As summer gradually withdrew and autumn crept closer, the heavy clouds hanging over Vizima—the Catriona plague—also began to fade as the temperature dropped.
"In the blink of an eye, the Phantom Troupe has spent a peaceful, tranquil month in this city. But neither of them could possibly have imagined that this was merely the calm before the storm—their sweeping, epic adventure, over mountains and under seas, is about to begin…"
"If you don't talk, nobody's going to think you're mute. And I already warned you—stop slipping in those weird narrations when I'm not paying attention." Victor was speaking while working in front of a great cauldron, stirring with a long paddle as he performed "cosmetic surgery" on the handsome Foltest stamped onto a pile of gold coins.
Angoulême sprang up from the chaise lounge and shouted, "But it's so boring! Nothing has happened all month! Look, it's already afternoon—another boring day is about to pass!"
"What's wrong with a calm life, tell me. Or do you want me to dock all your spending money and make you go fend for yourself outside, so you can finally understand what happiness is?" Hit by Victor's retort, Angoulême wilted and collapsed back onto the lounge as if she'd been mortally wounded.
Watching her, Victor didn't know whether to be annoyed or amused. "Fine. Griffarin and those buddies of his—what do they call themselves, a brotherhood, a crew, whatever—haven't they been running some underground fistfights lately? I'll let you go watch tonight. You're allowed to bet up to a hundred orens. Go have fun."
He watched Angoulême bounce out the door, delighted. At that moment, Victor had no idea that his quiet life in Vizima was ending right then and there.
…
Unlike ordinary witchers, Victor Corion wasn't short on coin, so he didn't feel anxious just because there were no monsters to hunt.
Sword practice, alchemy, studying—these past days had been calm and pleasant. Just like in Vergen, he made plenty of friends. Some of those friends even stood on completely opposite sides—like Siegfried and Yaevinn—yet he managed to get along with everyone. In his spare time he'd soak at the Hairy Bear tavern, and occasionally rest at the place across the street.
His friendship with Shani deepened too. Lately she visited at least two days a week, and as the number of times he walked her home increased, Victor found himself increasingly irritated by the way her landlady kept sizing him up like he was a burglar.
Shani said the old woman meant no harm, but once Victor learned the landlady's faith—that she was a follower of Prophet Lebioda—he quickly got his hands on a collection of Lebioda's sayings and asked Shani to pass it along. After that, Victor instantly became "a gentle, kind, good boy" in the landlady's mouth.
As a reward for that, Shani gave Victor a kiss on the cheek—purely friendly—praising his superb way of handling the landlady. Truthfully, Shani herself had been bothered by the old woman's well-meaning nagging; she just couldn't say it outright.
Calm days passed especially quickly. In the blink of an eye, a whole month was gone. In terms of comfort and livability, Vizima had been the best place he'd lived since arriving in this witcher world. If Lambert were here, he'd probably kick the door open and demand to know whether Victor planned to die of old age in this city.
But even without Lambert, fate wasn't going to let him stay comfortable.
…
That night, as usual, Victor was down in the underground alchemy room brewing healing draughts. This batch was meant for the Rams tomorrow. The quality was reliably "not great," the shelf life was "not long," and the amount he handed over each time was "not much." Those "three nots" were the secret to keeping a long-term, friendly partnership with the Rams.
Humming a light, carefree little tune to himself—la-la-la—Victor was abruptly interrupted.
"Captain! There's something I need to tell you." Angoulême, back from her evening out, cut straight through his good mood.
"Oh, my dearest Angoulême, why do you look so serious? Don't tell me you broke our agreement and lost more than a hundred orens." Even being interrupted, Victor was still in high spirits, smiling openly.
"No… it's like this. Today at the Hairy Bear, I ran into a friend." Angoulême swallowed. "He lost his coin purse, and he nearly got beaten by the owner because he couldn't pay after he finished drinking. So I paid for him. But then he said he had nowhere to stay, so I brought him back. He's at the door right now."
Victor frowned.
If he was honest with himself, he didn't believe Angoulême had any respectable "friends." Was it someone from back when they escaped that place together? People like that usually didn't have much going for them—bad habits, no skills, and a talent for dragging trouble in behind them.
But the displeasure on Victor's face quickly faded.
No matter what, this was Angoulême's friend. Since he'd accepted her, he had to accept her past too, including whatever rough company might come with it. He had to see the man before he judged.
Victor's expression turned thoughtful.
If it really was that bad—based on all the similar situations he'd seen—throwing a few hundred orens at the problem might not "buy the friend out," but it would definitely buy the truth out.
Meanwhile, from the moment she finished speaking, Angoulême had been watching Victor's face. After so long together, his micro-expressions couldn't fool her. This time the shift was obvious: he'd been unhappy at first, then he'd decided that meeting the man once was fine. So she stayed quiet, wearing an innocent, well-behaved look, waiting for the captain's verdict.
Clink, clink. Victor lightly tapped the rim of the cauldron twice with the stirring rod, stopped his work, and took a pair of sunglasses from the shelf. He walked over to the long table, sat down with his arms crossed, and said, "All right. Since you already brought him here, I'm not going to be heartless. We'll meet him. Let him in."
Angoulême answered with a bright "Mm!" and ran upstairs to open the door, beaming.
When the man came down, Victor disliked him at first glance.
He was of average build, slick-haired and overly groomed—prettied up to the point of looking powdered. He was even more handsome than many elves, and the whole way he carried himself radiated a gloomy, brooding, middle-aged charm.
Ah. Victor felt his "overprotective dad" instincts switch on. He even sensed a faint urge to draw his sword and cut something.
It definitely wasn't because the man was far too good-looking. It was because he looked… unreliable. It was the kind of instinct you got when you met your own type—one rake recognizing another rake at a glance.
Yes—just like Angoulême had a sharp instinct for malice, men often read other men frighteningly well. And the man in front of him screamed of a certain variety: a pleasure-seeker who lived off others, talked sweet, and couldn't keep his trousers under control.
The man, meanwhile, clearly hadn't expected the "captain" Angoulême spoke of to be even younger than she was. Victor's manner was composed and confident, sunglasses reflecting the weak firelight—but however you looked at him, he wasn't an adult. For someone usually so silver-tongued, the newcomer found himself oddly short of words.
Victor sat behind the table, elbows planted, fingers interlaced beneath his chin, voice low and steady.
"I'm from Bell Town, east of Zerrikania. Victor Corion—captain of the Phantom Troupe. Your name?"
"…." The slick-looking man hesitated, unsure whether he should trot out the usual lines he used to fool people. Wrapped in shadows, that child playing grown-up in front of him didn't look like an easy mark at all.
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