Victor had no psychological burden about selling virility medicine—he was spreading joy, spreading love. He trusted Angoulême didn't either. This wild girl was short on brains and long on loyalty, but that wasn't her fault. It was the world's fault. This rotten age had beaten her into what she was.
Anyway, since he'd decided to recuperate in Vergen for a while, finding an agent to handle sales was the top priority—and Zoltan was absolutely the best broker in town, bar none.
He hadn't come to see Lambert off today not because they were on bad terms, but because after drinking Lambert's farewell round last night, he'd been dragged to another table and drunk into the ground.
After the Battle of Brenna against Nilfgaard, and the defensive campaign at Vergen resisting Kaedwen, war heroes like him were in high demand among the people of Aedirn. These days he was either in a tavern, or on his way to a tavern.
So when the Phantom Troupe showed up at his place looking for him, he was sprawled on the floor, sleeping like the dead.
…
Even now, the Phantom Troupe's rise was wrapped in mysteries no one could fully explain. But the moment you considered that it was an organization founded by the Flamebearer Sage, even the most unbelievable details became… not entirely unacceptable.
Some scholars refused to accept that claim. They argued the troupe had merely been chosen and supported by the Sage, not created by him—because some of the Phantom Troupe's actions remained controversial to this day, and drawing such a baseless connection was a stain upon the Flamebearer Sage's flawless image.
As for the troupe's earliest public activity, most records agreed it began in Vergen, in Upper Aedirn, with "Golden Eagle" Angoulême paying a visit to Zoltan Chivay.
But that account was also questioned by many, because in Vergen's local rumors, the Phantom Troupe's grand debut had been… selling virility medicine.
Which, frankly, didn't match the "tone" of the legends told elsewhere.
Excerpted from—Lives of Medieval Wandering Sellswords, Volume Five
…
Zoltan's home was also carved into the mountainside: a rock-cut dugout. The dwarf, with his thick beard and punk haircut, was a hopeless optimist, a devoted altruist, and a lover of strong liquor and dirty folk songs.
Victor knew all this because he'd known Zoltan for a long time. Even before Zoltan had ever met Victor, he'd already earned Victor's approval in the games as Geralt's loyal friend.
Shaken awake, Zoltan fully embodied the dwarf's lack of fuss. He didn't even ask why Victor and Angoulême were there. "Hey! Kid, you're here—where's Lambert?"
A girl brought over a cup of cold water. Victor hauled Zoltan up from the floor and sat him in a chair. "He already left. Angoulême and I walked him out and came back."
Zoltan took the water and gulped it down in one go. "Oh, no! Damn it! I slept through it."
"Don't worry," Victor said. "Lambert knows how it is. He said he's sorry he couldn't make it to your engagement ceremony, but the next time he passes through Vergen, he'll definitely come find you for a drink."
"Heh. Witchers are decent folk. Don't know why you humans don't like 'em."
Victor spread his hands. "I'm confused for the same reason." Then he laughed together with the dwarf.
The mood was perfect. Victor was about to toss out a couple more pleasantries and ease into the real topic—
When Angoulême suddenly cut in: "Zoltan, this is the Phantom Troupe's first operation! We need your help!"
The interruption was so blunt that the atmosphere froze solid. Victor's words got stuck halfway out of his throat, and for a moment he had no idea how to smooth this over.
Luckily, Zoltan let out a cheery laugh. "Hahahaha! So the White Wolf's Hansa changed its name to the Phantom Troupe, did it?"
The old dwarf really did care about Angoulême—he slotted right into her train of thought without effort.
Angoulême wore a smug, confident grin. "Yes! And we've got a new code now too. It's super cool—listen up: Phantom Troupe, traveling the world, righting wrongs and punishing evil!"
Zoltan's grin only grew wider.
"Oho, it even rhymes. I can tell right away—this is one hell of a secret organization." As he spoke, he gave Victor a thumbs-up; he had absolutely no doubt Angoulême hadn't come up with that herself.
Victor, meanwhile, felt like he was being flayed alive by embarrassment… A bit of nonsense he'd tossed out to placate Angoulême had ricocheted back into his own face this fast. Angoulême seriously needed better education. How could the "code" of a secret organization be shouted to anyone with ears?
But Angoulême kept running her mouth. "From now on, in private, I'm gonna call him 'Captain.' And I've got a new surname too—Corion. Isn't it badass? Sounds strong, like something fierce. The Captain bestowed his own surname on me, so from now on I'm Angoulême Corion."
At that, Zoltan's brow furrowed. He turned his head toward Victor. "Even the surname? You—"
The girl cut him off. "Victor said the name Corion will echo across the world because of us…"
Zoltan was stopped cold by the awe on her face. He thought it over, then nodded. "Alright. I get it. Then—ahem—" He puffed out his chest and belly on purpose, putting on a solemn expression. "Honored members of the Phantom Troupe, Victor and Angoulême of House Corion… what brings you to my home?"
They'd endured a short but intense stretch of pure shame, but now that the conversation was finally on track, Victor—the realist—wasn't about to linger. He laid out his advantage and the profit in plain terms.
He braced his elbows on the table, fingers interlaced under his chin, eyes sharp. "Zoltan. I've got a formula for a product that'll sell itself. I'm looking for someone to handle distribution. Can you introduce me to a few friends who might be interested? Everyone gets paid."
But after hearing that, Zoltan didn't look pleased like Victor expected. Instead, his face went grave—brows knotted, lips pressed tight, like he'd just been handed a serious problem.
That expression was wrong. Victor immediately shut his mouth, wondering if he'd said the wrong thing, or if there was some factor he hadn't considered.
After a moment, Zoltan let out a breath and said seriously, "I'm a dwarf with plenty of years behind me, so I'll say it straight: I can't help you with weed powder. I don't want to touch that stuff. And I'm telling you to stay away too. A lot of young people think it's no big deal these days, but—"
"What's wrong with weed powder?!" Angoulême snapped from the side, instantly jumping in to cut him off, looking exactly like the type who'd square up to anyone who tried to lecture her boss.
Now that Victor understood what was happening—and seeing the situation about to turn into a mess—he cut in fast. "Angoulême, shut up… Zoltan, you misunderstood. It's not weed powder! It's not that kind of thing at all!" He kept it as short as possible; if he let the girl keep babbling, the misunderstanding would only get worse.
But at Victor's words, Angoulême and Zoltan both wore the same shocked look—lips parted slightly, as if Victor had just said something unthinkable.
Damn it. Birds of a feather. So both of you decided I was a weed-powder dealer?
Victor inhaled and forced himself calm. "It's a virility potion! More precisely, a virility tonic! A Stand-Up Decoction! A secret weapon to help men reclaim their manhood!"
"Oh…" Angoulême realized she'd said something stupid earlier and slumped back into her chair.
"Uh… sorry." Zoltan, realizing his own mistake, couldn't dodge it and had to apologize honestly. Still, he tried to explain himself. "Virility tonics are good money, but they're hard to make, and the effects aren't always stable. You said it so lightly—and you had that schemer look on your face—so I got the wrong idea."
At that point there wasn't much else to say. Some things weren't proven by a hundred stories—only by seeing them once. And some products only needed one try to earn a loyal customer.
Victor pulled six vials from his herb pouch and shoved them into Zoltan's hands. "Trust me. Let your friends who need it try it. They'll be the ones telling you to call me 'Master Victor.'"