Sebastian noticed it first, a number of different smells, perfume, cloying and sweet, layered over the smell of sweat and wine and something he couldn't quite identify, something muskier. The buildings here were taller, their facades painted in bright colors. Windows were shuttered, but music leaked through the cracks: lutes and harps and the sounds of laughter.
Women stood on balconies, leaning over wrought-iron railings in various states of dress. Some wore silk robes that left little to the imagination. Others wore corsets and stockings and nothing else. They called out to passersby, not to the two witchers specifically, but to the street at large, their voices honeyed.
"Looking for company, handsome?"
"A drink? A dance? Something more?"
Sebastian's ears felt uncomfortable, the Passiflora itself was a three-story building at the end of a short cobbled lane, its entrance flanked by two marble statues of nude nymphs that had been strategically positioned to display everything the Eternal Fire condemned. A sign above the door depicted a blooming flower in shades of pink and gold, the doors were oak, banded with brass, and currently wide open to the morning air.
Lambert dismounted. Sebastian did the same, though more slowly, his eyes darting from the women on the balconies to the men loitering near the entrance to the guards, if they could be called guards who stood on either side of the door in matching crimson doublets. The guards were not watching the street, they were watching the witchers.
All eyes had turned to them.
The women on the balconies had stopped their calling. They leaned forward now, curious, their painted lips parted, their eyes traveling over the two figures in black leather and steel. Alot of men were near the entrance, merchants, by the look of their fine clothes, had fallen silent, their expressions flickering between wariness and fascination. Even the beggar who sat against the wall opposite the Passiflora had stopped his muttering to stare.
Two witchers. Two sets of yellow cat eyes, Sebastian tied the mare's reins to a hitching post and took a moment to look at the establishment properly. From the outside, he could already see all sorts of things happening, a couple stumbling out of a side door, laughing, their clothes askew; a woman in a sheer shift leaning out of a second-story window to pour something from a pitcher into the street below; a man in priest's robes, priest's robes! slipping through a back entrance with his collar turned up and his hood pulled low.
"Brilliant," Sebastian muttered, shaking his head. "Perfect place for a meeting. With a man."
Lambert shot him a look. "Knock it off, will you? Geralt and Eskel especially do not need to hear about this... it will be hard to explain."
Sebastian held up his hands in surrender. "Sure."
He followed Lambert toward the entrance, the women on the balconies had begun to whisper among themselves, their voices too low to make out but their meaning clear. Two witchers at the Passiflora, that would be a story worth telling.
The doors of the Passiflora opened onto a world that Sebastian had not known existed.
He had seen taverns. He had seen inns. He had seen the smoky places where the ale was watered, the food was suspect, and the only decoration was the layer of grime on the windows. He had expected something similar here. A brothel was a brothel, after all. Four walls, a bed, and desperate people doing desperate things for coin.
He had been wrong, the Passiflora's interior was crimson and gold. The walls were paneled in dark wood that gleamed with polish, chandeliers of wrought iron and cut crystal, their flames low even in the morning, casting a warm, intimate glow over the room below. The floor had been swept so clean that Sebastian could see his own reflection in it.
Velvet, everywhere, crimson velvet on the benches that lined the walls, gold velvet on the curtains that framed the windows, deep purple velvet on the chaise lounges arranged in intimate clusters around low fancy tables.
As for the women, they wore silk and lace and nothing at all, depending on where one looked. Their hair was piled high in elaborate curls, threaded with ribbons and pearls and small golden combs. Their faces were painted, rouge on the cheeks, lips stained the color of crushed cherries. They moved through the room like dancers, their hips swaying, their hands trailing along the backs of chairs and the shoulders of patrons with casual intimacy.
And there were patrons. Even in the morning.
A group of wealthy Novigrad merchants in fine wool cloaks sat around one of the low tables, dice in their hands and wine in their cups, while two women perched on their laps and whispered things that made them laugh. A lone man in the corner, noble, by the look of his embroidered doublet, had his head thrown back as a redhead in a corset fed him grapes from a silver tray. Near the staircase that led to the upper floors, a woman in a gown of sapphire silk was arguing quietly with a man in Temple Guard colors, her hand on his chest, her smile never wavering.
The music came from a small platform near the back of the room, where a woman with a lute sat cross-legged on a cushion, her fingers dancing over the strings.
Sebastian stopped just inside the entrance. His eyes, usually so careful and controlled, were wide.
'This is a brothel?' he thought. 'This is a palace.'
The women noticed them immediately.
It started with a whisper, one of the girls on the merchants' laps leaning over to murmur something to her companion. Then another whisper. Then a ripple of laughter, that spread through the room. Heads turned. Eyes, brown, blue, green, every shade imaginable fixed on the two witchers in their black leather and steel.
Lambert, of course, was used to this. He walked with his shoulders back and his chin up, his yellow eyes scanning the room with the bored confidence of a man who had seen it all before.
Sebastian, by contrast, looked young.
It was not a bad thing. The women noticed. "Look at the long haired one," murmured a blonde elf in a gown of emerald silk, her voice loud just enough for Sebastian to hear. "He's fresh, I'd wager."
"Fresh and pretty," agreed a brunette leaning against the bar, a glass of wine dangling from her fingers. "Those cat eyes..."
"He's blushing," said a third, a girl with freckles and copper hair, perched on the arm of a chaise lounge. "Actually blushing.. When was the last time you saw a witcher blush?"
"Never saw one," said the blonde.
One of them, a woman with skin so pale and hair that fell in black waves to her waist, detached herself from the group by the stairs and glided toward Sebastian. Her gown was crimson, cut low in the front and lower in the back.
She stopped in front of Sebastian, too close for comfort. He could smell her perfume, jasmine, something that reminded him of the forest after rain.
"Hello, witcher," she said. Her voice was a purr, low and intimate, meant only for him. She reached up and traced one finger along the collar of his leather jerkin. "You're new to Novigrad. I can tell, you still have that look."
"What look?" Sebastian replied.
"That look." Her finger traveled up to his jaw, barely brushing his skin.
She leaned closer. Her lips brushed the shell of his ear. "I have a room upstairs. Silk sheets. Rose petals in the bath. And I don't charge for the first hour when the man is as handsome as you."
She pulled back just enough to look into his eyes with a smile.
Sebastian met her gaze, and he said calmly, "Maybe some other time."
The woman's smile did not falter. If anything, it grew more intrigued, she patted his chest twice, lightly, and stepped back.
"I'll hold you to that, witcher," she said. Then she turned and glided away, her hips swaying.
Lambert, who had been watching the entire exchange with an expression of profound amusement, leaned toward Sebastian.
"Calm yourself, wolf," he murmured. "You're staring."
Sebastian tore his eyes away from the retreating woman. "Oh please," he said, his voice a little too high. "I'm just taking in my surroundings, the place is not bad, not exactly what I expected."
Lambert's eyebrows rose. "Not bad," he repeated. "That's what you're going with. Not bad."
"Shut up."
"I'm just saying..."
"I said shut up."
Lambert chuckled and clapped Sebastian on the shoulder. "Come on, we're not here for the scenery."
Before Sebastian could respond, a new figure emerged from the shadows near the staircase.
She was older than the other women, her hair was silver-white, pulled back in an elegant twist, and her gown was deep violet, modest compared to what the others wore but no less striking. Her eyes were sharp, they swept over Lambert then settled on Sebastian and lingered.
"Witchers of the School of the Wolf," she said. Her voice was cool, "Welcome to the Passiflora. I am Marquise Serenity." she paused, her lips curved into a smile. "Do you walk in pairs now? Or has the Path grown so dangerous that even Witchers need backup?"
/-\
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