"As expected of someone who keeps company with you, I'm starting to like this slightly balding witcher. He possesses tremendous power, yet knows restraint and refuses to let anger consume his reason. You two are practically pillars of social order, representatives of civilization!"
The speaker was a white-haired elf with his hair tied into a ponytail. He stood with his arms crossed, leaning against an earthen wall with a relaxed, cheerful expression.
Lambert, who was walking past him, turned and glared viciously.
"Listen here, you damned thug! This isn't a game. I'm seriously tracking down a murderer. You think I'm fucking joking? I don't give a damn whether you like me or not!"
Boslaer raised his hands in surrender.
"Hey! Calm down. I'm only here to help. I'm sorry you lost your friend, but you can't expect me to share your grief. I never even knew him. Hell, before today, I didn't even know you."
Angoulême stepped forward, grabbed Lambert, and physically turned him toward the direction they were supposed to be heading, preventing the witcher and Boslaer from continuing their argument.
The group was currently at a dockside warehouse, where they had just finished interrogating the supervisor, Lund.
Lund had been one of the people involved in the attack that killed Aiden. He had taken a punch from Lambert and was now hunched in the corner, clutching his stomach and cowering.
What Boslaer found amusing was that Lambert had not killed the man after getting the information he needed. Even after Boslaer hinted that he would gladly do it for him, Lambert refused.
Instead, he let Lund live and continued pursuing the supposed mastermind, Jad Karadin.
"Do me a favor and stop teasing him. Lambert's a good man, but he's got a short temper. If you piss him off, he really will fight you!"
The sensible warning came from Victor.
Lowering his right hand after gazing out across the sea, he jumped down from the mooring bollard and strode after Angoulême and Lambert, with Boslaer walking beside him.
They had run into each other at the docks.
There had been no sparks flying, no tearful reunion, just a calm nod and a handshake.
The elf had asked what the three of them were doing there, and after learning that they had come seeking revenge, he had naturally joined them.
This district was Whoreson Junior's territory, and together with the dozen or so energetic, capable thugs following behind him, Boslaer could provide powerful assistance with the witchers' manhunt.
At the very least, without Boslaer there, Lund would never have talked so readily.
He might have dared gamble that Lambert would not kill him in public, but he would never dare defy Boslaer's will.
After all...
Wasn't being alive a good thing?
"That speech you gave about praising order just now reminded me of Mr. Alonso," Victor remarked.
He noticed the white-haired elf's stride stiffen slightly.
"Sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have brought him up."
"It's fine. There's nothing I can't talk about. I liked Mr. Alonso, but I was also a successful mole. Those two facts don't conflict."
"Why? I thought Senior was more worthy of your loyalty than Junior? If the question is inconvenient, you don't have to answer."
Even now, Victor still remembered how Boslaer used to invoke Mr. Alonso's name in practically every sentence.
His attitude had been nothing short of idol worship.
"Senior was almost perfect in every respect, but Junior has one irreplaceable advantage. He's still young, while Senior was about to die. I simply chose to provide a tiny bit of assistance so that the gentleman could leave this sinful world a little earlier."
The white-haired elf's answer was remarkably persuasive.
Victor himself had estimated back then that Whoreson Senior probably had less than five years left to live.
And given how excessively he doted on his beloved son, Cyprian was destined to inherit everything no matter what. It certainly would not have gone to anyone else.
In that case, rather than waiting until Junior eventually inherited the position and then being purged, why not help him take power ahead of schedule?
The logic was flawless.
There was nothing left to discuss.
Victor smiled and stopped asking questions, but Boslaer remained enthusiastic.
"Speaking of regrets, I didn't know you were back that day, so I missed your performance at the Kingfisher Inn. I've heard all the nobles talking about it. They're calling that performance the 'War God's Swan Song'!"
The white-haired elf raised his left hand.
Ahead of them, the guards at Tretogor Gate had been preparing to stop Lambert and Angoulême for questioning, but immediately stepped aside and cleared the road.
The group left the city through Tretogor Gate.
Their current destination was the Seven Cats Inn. According to Lund's confession, Vienne, the archer from the assassination group, regularly drank herself senseless there.
"'War God's Swan Song' is just an empty reputation. Honestly, it wasn't much different from what you heard from me back then."
"Excessive humility is hypocrisy! Mr. Alonso used to say that. If your performance really wasn't that impressive, why would our dear artist Miss Priscilla have been unable to wait before dragging you back to her room that very night?
"So, how was it? A wonderfully fulfilling evening, I assume? She's been here for more than a year and has never taken anyone back to her room before. Artists really do share a special language!"
The lecherous grin on the white-haired elf's face made it difficult to imagine him as someone capable of killing without blinking.
It certainly proved that age did nothing to extinguish a young heart.
And apparently, dirty talk was a universal language among humanoid species.
Victor coughed softly twice, his expression upright and solemn.
"As a matter of fact, we spent the entire night discussing art, poetry, and a little politics. Miss Priscilla is an innocent young woman. We're very good friends."
Boslaer looked at Victor strangely.
He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, thought better of it, then silently shook his head.
His grin was so smug it practically begged to be punched.
Calling one of his men over, Boslaer whispered a few instructions and waved him away.
Then he resumed casually chatting with Victor about anything and everything.
...
The Seven Cats Inn was located southeast of Novigrad.
The gloomy, rundown tavern was frequently patronized by people with less than sterling reputations. As Victor and Boslaer approached, they could already hear Lambert arguing fiercely with a woman inside.
As for the group that had murdered Aiden years ago, the passage of time had blurred Victor's memories of its exact membership and where everyone had ended up.
Fortunately, they had the thoroughly honest Mr. Lund.
Under Boslaer's pressure, he had answered every question and held absolutely nothing back.
So Victor now knew that the group had been led by Jad Karadin, with Selyse handling intelligence gathering, Vienne serving as the archer, and Lund and Hammond acting as muscle.
Two women and three men, five people in total.
"You cursed sons of bitches! One witcher and one little girl, and you dare come here looking for trouble?"
The drunken woman's voice presumably belonged to Vienne.
"Hey! You bastards couldn't try hard enough when you wanted to get into my pants, and now you're just going to stand there and watch while they bully me?"
"Bang! Crash! Shing!"
The sound of tables and chairs toppling over came from inside, followed by swords being drawn from their scabbards.
Victor whistled, reached out, and opened the tavern door.
Then he bowed slightly and gestured for Boslaer to enter first.
The white-haired elf raised an eyebrow, placed a hand over his chest in return, and strode elegantly into the tavern.
Compared with two years ago, when Victor had come here to rescue Fergus, the Seven Cats Inn was still every bit as dilapidated.
On the bright side, it had not gotten any worse.
One could say absolutely nothing had changed.
Lambert and Angoulême stood on one side.
Vienne and five burly men stood on the other.
The atmosphere had clearly been seconds away from erupting into a fight, but the sudden arrival of more than a dozen men instantly crushed everyone's enthusiasm.
The moment the drunken men who had been loudly calling one another brothers saw the white hair and pointed ears of the elf leading the newcomers, they immediately put away their weapons and shrank into a corner like frightened quails.
Even Vienne's lips went pale when she saw her fellow elf.
True fear never needed threats.
Boslaer merely standing there was enough to make his position perfectly clear.
Objectively speaking, Victor thought the elven woman was reasonably attractive.
Unfortunately, heavy fisstech abuse and excessive drinking had left her complexion sallow and her eyes bloodshot.
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