Late that night, with the easy relief that came after the dust had finally settled, the boy stepped out of Sigi Reuven's Relaxation Bathhouse. Finishing his conversation with Dijkstra meant he had dealt with everyone who had wanted to see him.
The eunuch Happen saw the three of them out, offered a few oily pleasantries, and closed the bathhouse doors behind them.
After making sure the bard was safe and sound, Boslaer also headed back to the Bits to report to Whoreson Junior, carrying with him the boy's cheerful promise to attend tomorrow's poetry gathering.
With the curtain fallen and everyone gone, Victor did not hurry off. Instead, he strolled along admiring the carvings on the bathhouse walls, their style distinctly that of ancient elven art.
Angoulême did not rush him either. Not interrupting the captain when he was putting on airs was part of the self-cultivation of an excellent troupe member.
Back when she had known no better, she always used to crowd in and ask what the captain was doing.
Then she would be force-fed all sorts of everyday knowledge about Bell Town.
Experience had proven that the reliability of that knowledge was about the same as the "Sword Against the Catriona Plague" hanging at her waist. You could not say it was completely useless, but anyone who claimed it was useful would have to be lying through their teeth.
He had not spent long admiring the artwork before Victor asked, "Which route do you think would be best for us to take home?"
His hands were clasped behind his back, his head tilted up toward the reliefs, making him look like some great dignitary.
"Let's go by the Fish Market. It's closer."
"That works. I wanted to go there again anyway."
When he turned around, Angoulême watched Victor pull a black kerchief from his herb satchel and tie it over his mouth, leaving only his eyes exposed.
Because of the ten-day terms Chappelle had laid down, the boy could not show his face in public. He had to move about outside like some shady gangster, masked wherever he went. That included tomorrow's poetry gathering, where he intended to appear as the Masked Poet King, in his own words.
Quietly taking a red kerchief from inside her clothes, the girl covered her mouth as well, turning herself into the image of a bandit before following Victor across Hierarch Square.
The moment the words had left her mouth, Angoulême had already begun to regret suggesting the Fish Market.
She was one of the people who had seen Victor kill the doppler with her own eyes, and one of only two who truly knew the full story.
From the very beginning, the captain had explained the species' habits in detail. He had laid out how he intended to lure the doppler out, how he would drive it into the open and capture it, and how he meant to make it an employee of the Phantom Troupe.
Then, when they actually confronted it, it had first copied her, leading to the battle by the moat.
After that, it had copied the captain and become the Butcher of Novigrad.
By the time Victor and Babu were fighting the doppler together, she had arrived only a little behind them, so she too had noticed how the creature's swordsmanship improved by leaps and bounds during the slaughter.
She lacked the key piece of information, so she could not arrive at the right answer, but at the very least she was certain of one thing: the doppler had not been mad to begin with. It had been perfectly normal when it mimicked her.
So if it had gone insane, the only possible reason had to be that it had mimicked the captain.
That was a question she could not bring herself to ask.
...
The two of them walked in silence, and before long they reached the bridge by the Fish Market. The smell that hit them was fish, not blood.
Victor thought to himself that a proper witcher would surely be able to sniff out some trace even now.
It had been right here, in broad daylight, that he had faced the strongest swordsman he had ever encountered in his life.
Perhaps only Master Vesemir could have matched him.
It had looked exactly like him. Its strength had been exactly like his as well. He had used Moon Dust to force it back into its true form, then cut off its head.
Without hesitation.
Noticing the boy had sunk into his thoughts, Angoulême said, "The body's already been taken away. Even the bloodstains are gone."
"It was probably burned to ash by now. The cruelest, most vicious criminal in Novigrad's history... Janne," Victor replied absently, the name slipping out on instinct.
"Janne? Is that the doppler's name?"
Rubbing at his nose, the boy recalled the address Chappelle had given him. "Maybe. Come with me. We're going one more place before we head home."
"Where to? Which way?"
"We're going to Farcorners. It shouldn't be too far from Tretogor Gate."
...
From Glory Lane eastward to Glory Gate had been the route of the doppler's relentless slaughter. Faint sobbing could still be heard all along the way, and candlelight flickered outside every house.
When the two reached Glory Gate, there were usually a few drunk vagrants sprawled by the bonfire at this hour.
But tonight the place was ablaze with candlelight. Temple Guards were there, gang members were there, and so were many ordinary townsfolk.
Victor took out a few crowns and bought two candles from a street vendor. After lighting them, he set them into the ground and joined the line of people praying for the dead.
After passing through Glory Gate and walking a little farther, the Phantom Troupe arrived at the produce market. As the very place where the whole incident had begun, it was oddly peaceful and quiet. Apart from the glow of the altar of the Eternal Fire, there was no other light.
When they passed Tretogor Gate, the Temple Guard on duty checked their identities. The man trembled ever so slightly when he saw Victor's face, but he did not lose his composure. Apparently he knew something, and had been warned about something as well.
...
Stepping into Farcorners once more, they entered a place the Temple Guard did not patrol, and that was outside the Big Four's spheres of business.
The King of Beggars ruled Glory Lane and the harbor district. Cleaver held Silverton. Whoreson Junior controlled the Bits, part of Gildorf, and Sigi Reuven's Hierarch Square.
Farcorners did not generate much wealth, but that did not mean there was no money to squeeze out of it. Because the Big Four did not bother managing the area, it had become the turf of scattered smaller gangs and a hotbed for all manner of petty crime.
Like what was happening not far ahead of the Phantom Troupe right now: a classic home invasion and murder.
The door of the house stood open, and three elves were surrounding a human, sharpening their blades with obvious intent. Their raised voices carried clearly.
The long-eared elf glared at the human and said furiously, "You filthy piece of scum."
"You have to pay in blood for blood!" The short-eared elf kicked over a chair.
The middle-aged man trapped between them knelt on the floor with his hands pressed together. "I didn't do anything, please, all of you!"
The dark-haired elf keeping watch noticed the masked man and woman approaching the doorway. "Anyone not involved, stay back. Don't interfere."
Seeing other people appear, the middle-aged man hastily cried for help. "Please... I've got a wife... children... have mercy..."
"Too late. You're dead today, drug dealer!" the long-eared elf spat.
"Can somebody tell me what exactly is going on here?" With the black cloth over his face, Victor's voice came out somewhat muffled.
The short-eared elf stepped forward. "This human sold fisstech to young elves. That batch was laced with poison. Everyone who used it died."
The kneeling human shouted from behind him, "Lies! They want to kill me and steal my crowns! Please, save me!"
The long-eared elf barked back, "What you sold was poison! Young people died convulsing after taking it. Don't you feel any shame?"
The human retorted in a hoarse scream, "You're talking nonsense...
Listen, elves. You hate humans and want revenge on us. But are you going to blame the decay of your civilization on humans? On me?"
"Shut up, poisoner."
The boy's tone remained indifferent. "I want to know whether he's actually carrying any fisstech."
"We already checked. We searched his whole body, even his boots. Nothing. He sold the entire lot. That doesn't prove he's innocent."
Victor looked at the human. Nobody had gagged him, yet he had not denied being a fisstech dealer.
In a low voice, the boy said, "Selling fisstech alone is bad enough. I don't believe he was peddling some deliberately tainted garbage that killed his customers, since murdering your buyers is a fine way to ruin your own business, but do whatever you want with him."
The dealer burst into loud sobs. "No! Sir, please, don't let them kill me!"
"Thank you, masked sir. Thank you for letting us have justice. Farewell." The dark-haired elf placed a hand on his chest in salute.
"Justice isn't that cheap. I simply don't care whether he lives or dies."
...
Not long after leaving the scene, Victor found the address Chappelle had given him and pushed open the door to Janne's wooden shack. Like every other house in Farcorners, it was old and shabby, just barely good enough to keep out the cold.
Prometheus slid from its sheath. A wisp of flame at the sword's tip lit the oil lamp on the wall.
Wandering about and taking in the room, the boy found a sheet of letter paper on the table.
He read it quickly, then handed it to Angoulême. "So the dopplers really do have ties to one another. Just like I said, they're content with poverty. Compared to living out in the wild alongside wolves and other beasts, they'd rather attach themselves to human civilization, even if that means being beggars or petty thieves."
The girl said nothing as she took the paper and read.
Untitled
Janne, please stop fooling around like this. You may have only just arrived, so maybe you still don't understand, but a giant cat is bound to stick in people's memory.
Why not choose a safer shape, like I did? I've been a beggar for three years now, and nobody's given me a second glance. And the money's great!
Enough that you'd never need to steal again for the rest of your life.
Well? If you've changed your mind, I'll speak to the King of Beggars for you.
Until next time,
Your faithful Louis
P.S. Burn this letter after you've read it, all right?
P.P.S. I know, I know, I'm too paranoid, but just humor me and burn the letter.
P.P.P.S. If I come see you next time and this letter is still here, you owe me a beer.
...
After reading it, she shrugged and went upstairs, only to find Victor standing blankly in front of a wall.
Holding up the oil lamp and drawing closer, Angoulême finally saw what was on it, and she froze as well.
The entire wall was covered with letters of thanks.
"Mister, thank you! Without you, Mom and I would've had nothing to eat."
"Thank you for the bread. I've never eaten any that was so white."
"Mister, the apples were so tasty..."
"Will you come again this winter, mister?"
Looking at the wall full of notes, Angoulême understood why Victor had fallen silent.
She had nothing to say either.
The autumn night wind whistled in through the cracks in the window, sounding like a low, choked sob.
"Those children won't have their kind mister anymore," Victor said calmly. "Angoulême, are we the bad ones? Did we do something wrong?"
"His death was an accident. Vic, you shouldn't blame yourself for that. If he'd agreed to surrender earlier and accepted your employment offer, he could have bought even more food to help those children."
"But from his point of view, we were taking away his freedom. Just like he said to me, we're the same.
All along the way, I've told plenty of people no, too. So refusing me was his freedom as well. His crime did not deserve death." Victor's voice was very soft.
"He killed nearly a hundred people!" Angoulême raised her voice.
The boy shook his head. "That might not have been what he wanted... He'd probably already lost himself by the time he started killing. You felt it too, didn't you? He was perfectly normal when he copied you. His madness came from me."
"But Captain, there's nothing wrong with you. There's not the slightest sign of madness."
"Maybe that's because I've never actually killed a person... never."
The girl rubbed her ears. "Is that why you wanted to leave me in Novigrad and go off alone?"
"That's right. In the past, I never did the killing myself, because whenever I had the chance to kill someone, a voice would urge me to do it.
The volume of that voice was tied to the strength of my killing intent. In other words, the more I wanted someone dead, the clearer and louder that unknown voice became."
As he said that, Victor reached out and lightly touched one of the letters on the wall.
"In a way, Dijkstra's joke was the truth. The Butcher of Novigrad is still alive. The one who died was nothing more than a cheap counterfeit."
"But Vic, you were fine after killing Janne, weren't you?"
"When I cut him down... I didn't think of him as a person..."
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