The killer was killed in turn. Watching seven lives—none of them truly innocent—snuff out right in front of him, Victor let out a breath.
"Thanks," he said. "Without you, today would've been a real headache."
"No need. A Child of Dol Blathanna is always glad to be of service." The elven scout's tone was noticeably warmer than it had been a few days ago—either he'd verified things, or Yaevinn had given instructions.
Either way, he'd shown excellent judgment: not long after they entered the woods, he'd appeared ahead to guide them, led Victor into the clearing's kill zone, then vanished—letting Victor and Ramsmeat's men finish their "final talk" without interference. That kind of tact deserved thanks.
"One more favor," Victor said. "No matter how you handle it… if you can, those bodies—please burn them in the end, or bury them deep."
By "no matter how," he meant the looting. Stripping the dead for valuables was often considered disgraceful, shameful, an insult to the corpse—yet it was also one of the Scoia'tael's most important sources of supplies.
The scout looked surprised. "For people who just tried to kill you… that mercy is impressive. All right. I'll have it handled."
"It's not mercy," Victor shook his head. "I just don't want ghouls showing up here. And I already have enough problems—so the more completely they disappear, the better."
…
Deeper into the forest, inside the Scoia'tael's temporary camp, Victor walked toward the innermost tent with the scout at his side.
He watched casually as they went. Compared with the Scoia'tael he'd seen in Flotsam, their tents were still shabby, their food just as rough. Oddly enough, some of their tools—and a small portion of their weapons—were brand-new and well-made.
Observation went both ways. The elves moving through the camp were watching the Phantom Troupe too, with curiosity rather than hostility. Whether it was Victor, Angoulême, or even Catherine perched on her shoulder, all of them became targets of whispered discussion.
It seemed everyone had been told two guests were coming. No hateful elf leapt out to block the road and pick a fight. If anything, that made Victor a touch more alert.
When people are that polite, they usually want something.
Soon they reached Yaevinn's medium-sized tent. The scout lifted the flap and let them in, then moved a few steps away—far enough that he couldn't hear the conversation clearly, close enough to stay on guard.
Victor sat down inside and bowed first. "Thank you. We were lucky you helped today."
The elven leader wore bear-fur-trimmed leather armor over a solid, medium build. His cheeks were lean, his brown eyes long and narrow, black hair falling to his shoulders. He looked sly, and sharp.
He lifted his right hand, palm up, to his chest. "A trivial matter. I am Yaevinn, commander of the swamp forest strike team." His voice was a rich baritone—made for reading aloud.
Across from him sat Victor: the same solid build, leather armor reinforced with iron plates. His cheeks were fuller, his blue eyes clear, his short blond hair neatly parted… and he looked painfully ordinary.
Damn it. Outclassed again.
"Wolf School witcher apprentice, Victor Corion—born in Bell Town, far to the east of Zerrikania." Even with his mind briefly wandering, Victor delivered the introduction smooth and steady.
He gestured toward his companion. "And this is Angoulême Corion, my most faithful partner. For now, we operate as sellswords under the name Phantom Troupe."
Introduced as his most faithful partner, Angoulême beamed and nodded politely to the elf.
Yaevinn chuckled. "Too modest, Master Alchemist. After the Midsummer Festival in Flotsam, even here in this distant swamp forest, I've heard of the bard Victor."
Hearing that, Victor shot the wild girl a glare. If she hadn't gotten drunk and made a spectacle, there wouldn't be any "bard Victor" at all.
Yaevinn continued, smiling. "In fact, I've admired you for a long time. They say that day, a lute piece—The Wolven Storm—followed you like a shadow, and a thousand listeners were moved to silence. Lord Iorveth himself praised it as music from the heavens."
Victor went quiet. If the earlier line could be dismissed as flowery speech, this was outright flattery.
"Master Alchemist" was easy enough to treat as polite talk—Victor knew his own level. But Yaevinn's "master" clearly referred to the supposed side job, the "bard"… so had Victor misunderstood Yaevinn's friendliness? Was the elf simply a lover of music?
Yaevinn's smile deepened. "If you're willing, I'd like to hear you play The Wolven Storm myself. Of course, the audience would include every warrior in our camp."
He didn't wait for an answer. He stood, took a lute down from a rack, and handed it to Victor. The wood gleamed softly; when plucked, the strings sang clean and sweet. A masterpiece.
…
Not long after, Victor and Angoulême left the Scoia'tael camp.
After Victor played The Wolven Storm, the Phantom Troupe's talks with the swamp strike team went smoothly. In the future, when they went into the forest to clear out archespores, not only would they avoid Scoia'tael attacks—they could also seek guides, supporting fire, and other assistance.
But on the road back to Vizima, Angoulême could tell Victor was in a foul mood. The gloom between his brows was impossible to miss.
Unable to take it anymore, she grabbed his arm and made him stop, leaning against a nearby tree. "Vic, tell me. What's eating you? Things went great with the Scoia'tael, didn't they?"
Maybe talking to the wild girl would help. Saying it out loud might untangle his thoughts too. Victor crossed his arms and leaned on the tree opposite her. "That's the problem—it went too great. He only asked for one thing: a single performance of The Wolven Storm. Then he treated us like friends. That's not reasonable.
"And even if they've got nonhumans in Vizima supplying them goods, so they aren't short on medicinal herbs or healing draughts… he knows I'm trained in alchemy and didn't ask for anything at all. That's not normal.
"Yaevinn might genuinely love music, but he doesn't look like a fool. What worries me is that sooner or later, there'll be a time when we have to repay this favor."
After hearing him out, Angoulême reached up and caught Catherine out of the air. "Tch. What's there to agonize over? If we can help when the time comes, we help. If we can't, we play dumb. Thinking yourself in circles won't change anything. Right now, we do need their help."
Victor had to admit it—she was crude, but she had a point. Worrying about that now really was too early.
She went on, "Instead of that, think about Ramsmeat's men. How did we even offend them? They followed us today and went straight for the kill!"
Leaning against the tree, Victor gave a low, humorless chuckle. "Yeah… and that's exactly what the real enemy wants us to think—why would Ramsmeat want to kill us?"
Angoulême looked at him, puzzled.
"It wasn't Ramsmeat," Victor said. "They were hired as a probe. Count Falwick of Moën—his mercenaries have found us."
Angoulême straightened at once, anxious. "Then we should hurry! Out here we've got Ramsmeat's men on the surface, and them plotting in the shadows!"
Victor stayed against the tree, chuckling coldly. "And that's exactly what they want us to think—leave Vizima as fast as possible.
"Remember: this is Temeria's capital. We're not slum drifters—we're registered residents of the Temple Quarter, homeowners on the books, taxpayers. Same reason I wouldn't let you assassinate Thaler: inside the city, no one dares move on us recklessly. All we have to do is hold on long enough, and once the city guard arrives, they'll put every last one of them on the gallows."
Angoulême nodded, half-understanding. "So what do we do now?"
Victor smiled. "Go back to Vizima and accept Foltest's protection. Then tonight, we'll go talk to Ramsmeat. I'm going to make him an offer he can't refuse."