Lambert's expression did not change as he looked at the madame.
"Let me guess," Lambert said, his voice flat. "Geralt, or should I say, the White Wolf. He's a patron here isn't he."
The Marquise laughed warmly, it transformed her face, softening the sharp edges, making her look a decade younger.
"Oh, he is," she said. "Came in here with Master Dandelion and two halflings a long time ago, now. He didn't partake in the... services, if that's what you're wondering. They just drank, a great deal, it was a lively night." She shook her head, still smiling at the memory. "The halflings outdrank everyone, including the White Wolf. It was magnificent to behold. The number of empty bottles we had to dispose of the next morning... I won't soon forget it."
Sebastian's eyes widened. He looked at Lambert. Lambert, there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Of course," Sebastian muttered. "Of course Geralt has been here, Dandelion is no surprise though."
The madame turned her attention to Sebastian fully, she tilted her head, studying him with the same sharp assessment she had given Lambert, but something in her gaze softened.
"You," she said. "You look too young to be walking the Path... no scars on you as well.." Her eyes traveled over his face, the strong jaw, the yellow eyes that were trying very hard not to dart around the room. "Pretty handsome, though. A Shame." She sighed.
"Shame about what?" Sebastian asked.
"Shame that I'm no longer active.. If I were twenty years younger, witcher, you would be in trouble."
Sebastian blinked. Then, to his own surprise, he smiled almost a little embarrassed.
"I'm flattered," he said.
She waved a hand, dismissing her own flirtation. "It's early. The morning crowd is thin, most of our patrons prefer the night." She gestured at the room, at the merchants and the noble and the handful of women drifting between them. "This? This is nothing. It gets wild after dark. Music, dancing, things that would make the Temple Guard weep into their vestments." She turned back to Lambert. "So. Shall I introduce you to some of our..."
"We're not here for that," Lambert cut in. His voice was abrupt, almost rude. "There's someone staying here. Name's Velm, Velm of Tretogor." He paused. "Ring a bell?"
Her expression did not change, but something flickered behind her eyes, caution.
"Ah," she said. "Yes. He's here, in one of our finest rooms."
Lambert nodded. "Good."
He turned and walked away. No thank you, no farewell, just heading toward the staircase without waiting for an escort or an invitation.
Sebastian stared after him for a moment, then he turned back to the madame.
"Excuse us," he said. His voice was softer than Lambert's, more apologetic. "Also, forgive him, he's in a bad mood."
She raised an eyebrow. "He seems to be in a permanent bad mood."
"That's... not far from the truth actually.." Sebastian admitted. "But it's worse than usual today. It's something about a friend who may not be a friend anymore."
Her expression softened, just a fraction. "We've all had those."
Sebastian nodded. He glanced toward the staircase, where Lambert had already begun to climb.
"I should.."
"Go," the Marquise said. "Before he gets himself into trouble.. You seem like the calm one of the two, my girls are skilled, but they're not trained to handle angry witchers."
Sebastian offered her a small nod, a respectful one, and turned to follow Lambert.
As he walked toward the staircase, he thought to himself. 'What do I have a bad feeling about this?'
The upper floor was quieter than the common room below, the music was a distant murmur here, Lambert moved slowly, his head turning slightly at each door he passes by.
He stopped at the fourth door on the left.
It was indistinguishable from the others, dark wood, brass handle, a small brass plaque that read simply The Sapphire Suite and from within came sounds, soft and rhythmic sounds that made Sebastian wish, with sudden and profound intensity, that he was anywhere else in the world.
Lambert did not hesitate to enter though, he turned the handle, unlocked and pushed the door open.
The room beyond was everything the Passiflora had promised, and in the bed, tangled in those silk sheets, two figures froze the moment they saw the two Witchers..
The woman was young, pretty, her dark hair spread across the pillow, her eyes went wide as she registered the two armed men standing in the doorway. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
The man was older, perhaps forty, his face was flushed, whether from exertion or shock, it was impossible to say. He stared at Lambert with an expression that changed from confusion to recognition to pure, naked terror.
Sebastian, who had followed Lambert into the room before he could stop himself, stood frozen just inside the threshold. His eyes took in the scene in a single, horrified sweep, the tangled sheets, the flushed skin, the woman's bare shoulder, the man's bare everything and promptly decided that he would rather face a drowner in a sewer than stand here for one more second.
The woman scrambled off the bed, clutching a sheet to her chest. The man sat up, his hands raised in a gesture that was either surrender or self-defense.
Lambert's eyes did not blink, they moved from the woman to the man.
"You," Lambert said to the woman. His voice was flat and cold, the voice he used when he was done playing games. "Leave, now."
The woman did not need to be told twice, she snatched a robe from the foot of the bed and fled past the witchers without looking back. The door swung shut behind her with a soft click.
Sebastian stood in the sudden silence, he rubbed the back of his neck, staring at a point on the wall that had no particular significance.
"Why was he... in the morning... I mean..." He stopped. Shook his head. "Not important."
He looked at the man, Velm of Tretogor, presumably who had pulled a pillow into his lap and was clutching it like a shield. His hands were trembling.
"Why," Sebastian said slowly, "does he seem like he wasn't exactly expecting you?"
Lambert did not answer immediately. He stood in the center of the room, his back to Sebastian, then he turned.
"Because he wasn't," Lambert said. His voice was quieter now. "Sorry, Seb. I lied to you."
Sebastian went very still and he said nothing, he just looked at Lambert.
Lambert turned back to Velm.
"Velm of Tretogor," he said. "You know who I am, you know why I'm here."
Velm's face was the color of old cheese. His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before he found his voice.
"You..." he stammered. "You're the witcher.. Friend of Viktor right? I assume."
Lambert's jaw tightened. "Indeed. This is about Viktor, I came all the way here from Tretogor." He took a step closer. The floorboard creaked beneath his boot. "Where is he? I know you're his partner. I know you're here in Novigrad on business, so you better start speaking."
Sebastian shifted his weight. "Lambert.."
"Just wait, Seb." Lambert did not look at him. His eyes were fixed on Velm like a wolf sizing up a rabbit. "Not now."
Velm held up his hands, palms out, the pillow sliding forgotten to the floor. "Look," he said, his voice cracking, "I don't know the deal you and Viktor made. I don't! He never told me the details, whatever arrangement you had with him, that was between the two of you. I'm just... I'm just his business partner! That's all, I swear it!!"
Lambert's hand moved.
The steel sword left its scabbard and Lambert held it loosely, comfortably, the point aimed at the floor, for now.
"I'm not asking," Lambert said. His voice was soft and that made it worse. "I'm ordering you to answer, and don't try to bullshit me."
Velm's eyes were fixed on the sword. He swallowed audibly, his whole body was shaking now, shoulders, hands.
Sebastian stepped forward. His hand found Lambert's arm, not grabbing or pulling, just resting there, a reminder.
"Calm down, Lambert," Sebastian said quietly. "We don't want to spill blood here."
Lambert's eyes flicked to Sebastian. For a moment.
"I don't want to either," Lambert said. His voice was tight, controlled, but the sword did not waver. He looked back at Velm. "So you better start talking, where is Viktor?"
He raised the sword, bringing the point to hover an inch from Velm's face. The steel gleamed, the tip was sharp enough to split a hair.
Velm stared at the sword. At the witcher holding it, at the other witcher standing behind him, younger, less angry, but no less dangerous.
"Okay," Velm breathed. "Okay, okay! Wait! I'll tell you. I'll tell you all what you need to know!"
/-\
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