It was the afternoon. Standing on a bustling street in the Trade Quarter, Victor pulled a vial of Viper School stamina draught from his herb pouch and downed it in a few swallows, feeling his head clear and his body lighten.
The taste was nowhere near as good as the Wolf School's improved version, but bitter medicine works—and Letho hadn't been boasting. The Viper School stamina draught used a long list of ingredients and was a pain to prepare, yet every single component was easy to get. You could buy them right here in the market.
So Victor treated it like a supplement now—one vial in the morning, one at midday, one at night—letting his body get used to it, shaving down the time he'd have to spend on that absurd alchemy workload.
He finished the vial and kept walking. The market's cries and sales pitches crashed into his ears.
"Come and look! All kinds of amulets—keep you safe at home and on the road!"
"Honored lady, take a look at my goods!"
"Sir, the Eternal Fire shines upon you."
"Everyone, come on over! Sweet country honey—today only, just five jars!"
"Mirrors! Mirrors for sale! Shiny, gleaming mirrors!"
"Stop thinking and buy it! There's nothing cheaper on the shores of Lake Vizima!"
Some patter really was universal everywhere. With a detached calm, Victor drifted through it all.
His visit to Yaevinn that morning had gone exactly as expected: two sharp-eyed schemers, and not a single meaningful conclusion between them.
As for the fact the "contract monster" had turned out to be a bruxa, Yaevinn only said he was terribly sorry. It truly was beyond what a witcher apprentice should be responsible for… though he also claimed he was "proud" of his friend for managing to put the creature down anyway.
Victor had slammed his palm on the table right then. "Proud" didn't pay bills. If they wanted pride, they could add coin.
Yaevinn had answered readily enough: no money, only a life. That was the trouble with talking inside a military camp—you could see the warlord's life sitting right there in front of you, and you didn't dare take it. So Victor had settled for something neither here nor there: Yaevinn owed him a favor. One day, one debt, to Victor.
And why had the so-called underground ruins been completely empty? The commander claimed he had no idea and needed to investigate further. But Victor hadn't caught even a flicker of disappointment in his micro-expressions—which meant the elf likely didn't care whether there was anything in that grand hall at all…
The reason Victor was in the Trade Quarter now was simple. Before he'd left, Yaevinn had pressed him again and again—so insistently he'd even offered a rare alchemical ingredient as payment—to hire Victor as a courier once more, delivering a letter like some glorified postman.
Unhurried, Victor arrived at the banker's residence. He raised a hand to knock—
Four trained brutes exploded out of a nearby corner.
They swarmed him, wrenched his arms, swept his legs, and put him on the ground, pinning him down—
…
No—
Angoulême jolted awake, drenched in sweat, ripping herself upright in bed. Startled by her sudden movement, Catherine—perched on the roost by the window—flapped over to the headboard, chirping urgently as if trying to calm her down.
Realizing she was in her own bed and it had only been a dream, Angoulême let out a long breath and wrapped her arms around her companion.
"Saints, that was horrible. Catherine, you know what? I just had another terrifying nightmare."
"Grr… grr…" Catherine rumbled softly.
"What?! You want to know what it was this time?"
After a few breaths, Angoulême's heartbeat settled.
"…Fine. I'll tell you again. Specially, just for you.
"I dreamed… the captain got dragged into a house by four musclebound men who were barely dressed. They had filthy eyes, wicked smiles, and they kept doing disgusting, irritating things.
"There was a bald villain inside wearing a monocle—he was the one leading them. They tied Vic to a chair, then pulled out lard, sausages, cucumbers, swordfish, limburger cheese… all kinds of food, saying they were going to 'treat' the captain properly.
"Then Vic screamed in terror: 'Master, save me!!!'
"And then they… did this and that… and that and this."
"Quack! Quack! Quack!" Catherine fired off a rapid series of short cries, as if the dream had so many things wrong with it that staying silent would be an insult to herself.
Angoulême ignored her completely. Her long, drawn-out retelling showed no sign of stopping anytime soon.
…
In reality, the four men were properly dressed. There were no lewd eyes, no wicked grins. After subduing Victor, they hauled him into the house across the street—and through the entire process he barely struggled at all.
Part of it was the shock. By common sense, you didn't get kidnapped in broad daylight on a prosperous street. And part of it was their clothing: each of them wore the lily badge. That meant a royal organization, separate from the city guard or any knightly order. Their insignia wasn't on the chest—it was stitched on the left arm, framed by the outline of an eye.
Inside, the brutes made Victor sit on a low stool without a backrest, then took positions around him, standing at the four sides.
A thin, bald man emerged from deeper in the house. He wore a monocle, and he studied Victor from above with a smooth, smiling gaze.
The boy looked like a hired sword—plain face, nothing striking—except for the pair of swords on his back and the herb pouch slung across him. That unusual getup tugged at the bald man's memory. He'd seen something about it in a file.
When recognition finally clicked into place—and after judging that the silence had lasted long enough to pressure a witcher apprentice—he stepped in front of Victor and introduced himself.
"Thaler. Head of Temeria's Intelligence Service. Some call me the King's Eye—because I notice what others don't, and I collect all manner of information for the king.
"Now then, Mr. Victor Corion. Cat School witcher apprentice. You've been living in Vizima for exactly one month. Not famous enough to be a legend, not obscure enough to be nobody—just the right size to be noticed.
"The city guard likes you. The Order respects you. You haven't been involved in any kind of criminal affair. You kill monsters diligently, you pay your taxes like a proper citizen—so tell me…"
Thaler's smile sharpened.
"…why would a model, honorable resident like you go and visit that whore's son Golan Vivaldi?"
Victor lifted his head, about to speak.
Thaler cut him off at once. "Honesty, sir. Remember—honesty is the best policy. I hate that about myself: I'm always tolerant, understanding, and merciful toward honest people."
He bent down until his eyes were level with Victor's.
"And as for dishonest people? I'll hand you over to my friend Vernon Roche. You don't want to know what he'll do to you. Believe me—by the end of it, you'll be begging for mercy, ready to lick my arse clean just to earn the chance to tell me one true sentence."
Straightening, Thaler paced behind Victor and set both hands on his shoulders.
"And I'll tell you something else in advance. That goddamned Golan Vivaldi is under investigation for suspected ties with the Scoia'tael. His bank's been temporarily seized, and he's been ordered to stay at home while we dig. So don't feed me some idiotic line about 'handling business.' If you're going to lie, make it prettier than that."
The hands on Victor's shoulders pressed down, just slightly—firm, controlled.
Thaler leaned close to Victor's ear, voice suddenly gentle.
"Understood? This is your last chance. Honesty, Victor. Don't waste my goodwill."
At this point, the witcher apprentice would have to be blind not to understand what had happened.
Yaevinn was trying to pull some kind of scheme—one that involved the banker Golan. Thaler had uncovered part of it and was waiting here, setting a trap.
And Victor was the rabbit that had run straight into his hands.
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