The next morning in Farcorners, inside a vacant house coated in black sound-dampening lacquer, the subject of the Trial of the Grasses breathed in heavy, ragged pulls, every breath as labored as if it might be his last.
His body was sweating out impurities, and now Luffy's skin was wet, sticky, and foul-smelling. Only the occasional twitch of his body showed that he was not dead yet.
Curious, the girl picked up the straw hat resting by the bed. It was an ordinary round-topped straw hat, with a red ribbon tied around it and no other decoration.
After wiping the blood from Luffy's nose with a towel, Angoulême got up and left. Just as Victor had said, there would be no response if she spoke to him, and there was nothing she could do for him. This was a war he had to fight alone.
I hope you make it. I've never liked you, but if you fail, the captain will definitely be in a bad mood, and he's exactly the sort of troublesome man to make that everyone else's problem.
...
At the same time, Victor, captain of the Phantom Troupe, took his companions' sensible advice from yesterday and headed to the Passiflora in Gildorf, north of Novigrad.
From the outside, it was a grand four-story building with soaring ceilings, standing alone amid its gardens. Even the Nilfgaardian ambassador's residence was less impressive. Built in a district where every inch of land was worth a fortune, it only underscored the place's extraordinary style and status.
And since he was here to do some field research today, he had to look the part. For once, the young man wore a fitted doublet with a high ruff, a feathered cap, loose breeches, and a silver half-mask.
By his own old description when mocking Dandelion, he now looked like a brightly colored courting dove.
He had not wanted to dress like this, but once Yoana and Angoulême learned he was going to the Passiflora, they eagerly ran off to Hierarch Square and bought the whole outfit for him, then made it very clear that refusing to wear it would be taken as a personal slight.
In the games, Geralt always complained that flashy clothes like this were uncomfortable, but after actually putting them on, Victor thought they felt fine. There was no reason everyone else would willingly wear uncomfortable clothes, so the witcher's discomfort was probably psychological.
Feeling the weight of the full purse at his belt, Victor lifted his chin slightly and approached the entrance with restrained dignity, only to be stopped by the guards in the forecourt.
"My apologies, sir. The Passiflora is an invitation-only club. Since I do not know your name and you are not being escorted by a member, I am sorry, but I cannot allow you inside."
The guard blocking his way was unfailingly polite, though that might also have had something to do with Victor's clothing. Anyone dressed like this was either wealthy or important.
Victor did not change expression. He patted his bulging purse and gestured lightly. "I'm not a member, true, but Radovid V is my sponsor."
"I'm sorry, sir, but you must understand that this club is a place of refinement. Wealth is merely the least important part of membership. We are far more concerned with your identity, standing, reputation, and friendships.
Not every upstart with money has the right to spend it at the Passiflora and share an open, comfortable environment with truly distinguished people."
Victor rubbed his nose, suddenly feeling awkward. He had maneuvered through the city with ease, had even faced the "Big Four" without losing his composure, and yet in a place like this, a minor gatekeeper had managed to land a direct blow to his pride.
Of course, he understood it. Once certain clubs or salons made enough money, what they sold was no longer money itself, but the things beyond money. He had just not expected that concept to already exist in a medieval world. Novigrad truly was the Pearl of the North.
Victor chuckled and nodded. "My apologies. I'll go find a friend now and be back shortly."
He had only turned halfway to leave when the guard called after him again.
"Sir, you seem to be a respectable gentleman, so let me offer a word of advice. When dealing with elegant courtesans, producing crowns outright is not well received. They would feel insulted.
Perhaps you might prefer to prepare some jewels or other ornaments. Dressing them up with care is part of their game of flirtation. I trust you understand my meaning.
And if you need anything, Molindon Jewelers nearby is very popular. Their pieces are well liked, and their prices are fairly reasonable."
Victor genuinely found that amusing. The industry had already developed to the point where cash was unwelcome and only gifts would do. Sure enough, once an enterprise moved upmarket, everything became about mood and atmosphere.
He also could not help wondering how much of a cut Molindon Jewelers paid that guard every month to inspire such enthusiastic recommendations.
A voice calling from behind interrupted his wandering thoughts.
"Well now, my friend! To run into you here of all places—what an astonishing surprise!"
The voice was warm and delighted, one he knew well: the white-haired elf.
Turning around, Victor saw Cyprian "Whoreson Junior" Wiley and Boslaer. Both men were richly and tastefully dressed, clearly here to enjoy themselves.
More than a month had passed since Victor last faced Whoreson Junior. Junior was still Junior, but Victor was no longer some poet who could be insulted at will. His slaying of the doppler had made his name spread quickly among those with good information.
Besides, any educated adult with common sense knew better than to deliberately provoke a witcher, especially one wearing a sword at his hip.
Whoreson Junior gave the youth a casual nod, and Victor returned it just as casually. There was no friendship between them, especially after Junior had once tried to humiliate him.
Coming closer, Boslaer reached out and tapped Victor's silver mask twice. "Very handsome. Very fine work. Are you here for some fun? Why are you standing outside instead of going in?"
"That was the plan, but since I didn't understand the rules, I got stopped at the door. I was just about to find a friend to introduce me and bring me in."
The moment Victor finished speaking, he noticed the guard's face flush red. The man hurried forward two steps and bowed deeply.
"My sincerest apologies, Mr. Cyprian, Mr. Boslaer. I did not know this gentleman was a friend of yours."
Whoreson Junior's expression remained flat, as though he had heard nothing at all.
The white-haired elf ignored the guard just as completely. With a slight bow toward Victor, he said cheerfully, "Mr. Victor, would I have the honor of introducing you into the Passiflora as your friend?"
Victor glanced at the guard. He was bent over so low he did not dare lift his head, sweat dripping one bead at a time onto the grass. "Of course you may, my friend. There's no need to make things difficult for him. He wasn't disrespectful."
"Ah, merciful Victor, when are you ever going to cure yourself of that bad habit of kindness? Didn't that runaway slave teach you to grow colder? Then again, that's exactly what I like about you. Come along."
With a sweep of Boslaer's hand, the three of them passed the guard and headed through the garden.
Once inside the main hall, Cyprian gave another curt nod and went upstairs at once, apparently having already booked a room and a full course of services. That left Victor and Boslaer chatting in the hall.
The high-ceilinged chamber glittered with golden lamplight. Everything was exquisitely arranged, rich and elegant, with splendid tapestries and hanging scrolls.
The temperature indoors was perfectly comfortable, allowing the gentlemen to remain beautifully dressed and the ladies to display every possible variety of charm. At a glance, some wore banquet gowns, some were dressed like country girls or fisherfolk, and some wore little more than underclothes and drawers.
On both sides stood tables laid with fine refreshments for anyone to take. Every servant carrying wine or water was a woman. Victor had seen this same style before at the banquet Adda hosted in the White Hall back in Vizima, a fashion led by sorceresses.
Walking over to one of the tables, the young man casually poured himself a cup of mixed fruit juice. "Is this one of Alonso's businesses? You sounded awfully practiced when you scolded that guard. Are you his direct superior?"
Taking a glass of champagne from a server, the elf shook his head. "Not at all. This place belongs to Mr. Reuven. I have to say, many of Mr. Reuven's methods are worth copying. A membership system like this is no easy thing to build.
Especially the etiquette training. Failing to recognize a distinguished guest is a very serious mistake, and there is no excuse for it. If you had lost your temper just now, there would only have been one outcome: his legs broken, then thrown out.
Of course, if you were just some country bumpkin, then your legs would have been broken and you would have been thrown out."
Draining his champagne in one swallow, the elf went on, "Come on. I'll introduce you to Marquise Serenity and have her sketch your portrait. Then the next time you come to the Passiflora, you won't have to worry about the guards."
Following Boslaer, Victor soon saw the hostess of the club in one corner of the hall, a woman whose charm had endured the years. She wore a bearskin shawl and a pleated, billowing skirt, her silver-gray hair neatly gathered into a bun at the back of her head.
Time had cut her down without mercy, but now and then, one could still glimpse traces of the beauty she must once have had.
The white-haired elf gave her a familiar embrace and spoke warmly. "It's been too long, Marquise Serenity. Let me introduce a friend of mine to you—a friend of Alonso's."
"Oh, Boslaer, my young and handsome little white dove. Every time I see you, I regret having retired too early."
Then she looked at the silver mask on the stranger's face. "A friend of Alonso's? And who might this respectable gentleman be?"
Smiling silently, the young man removed the mask. "Victor Corion. I run a smithy and an alchemical workshop on Glory Lane."
Boslaer added from the side, "Don't listen to his nonsense. He's the Dragonborn Bard, the man who brought us the immortal legends from beyond Zerrikania. Though perhaps you'd be more interested in his other identity—the Masked Poet King who astonished the entire recital a few days ago with a song called With You."
Marquise Serenity's eyes lit up. "Well now, this truly is an honored guest. Thank you for bringing him here especially."
"I didn't bring him. He came of his own accord and was nearly left standing outside by the guards."
"I wasn't angry. I was the one who didn't understand the club's rules. He wasn't rude."
Ignoring Victor's interruption, the elf continued, "Everything he spends here today goes on Alonso's account."
Victor noticed that while they talked, Marquise Serenity's right hand kept moving in sketching strokes. In only a few minutes, a charcoal portrait with very few lines yet a striking likeness had appeared on the page. Next time, the guards would remember very well not to block his path.
Her voice was lovely, with a softness that made refusal difficult. "At least for today, let us entertain the poet. White Dove, go and enjoy the Passiflora's hospitality. I can look after Mr. Victor."
The white-haired elf shrugged and simply left the young man behind, as though he too had already made an appointment.
Once the portrait was finished, Victor put his silver mask back on to avoid unnecessary trouble.
Studying the smooth, unlined forehead above it, Marquise Serenity smiled with teasing warmth. "Tell me, handsome, what sort of service do you want? And what sort of person would you like serving you?"
Victor had always been the sort of man who knew exactly what he wanted.
"I'd like the woman serving me to be about my height. She doesn't need to be breathtakingly beautiful, but she does need to be skilled. She must also be broad-minded—and broad in the chest. The fuller, the better. I have no racial prejudice myself. Elf, human, half-elf, all are fine... only no dwarves."
At that last line, Marquise Serenity laughed brightly. "No dwarves, of course not. If any club kept dwarf women on hand, the dwarf men would be storming the place with axes and clubs before long. Heaven only knows where they get that strange confidence from, always convinced the whole world is after their women."
Victor continued as if taking inventory. "I'll also need a large tub for bathing, a soothing massage treatment, hot milk to drink, sliced baguette with Ban Ard butter for a snack, woolen bedding instead of linen sheets, and chamomile-scented oils in the burner."
Marquise Serenity lifted her brows. She had assumed Victor was an amateur who would need everything explained to him, but he turned out to be someone who knew exactly how to enjoy himself. The smile on her face became one of a seasoned connoisseur recognizing another.
"Your room will be ready shortly. Someone will come fetch you then.
While you wait, you may stroll around the hall, or perhaps you'll run into someone you'd like to meet. The side parlor next door also has every kind of gaming set—dice, playing cards, chess, anything you could want."
Victor laughed softly and nodded, letting the madam leave to make the arrangements.
Looking over the extraordinary display around him, and at the men and women in the hall, all of them either wealthy or powerful, he could not help reflecting that elite social venues had always been ideal places to gather information.
Sigi Reuven—no, Sigismund Dijkstra. It was obvious that this spymaster did not run the Passiflora just to make money.
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