"Putrid Grove" was the under-the-table name. Officially, the district was called "Glittering Lane," and in terms of Novigrad's prosperity it was only a little better than Farcorners, where the poor packed in like rats.
Ten days had passed since they left Whoreson Junior's mansion and moved into this four-story building in the Putrid Grove. With enough crowns greasing the right palms, both the alchemy workshop and the smithy had been set up smoothly. But that calm didn't last—on opening day, a flood of street toughs barged in and shattered it.
The two sides faced each other across the negotiating table. On one side was Victor's Phantom Troupe, complete with everyone from the old and frail to women and kids. On the other side stood five burly louts led by a thug called Tony.
Tony rubbed at his eyes, sniffed dramatically, and put on a mournful act. "Sorry. I suddenly miss my mother." Then, slow as if savoring his own performance, he asked, "Boss… you get the letter I sent?"
Victor lifted his bowl, blew across the surface, and took a sip of milk. "Got it."
"New shop, new rules. Same everywhere you go. A letter from me, Tony—don't pretend you don't know what that means."
Smack.
Victor slapped ten crowns onto the table and pushed them toward him. "Real coin, full weight. It's here. Take it. But if you're taking money, do it by the rules."
"What rules?" Tony sneered. "Let's keep it simple. I punch you three times, you punch me three times. You got the guts?"
Behind Tony, the men who'd been baring their teeth a moment ago suddenly went silent.
Tony didn't notice. He was too busy staring at the crowns.
"Too ordinary." Victor clicked his tongue, set the bowl down, and wiped away a faint milk line at his upper lip.
Tony lifted his chin. "Ordinary? Fine. You want something special—say it."
Victor pointed to the side. "See that anvil? In a moment I'm going to tell you to do a headstand on it. Hold it for five minutes, and the money's yours."
Tony split his mouth in a nasty grin. "You joking, yeah?"
Steel hissed.
A sharp saber settled against Tony's neck, biting the skin. A thin line opened—pain, then a bead of blood.
"He's not joking," a cold voice said. "And neither am I."
Tony froze. His men shrank back into the corner, trembling, because the one holding the blade was Babu Tabard of Zerrikania—an ink-covered butcher with a reputation in Glittering Lane built on spilled guts and people screaming for their mothers.
And more often than not, where Babu appeared… the Beggar King's will wasn't far behind.
Victor shook his head, scooped up the ten crowns, and smiled as he pressed them into Tony's hand. "Friend—this is the only time. Walk out of here upright. Next time, you'll be carried out sideways."
The saber slid away.
Tony swallowed, then trudged over to the anvil and flipped himself upside down.
…
The Phantom Troupe's new base faced directly onto Glittering Lane. North, a bridge led to the Fish Market. West, the road ran toward the harbor. Farther east was a produce market. Nearby, there was also Crippled Kate's—a disreputable bathhouse and pleasure den that offered washing along with everything else.
The four-story building had a long, rectangular footprint, and inside it was divided into three sections.
The front section, right by the entrance, was Fergus's smithy. Hanging the dwarf's name on the sign saved them a mountain of suspicion. Yoana didn't object—so long as the forge was hers to command.
The middle section was Victor's alchemy space, arranged to match the setup he'd had in Vizima's cellar: shelves, alchemical tools, and the essential big cauldron.
The back section held the kitchen and dining area, plus the stairs leading up and down.
On the second floor, two rooms belonged to Victor and Fergus. The third floor was where Angoulême and Yoana lived. The fourth floor had been renovated into guest rooms—Victor planned to run this place as a shared secret base for friends.
Behind the building was the inner-city canal, connected to the Pontar, giving them a clean line of sight and a breeze that actually smelled like water instead of piss. The basement looked like a wine cellar on the surface, but in truth it had more than a few traps fitted into it.
…
Victor ignored Tony's headstand and gave Babu a smile. "Thanks for showing me a little mercy. No entrails on my floor."
"No need," Babu said easily. "You paid your dues. Congratulations—may your opening be prosperous."
The Zerrikanian hadn't come alone. One of the men with him stepped forward, set a small iron plaque on the table, and pushed it toward Victor.
"Nail that onto your sign," Babu said with arrogant certainty. "Trash like him won't bother you again."
He'd barely finished speaking when a mocking voice answered from outside. "First thing I see is trouble—almost had me thinking the Beggar King's plaque stopped working."
Boslaer strode in, bringing a few men of his own. He brushed past Babu and placed an invitation on the table, sliding it toward Victor. "Mister Victor, congratulations on opening. I'm here to offer my regards—and to deliver next week's salon invitation."
After the Beggar King's representative, Whoreson Junior's representative arrived as well.
Tony and his crew, reduced to background furniture, looked like they wanted to crawl into a hole and die. But they didn't dare bolt—the doorway was packed tight by the underlings of two real powers.
Victor handed the iron plaque to Yoana and tucked the invitation into his clothing. "Thank you, both of you. You're making my little shop look far more respectable than it has any right to."
"Aha! And what about me?" came a voice that sounded neither warm nor cold. The crowd at the entrance split, revealing Happen's round, pale, comical face.
The eunuch waddled in, chest puffed, belly leading the way, and stopped by the negotiating table. "Greetings to you, witcher apprentice Victor. Mister Reuven heard the smithy was opening today and sent me to offer congratulations!"
With a flick of his hand, his men carried in a small iron chest and set it on the table.
When it opened, it looked like nothing but lumps of blue-black ore. Victor didn't understand at first—but Yoana gasped out loud.
"Dimeritium!"
Victor's pupils tightened.
Dimeritium—also called anti-magic metal. A mage's enemy. One of the rare materials that helped keep the balance of power in the world from tipping completely into sorcerers' hands.
Part of the reason Victor had come to Novigrad in the first place was because it was easier to get dimeritium here. If you wanted weapons and gear that could stand up to powerful mages, you needed this metal.
He still hadn't bought any—not only because it was expensive, but because he lacked a real channel to acquire it. After the Battle of Sodden Hill proved what mages could do, dimeritium had become strategic stock in most kingdoms.
Thoughts racing, Victor kept his polite smile, closed the lid, and lifted the iron chest with both hands before passing it to Yoana, who looked like she might bite it just to make sure it was real.
"Welcome," Victor said. "With the three of you showing up today, I can say with confidence: no blind fool is going to wander in here demanding 'protection fees' ever again."
As he spoke, he waved a hand at the cowering thugs in the corner, telling them to get out.
Tony's crew had been desperate to run for their lives for several minutes. The moment Victor granted permission, they fled through the gap the gangsters opened—scrambling away like rats escaping a kitchen.
"That's a decent blade," Babu said, moving to the wall and picking up a short sword to inspect it.
Boslaer, equally comfortable around steel, grabbed another sword, weighed it in his hand, and gave it a couple of quick swings. "It is."
Victor smiled and spread his hands. "Allow me to introduce the smith—Mister Fergus."
With two men who lived by the blade and killed without blinking paying attention to him, Fergus did his best to keep his expression blank. He followed Victor's earlier advice: if you've got real skill, you just lift your head and stand straight—no need to talk.
Sure enough, after a moment of inspection, both Babu and Boslaer nodded to the dwarf. Men like them respected craftsmen. Yoana specialized in armor, but she was no slouch with swords and blades either—and Fergus's name on the sign made the whole operation feel legitimate.
Happen stood off to the side without any reaction. Clearly, weapons didn't interest him.
In his sharp, sing-song voice, he asked, "I heard you're not only a smithy—aren't you also selling alchemical potions? Why don't I see a storefront for that?"
Victor smiled and pointed toward the middle section's entrance in the smithy corner.
He walked to the wooden sign hanging there. One side was blank. "When this side is showing, it means I'm not open for alchemy. When I'm working, it's the other side."
He flipped the sign over.
Neat, formal lettering stared back at them:
Victor's Alchemy Workshop.
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