Pulling aside the tent flap, the elven scout stepped into the tent and reported, "Yaevinn, I escorted them to the forest's edge. They've left." He remained where he stood instead of turning to go.
Yaevinn, seated at a table writing a letter, noticed his subordinate had no intention of leaving. He looked up at him. "What is it? Your face is full of questions."
The scout pressed a fist to his chest and bowed. "Yes, Yaevinn. I'm curious why you were so accommodating to them. Even if they're friends of the Flotsam forest, and a rather good bard, still…"
Yaevinn smiled, raised a hand for him to stop, then took out a letter and passed it to him. "Read this first. It's fine—nothing secret. Just greetings between friends."
The scout accepted it with both hands and opened it to read. Skipping past the florid language, he quickly found the part his commander wanted him to see.
Yaevinn continued, "Anyone jointly recommended in writing by Iorveth and Toruviel must have something special about them… and you heard it too. The Wolven Storm really is a fine piece."
As he spoke, he closed his eyes and opened his arms slightly. "Even now, I can still feel the echo of it hanging in the air. Beautiful. A pity it wasn't music made by elves."
Folding the letter, the scout set it back on the table.
"Even so," he said, "helping without asking for anything in return still feels too abrupt. It makes the other party wary, and that's bad for the long term. Maybe we could request some alchemical goods—"
Yaevinn rubbed the bridge of his nose and cut him off in a low voice. "Wary or not, it can't be helped. We don't have time to build trust slowly. Better to make him owe us a favor outright—so we can use it immediately if we must.
"Besides, offering help in the forest costs us almost nothing. If we can't collect on it later, call it an early investment. Once he becomes a witcher, humans will shun him the way they shun nonhumans. He'll find it easier to become our friend.
"…In fact… I already have a few ideas… but first we'll see whether he actually has the ability to clear archespores…"
The conversation went on for a long while. At last, the scout bowed and withdrew from the tent.
…
Pushing open the door to the Hairy Bear, Victor stepped into a night-time inn that might as well have been a different world from the daytime version. By day, it was at least clean and orderly. By night, it transformed into a den where filth and vice pooled happily together.
The smell that hit him on entry was a cousin to every roadside tavern in the world: smoke, booze, roasted meat, sour sweat, and cheap perfume all tangled into one choking fog. Thankfully, there was less vomit and stale piss than you'd expect, but it was still unpleasant.
Victor and Angoulême weren't delicate types. They didn't waste time reacting to it and walked straight in. Their leather armor, swords, and cloaks were nothing unusual in a room full of drunks, mercenaries, thugs, and serving girls. The Phantom Troupe blended in like a drop of water in a bucket—no one paid them any special attention.
Night also brought more "entertainment." A few drink girls who looked like they could just as easily moonlight in another line of work drifted between tables. There was bare-knuckle brawling, arm-wrestling, dice games, and people buying random weeds—
And there was Jethro again.
With steady steps, Victor reached the bar and met the innkeeper's eyes. "Hot milk, please. And a mug of malt beer for my companion."
Griffarin studied Victor's face with a thoughtful look, then started preparing the drinks.
When he set the two cups down with a pair of dull thuds, Victor slid the malt beer to Angoulême, lifted the milk, and took a deep swig. Then he looked at Griffarin.
"Innkeeper, I'd like to meet Mr. Ramsmeat. There are a few things I want to say to him. I believe he'll be interested."
Griffarin folded his arms and leaned his short, solid frame back against the shelves of bottles, an amused smile tugging at his mouth. "Young man, you know something? I'm a veteran of the Battle of Brenna.
"After the war, I opened this inn. I sell food, drink, and a place where people can breathe and feel free. I have no desire to play broker."
No desire wasn't the same as refusal.
Victor kept his voice even. "Help me out. Because of that casual finger-pointing of yours, my partner and I nearly got chopped to pieces on the road today by seven of Ramsmeat's men."
That made Griffarin work his heavy, mastiff-like jaw.
"I want to meet Mr. Ramsmeat so I can understand why that happened," Victor continued. "Since you recognized me, you must also remember—I'm new here. I'm a sellsword who doesn't want trouble."
Griffarin frowned, thought for a moment, then poured another round—another malt beer and another milk—and set them on the bar. "Drinks are on the house tonight. I'm sorry about what happened to you. But if you want me to act as a go-between, you do it by this place's rules."
His bald head gleamed under the lamplight—not oily, just polished by age and habit. He pointed toward the corner of the inn. "The fistfighting ring. See it? Win three bouts, and I'll introduce you."
Victor glanced at the current winner—some hulking brute raising both hands and showing off to the roaring crowd—then looked back. "That mountain of meat has muscles trying to crawl off his body. You're sending me to my death."
Griffarin snorted, thick fingers rubbing his beardless chin. "You'll be fine. Seven Ramsmeat boys wanted you dead today too, yet here you are, drinking at my bar… and they've vanished off the face of the world."
Victor drained the gifted milk in one go. "Your word, veteran of Brenna?"
"Of course," Griffarin said. "That's my promise."
…
On the bare-knuckle ring, the announcer danced with excitement, voice rising into a hoarse roar as he pulled the crowd's attention in.
"Gentlemen! Ladies! Look here, look here—another new challenger has entered the ring! Seems like tonight's Iron Fist Championship isn't finished yet!
"In the mighty Hairy Bear, where monsters walk among men, allow me to reintroduce our star of the show: the Muscle Murder King!"
He swept an arm toward the south side of the ring, where a man stood wearing nothing but shorts, his entire body wrapped in dense, coiled muscle.
"On this very platform, he's put so many newcomers down that they've foamed at the mouth and sprayed blood like fountains!
"Take a good look at this perfect six-foot specimen! Look at those slabs of muscle—why, when his pecs clap together, he could crush a fly!
"And now, his opponent—oh… the poor challenger. Such a tiny little thing.
"He's five foot seven, small as a chick, and I'm going to boldly guess his little cock is just as small as his height—"
"Whoa… Boss, are you sure you're really going up there?" Up close, even Angoulême was stunned by the knotting cords of muscle on the other man's body.
If they were drawing blades and trading cuts, that would be one thing. But bare-knuckle fighting? Size was nearly everything. Heavyweights losing to lightweights had always been rare.
"Shut up," Victor snapped, already irritated. "Have a little more faith in your boss. He always has a plan. Remember that."
Then, while the announcer was still whipping the room into a frenzy, Victor stepped forward, leaned in close to the so-called Muscle Murder King, and spoke in a low voice.
"Hey, brother. Let's make a deal. See that blonde lady behind me? I'm only fighting tonight to impress her. If you're willing to lose to me, I'll pay you two hundred and fifty orens privately."
The Muscle Murder King looked down at Victor with open contempt, then flexed his throat and spat a thick wad of phlegm.
If Victor hadn't moved fast, it would've landed right on his face.
The man followed it up with a thumb dragged across his own throat, a clean executioner's gesture. "Kid, you're dead!"
Bribed and rejected with a spit to the face, Victor returned to his corner with a dark expression. He grabbed the man taking bets as he moved through the crowd and demanded, "What are my odds right now?"