices imported from far-off Zerrikania to the simplest iron nail. It didn't take her long to fill the basket with everything she needed.
"Beware! There's a Swindler About!"
People of Novigrad! I warn you all: Klaus Fetterling is a liar, a fraud, and a shameless swindler!
His "miracle hair-growing formula" is nothing but well water from the Bits, tinted with a little lilac extract.
The only thing his potion is good for is sending you running to the privy day and night with a belly like a battlefield—speaking from my own miserable experience.
If that brazen cheat ever shows up at your door, do not buy a thing. Tell him to drink his own remedy.
—Volker Ollinger
Stopping at the notice board to read it, Angoulême grinned so wide she nearly split her face. Then she realized it was a business opportunity: Victor needed to know this city had plenty of people desperate for a "hair-growth potion."
She tore the notice down, folded it up, and slipped it into her clothes. With time to spare, she kept wandering and shopping at her leisure.
As she walked, Angoulême's eyes suddenly lit up. She picked up her pace and slipped into an alchemy shop, because a paper on the door read: "New Stock: Cockatrice Spinal Fluid"—one of Victor's priority purchases.
She paid for the cockatrice spinal fluid and tucked it into her basket. Combined with the gryphon venom gland Victor had gotten earlier by delivering a letter for Yaevinn, she knew only one thing was missing now: the tongue of an albino bruxa. With that, he'd be able to brew the Wolf School's first draft of the Grass Draught.
Then she remembered what Victor had said—that the Trial of the Grasses carried a death rate as high as seventy percent.
And, all at once, Angoulême stopped in her tracks.
...
Novigrad — Vivaldi Bank. Inside its gilded, glittering hall—
Vimme Vivaldi, a gray-bearded dwarf with a shaved head and perfectly tailored finery, had built the family's bank into the single largest presence in Novigrad.
Spotting Angoulême as she walked in, he immediately came forward with a broad smile. "Oh! My dearest, most beautiful Lady Angoulême—what a joy to be of service again." He craned his head to peek behind her. "Is Mister Victor still not with you today? I do hope I get to meet him soon."
Angoulême replied with a bright, teasing grin. "If he heard you say that, he'd be happy too. He did say he really admires how you run things."
As the gray-bearded dwarf bowed in thanks, the gleam off his shiny bald head only made Angoulême more certain: a hair-growth potion definitely had a future.
"Same service as before?" he asked.
"Yes! Change all these crowns into ducats."
The last stop in Angoulême's daily route was always the bank—where she exchanged all the crowns she had left after shopping into triple the number of orens.
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