Eternal Flame 1

ETERNAL FLAME

I

‘You pig! You plague-stricken warbler! You trickster!’

Geralt, his interest piqued, led his mare around the corner of the alleyway. Before he located the source of the screams, a deep, stickily glassy clink joined them. A large jar of cherry preserve, thought the Witcher. A jar of cherry preserve makes that noise when you throw it at somebody from a great height or with great force. He remembered it well. When he lived with Yennefer she would occasionally throw jars of preserve at him in anger. Jars she had received from clients. Yennefer had no idea how to make preserve–her magic was fallible in that respect.

A large group of onlookers had formed around the corner, outside a narrow, pink-painted cottage. A young, fair-haired woman in a nightdress was standing on a tiny balcony decorated with flowers, just beneath the steep eaves of the roof. Bending a plump, fleshy arm, visible beneath the frills of her nightdress, the woman hurled down a chipped flowerpot.

A slim man in a plum bonnet with a white feather jumped aside like a scalded cat, and the flowerpot crashed onto the ground just in front of him, shattering into pieces.

‘Please, Vespula!’ the man in the bonnet shouted, ‘Don’t lend credence to the gossip! I was faithful to you, may I perish if it is not true!’ ‘You bastard! You son of the Devil! You wretch!’ the plump blonde yelled and went back into the house, no doubt in search of further missiles.

‘Hey, Dandelion,’ called the Witcher, leading his resisting and snorting mare onto the battlefield. ‘How are you? What’s going on?’ ‘Nothing special,’ said the troubadour, grinning. ‘The usual. Greetings, Geralt. What are you doing here? Bloody hell, look out!’ A tin cup whistled through the air and bounced off the cobbles with a clang. Dandelion picked it up, looked at it and threw it in the gutter.

‘Take those rags,’ the blonde woman screamed, the frills on her plump breasts swaying gracefully, ‘and get out of my sight! Don’t set foot here again, you bastard!’ ‘These aren’t mine,’ Dandelion said in astonishment, taking a pair of men’s trousers with odd-coloured legs from the ground. ‘I’ve never had trousers like these in my life.’ ‘Get out! I don’t want to see you anymore! You… you… Do you know what you’re like in bed? Pathetic! Pathetic, do you hear! Do you hear, everybody?’ Another flowerpot whistled down, a dried stalk that had grown out of it flapping. Dandelion barely managed to dodge. Following the flowerpot, a copper cauldron of at least two and a half gallons came spinning down. The crowd of onlookers standing a safe distance away from the cannonade reeled with laughter. The more active and unprincipled jokers among them applauded and incited the blonde to further action.

‘She doesn’t have a crossbow in the house, does she?’ the Witcher asked anxiously.

‘It can’t be ruled out,’ said the poet, lifting his head up towards the balcony. ‘She has a load of junk in there. Did you see those trousers?’ ‘Perhaps we ought to get out of here? You can come back when she calms down.’

‘Hell no,’ Dandelion grimaced. ‘I shall never go back to a house from which calumny and copper pots are showered on me. I consider this fickle relationship over. Let’s just wait till she throws my… Oh, mother, no! Vespula! My lute!’ He lunged forward, arms outstretched, stumbled, fell and caught the instrument at the last moment, just above the cobbles. The lute spoke plaintively and melodiously.

‘Phew,’ sighed the bard, springing up, ‘I’ve got it. It’s fine, Geralt, we can go now. Admittedly my cloak with the marten collar is still there, but too bad, let it be my grievance. Knowing her she won’t throw the cloak down.

‘You lying sloven!’ the blonde screamed and spat copiously from the balcony. ‘You vagrant! You croaking pheasant!’ ‘What’s the matter with her? What have you been up to, Dandelion?’

‘Nothing unusual,’ the troubadour shrugged. ‘She demands monogamy, like they all do, and then throws another man’s trousers at a fellow. Did you hear what she was screaming about me? By the Gods, I also know some women who decline their favours more prettily than she gives hers, but I don’t shout about it from the rooftops. Let’s go.’ ‘Where do you suggest we go?’

‘Are you serious? The temple of the Eternal Fire? Let’s drop into the Spear Blade. I have to calm my nerves.’ Without protest, the Witcher led his mare after Dandelion, who had headed off briskly into a narrow lane. The troubadour tightened the pegs of his lute as he strode, strummed the strings to test them, and played a deep, resounding chord.

The air bears autumn’s cool scent

Our words seized by an icy gust

Your tears have my heart rent

But all is gone and part we must.

He broke off, waving cheerfully at two maids who were passing, carrying baskets of vegetables. The girls giggled.

‘What brings you to Novigrad, Geralt?’

‘Fitting out. A harness, some tackle. And a new jacket.’ The Witcher pulled down the creaking, fresh-smelling leather. ‘How do you like it, Dandelion?’ ‘You don’t keep up with the fashion,’ the bard grimaced, brushing a chicken feather from his gleaming, cornflower-blue kaftan with puffed sleeves and a serrated collar. ‘Oh, I’m glad we’ve met. Here in Novigrad, the capital of the world, the centre and cradle of culture. Here a cultured man can live life to the full.’ ‘Let’s live it one lane further on,’ suggested Geralt, glancing at a tramp who had squatted down and was defecating, eyes bulging, in an alleyway.

‘Your constant sarcasm is becoming annoying,’ Dandelion said, grimacing again. ‘Novigrad, I tell you, is the capital of the world. Almost thirty thousand dwellers, Geralt, not counting travellers; just imagine! Brick houses, cobbled main streets, a seaport, stores, shops, four watermills, slaughterhouses, sawmills, a large manufactory making beautiful slippers, and every conceivable guild and trade. A mint, eight banks and nineteen pawnbrokers. A castle and guardhouse to take the breath away. And diversions: a scaffold, a gallows with a drop, thirty-five taverns, a theatre, a menagerie, a market and a dozen whorehouses. And I can’t remember how many temples, but plenty. Oh, and the women, Geralt; bathed, coiffured and fragrant; those satins, velvets and silks, those whalebones and ribbons… Oh, Geralt! The rhymes pour out by themselves: Around your house, now white from frost

Sparkles ice on the pond and marsh

Your longing eyes grieve what is lost

But naught can change this parting harsh…

‘A new ballad?’

‘Aye. I’ll call it Winter. But it’s not ready yet, I can’t finish it. Vespula’s made me completely jittery and the rhymes won’t come together. Ah, Geralt, I forgot to ask, how is it with you and Yennefer?’ ‘It isn’t.’

‘I understand.’

‘No you bloody don’t. Is it far to this tavern?’

‘Just round the corner. Ah, here we are. Can you see the sign?’

‘Yes, I can.’

‘My sincere and humble greetings!’ Dandelion flashed a smile at the wench sweeping the steps. ‘Has anyone ever told you, my lady, that you are gorgeous?’ The wench flushed and gripped her broom tightly. For a moment Geralt thought she would whack the troubadour with the handle. He was mistaken. The wench smiled engagingly and fluttered her eyelashes. Dandelion, as usual, paid absolutely no attention.

‘Greetings to one and all! Good day!’ he bellowed, entering the tavern and plucking the lute strings hard with his thumb. ‘Master Dandelion, the most renowned poet in this land, has visited your tawdry establishment, landlord! For he has a will to drink beer! Do you mark the honour I do you, swindler?’ ‘I do,’ said the innkeeper morosely, leaning forward over the bar. ‘I’m content to see you, minstrel, sir. I see that your word is indeed your bond. After all, you promised to stop by first thing to pay for yesterday’s exploits. And I–just imagine–presumed you were lying, as usual. I swear I am ashamed.’ ‘There is no need to feel shame, my good man,’ the troubadour said light-heartedly, ‘for I have no money. We shall converse about that later.’ ‘No,’ the innkeeper said coldly. ‘We shall converse about it right away. Your credit has finished, my lord poet. No one befools me twice in a row.’ Dandelion hung up his lute on a hook protruding from the wall, sat down at a table, took off his bonnet and pensively stroked the egret’s feather pinned to it.

‘Do you have any funds, Geralt?’ he asked with hope in his voice.

‘No, I don’t. Everything I had went on the jacket.’

‘That is ill, that is ill,’ Dandelion sighed. ‘There’s not a bloody soul to stand a round. Innkeeper, why is it so empty here today?’ ‘It’s too early for ordinary drinkers. And the journeymen masons who are repairing the temple have already been and returned to the scaffolding, taking their master with them.’ ‘And there’s no one, no one at all?’

‘No one aside from the honourable merchant Biberveldt, who is breaking his fast in the large snug.’ ‘Dainty’s here?’ Dandelion said, pleased. ‘You should have said at once. Come to the snug, Geralt. Do you know the halfling, Dainty Biberveldt?’ ‘No.’

‘Never mind. You can make his acquaintance. Ah!’ the troubadour called, heading towards the snug. ‘I smell from the east a whiff and hint of onion soup, pleasing to my nostrils. Peekaboo! It’s us! Surprise!’ A chubby-cheeked, curly-haired halfling in a pistachio-green waistcoat was sitting at the table in the centre of the chamber, beside a post decorated with garlands of garlic and bunches of herbs. In his left hand he held a wooden spoon and in his right an earthenware bowl. At the sight of Dandelion and Geralt, the halfling froze and opened his mouth, and his large nut-brown eyes widened in fear.

‘What cheer, Dainty?’ Dandelion said, blithely waving his bonnet. The halfling did not move or close his mouth. His hand, Geralt noticed, was trembling a little, and the long strips of boiled onion hanging from the spoon were swinging like a pendulum.

‘Gggreetings… gggreetings, Dandelion,’ he stammered and swallowed loudly.

‘Do you have the hiccoughs? Would you like me to frighten you? Look out: your wife’s been seen on the turnpike! She’ll be here soon. Gardenia Biberveldt in person! Ha, ha, ha!’ ‘You really are an ass, Dandelion,’ the halfling said reproachfully.

Dandelion laughed brightly again, simultaneously playing two complicated chords on his lute.

‘Well you have an exceptionally stupid expression on your face, and you’re goggling at us as though we had horns and tails. Perhaps you’re afraid of the Witcher? What? Perhaps you think halfling season has begun? Perhaps—’ ‘Stop it,’ Geralt snapped, unable to stay quiet, and walked over to the table. ‘Forgive us, friend. Dandelion has experienced a serious personal tragedy, and he still hasn’t got over it. He’s trying to mask his sorrow, dejection and disgrace by being witty.’ ‘Don’t tell me,’ the halfling said, finally slurping up the contents of the spoon. ‘Let me guess. Vespula has finally thrown you out on your ear? What, Dandelion?’ ‘I don’t engage in conversations on sensitive subjects with individuals who drink and gorge themselves while their friends stand,’ the troubadour said, and then sat down without waiting. The half-ling scooped up a spoon of soup and licked off the threads of cheese hanging from it.

‘Right you are,’ he said glumly. ‘So, be my guests. Sit you down, and help yourselves. Would you like some onion potage?’ ‘In principle I don’t dine at such an early hour,’ Dandelion said, putting on airs, ‘but very well. Just not on an empty stomach. I say, landlord! Beer, if you please! And swiftly!’ A lass with an impressive, thick plait reaching her hips brought them mugs and bowls of soup. Geralt, observing her round, downy face, thought that she would have a pretty mouth if she remembered to keep it closed.

‘Forest dryad!’ Dandelion cried, seizing the girl’s arm and kissing her on her open palm. ‘Sylph! Fairy! O, Divine creature, with eyes like azure lakes! Thou art as exquisite as the morn, and the shape of thy parted lips are enticingly…’ ‘Give him some beer, quick,’ Dainty groaned. ‘Or it’ll end in disaster.’

‘No, it won’t, no, it won’t,’ the bard assured him. ‘Right, Geralt? You’d be hard pressed to find more composed men than we two. I, dear sir, am a poet and a musician, and music soothes the savage breast. And the Witcher here present is menacing only to monsters. I present Geralt of Rivia, the terror of strigas, werewolves and sundry vileness. You’ve surely heard of Geralt, Dainty?’ ‘Yes, I have,’ the halfling said, glowering suspiciously at the Witcher. ‘What… What brings you to Novigrad, sir? Have some dreadful monsters been sighted here? Have you been… hem, hem… commissioned?’ ‘No,’ smiled the Witcher, ‘I’m here for my own amusement.’

‘Oh,’ Dainty said, nervously wriggling his hirsute feet, which were dangling half a cubit above the floor, ‘that’s good…’ ‘What’s good?’ Dandelion asked, swallowing a spoonful of soup and sipping some beer. ‘Do you plan to support us, Biberveldt? In our amusements, I mean? Excellent. We intend to get tipsy, here, in the Spear Blade. And then we plan to repair to the Passiflora, a very dear and high-class den of iniquity, where we may treat ourselves to a half-blood she-elf, and who knows, maybe even a pure-blood she-elf. Nonetheless, we need a sponsor.’ ‘What do you mean?’

‘Someone to pay the bills.’

‘As I thought,’ Dainty muttered. ‘I’m sorry. Firstly, I’ve arranged several business meetings. Secondly, I don’t have the funds to sponsor such diversions. Thirdly, they only admit humans to the Passiflora.’ ‘What are we, then, short-eared owls? Oh, I understand? They don’t admit halflings. That’s true. You’re right, Dainty. This is Novigrad. The capital of the world.’ ‘Right then…’ the halfling said, still looking at the Witcher and twisting his mouth strangely. ‘I’ll be off. I’m due to be—’ The door to the chamber opened with a bang and in rushed…

Dainty Biberveldt.

‘O, ye Gods!’ Dandelion yelled.

The halfling standing in the doorway in no way differed from the halfling sitting at the table, if one were to disregard the fact that the one at the table was clean and the one in the doorway was dirty, dishevelled and haggard.

‘Got you, you bitch’s tail!’ the dirty halfling roared, lunging at the table. ‘You thief!’ His clean twin leaped to his feet, overturning his stool and knocking the dishes from the table. Geralt reacted instinctively and very quickly. Seizing his scabbarded sword from the table, he lashed Biberveldt on the nape of his neck with the heavy belt. The half-ling tumbled onto the floor, rolled over, dived between Dandelion’s legs and scrambled towards the door on all fours, his arms and legs suddenly lengthening like a spider’s. Seeing this the dirty Dainty Biberveldt swore, howled and jumped out of the way, slamming his back into the wooden wall. Geralt threw aside the scabbard and kicked the stool out of the way, darting after him. The clean Dainty Biberveldt–now utterly dissimilar apart from the colour of his waistcoat–cleared the threshold like a grasshopper and hurtled into the common bar, colliding with the lass with the half-open mouth. Seeing his long limbs and melted, grotesque physiognomy, the lass opened her mouth to its full extent and uttered an ear-splitting scream. Geralt, taking advantage of the loss of momentum caused by the collision, caught up with the creature in the centre of the chamber and knocked it to the ground with a deft kick behind the knee.

‘Don’t move a muscle, chum,’ he hissed through clenched teeth, holding the point of his sword to the oddity’s throat. ‘Don’t budge.’ ‘What’s going on here?’ the innkeeper yelled, running over clutching a spade handle. ‘What’s this all about? Guard! Detchka, run and get the guard!’ ‘No!’ the creature wailed, flattening itself against the floor and deforming itself even more. ‘Have mercy, nooooo!’ ‘Don’t call them!’ the dirty halfling echoed, rushing out of the snug. ‘Grab that girl, Dandelion!’ The troubadour caught the screaming Detchka, carefully choosing the places to seize her by. Detchka squealed and crouched on the floor by his legs.

‘Calm down, innkeeper,’ Dainty Biberveldt panted. ‘It’s a private matter, we won’t call out the guard. I’ll pay for any damage.’ ‘There isn’t any damage,’ the innkeeper said level-headedly, looking around.

‘But there will be,’ the plump halfling said, gnashing his teeth, ‘because I’m going to thrash him. And properly. I’m going to thrash him cruelly, at length and frenziedly, and then everything here will be broken.’ The long-limbed and spread-out caricature of Dainty Biberveldt flattened on the floor snivelled pathetically.

‘Nothing doing,’ the innkeeper said coldly, squinting and raising the spade handle a little. ‘Thrash it in the street or in the yard, sir, not here. And I’m calling the guard. Needs must, it is my duty. Forsooth… it’s some kind of monster!’ ‘Innkeeper, sir,’ Geralt said calmly, not relieving the pressure on the freak’s neck, ‘keep your head. No one is going to destroy anything, there won’t be any damage. The situation is under control. I’m a witcher, and as you can see, I have the monster in my grasp. And because, indeed, it does look like a private matter, we’ll calmly sort it out here in the snug. Release the girl, Dandelion, and come here. I have a silver chain in my bag. Take it out and tie the arms of this gentleman securely, around the elbows behind its back. Don’t move, chum.’ The creature whimpered softly.

‘Very well, Geralt,’ Dandelion said, ‘I’ve tied it up. Let’s go to the snug. And you, landlord, what are you standing there for? I ordered beer. And when I order beer, you’re to keep serving me until I shout “Water”.’ Geralt pushed the tied-up creature towards the snug and roughly sat him down by the post. Dainty Biberveldt also sat down and looked at him in disgust.

‘It’s monstrous, the way it looks,’ he said. ‘Just like a pile of fermenting dough. Look at its nose, Dandelion, it’ll fall off any second, gorblimey. And its ears are like my mother-in-law’s just before her funeral. Ugh!’ ‘Hold hard, hold hard,’ Dandelion muttered. ‘Are you Biberveldt? Yes, you are, without doubt. But whatever’s sitting by that post was you a moment ago. If I’m not mistaken. Geralt! Everybody’s watching you. You’re a witcher. What the bloody hell is going on here? What is it?’ ‘It’s a mimic.’

‘You’re a mimic yourself,’ the creature said in a guttural voice, swinging its nose. ‘I am not a mimic, I’m a doppler, and my name is Tellico Lunngrevink Letorte. Penstock for short. My close friends call me Dudu.’ ‘I’ll give you Dudu, you whoreson!’ Dainty yelled, aiming a punch at him. ‘Where are my horses? You thief!’ ‘Gentlemen,’ the innkeeper cautioned them, entering with a jug and a handful of beer mugs, ‘you promised things would be peaceful.’ ‘Ah, beer,’ the halfling sighed. ‘Oh, but I’m damned thirsty. And hungry!’

‘I could do with a drink, too,’ Tellico Lunngrevink Letorte declared gurglingly. He was totally ignored.

‘What is it?’ the innkeeper asked, contemplating the creature, who at the sight of the beer stuck its long tongue out beyond sagging, doughy lips. ‘What is it, gentlemen?’ ‘A mimic,’ the Witcher repeated, heedless of the faces the monster was making. ‘It actually has many names. A changeling, shape-shifter, vexling, or fetch. Or a doppler, as it called itself.’ ‘A vexling!’ the innkeeper yelled. ‘Here, in Novigrad? In my inn? Swiftly, we must call the guard! And the priests! Or it will be on my head…’ ‘Easy does it,’ Dainty Biberveldt rasped, hurriedly finishing off Dandelion’s soup from a bowl which by some miracle had not been spilled. ‘There’ll be time to call anyone we need. But later. This scoundrel robbed me and I have no intention of handing it over to the local law before recovering my property. I know you Novigradians–and your judges. I might get a tenth, nothing more.’ ‘Have mercy,’ the doppler whimpered plaintively. ‘Don’t hand me over to humans! Do you know what they do to the likes of me?’ ‘Naturally we do,’ the innkeeper nodded. ‘The priests perform exorcisms on any vexling they catch. Then they tie it up with a stick between its knees and cover it thickly with clay mixed with iron filings, roll it into a ball, and bake it in a fire until the clay hardens into brick. At least that’s what used to be done years ago, when these monsters occurred more often.’ ‘A barbaric custom. Human indeed,’ Dainty, said, grimacing and pushing the now empty bowl away, ‘but perhaps it is a just penalty for banditry and thievery. Well, talk, you good-for-nothing, where are my horses? Quickly, before I stretch that nose of yours between your legs and shove it up your backside! Where are my horses, I said.’ ‘I’ve… I’ve sold them,’ Tellico Lunngrevink Letorte stammered, and his sagging ears suddenly curled up into balls resembling tiny cauliflowers.

‘Sold them! Did you hear that?’ the halfling cried, frothing at the mouth. ‘It sold my horses!’ ‘Of course,’ Dandelion said. ‘It had time to. It’s been here for three days. For the last three days you’ve… I mean, it’s… Dammit, Dainty, does that mean—’ ‘Of course that’s what it means!’ the merchant yelled, stamping his hairy feet. ‘It robbed me on the road, a day’s ride from the city! It came here as me, get it? And sold my horses! I’ll kill it! I’ll strangle it with my bare hands!’ ‘Tell us how it happened, Mr Biberveldt.’

‘Geralt of Rivia, if I’m not mistaken? The Witcher?’

Geralt nodded in reply.

‘That’s a stroke of luck,’ the halfling said. ‘I’m Dainty Biberveldt of Knotgrass Meadow. Farmer, stock breeder and merchant. Call me Dainty, Geralt.’ ‘Say on, Dainty.’

‘Very well, it was like this. Me and my ostlers were driving my horses to be sold at the market in Devil’s Ford. We had our last stop a day’s ride from the city. We overnighted, having first dealt with a small cask of burnt caramel vodka. I woke up in the middle of the night feeling like my bladder was about to burst, got off the wagon, and I thought to myself I’ll take a look at what the nags are doing in the meadow. I walk out, fog thick as buggery, I look and suddenly someone’s coming. Who goes there? I ask. He says nothing. I walk up closer and see… myself. Like in a looking glass. I think I oughtn’t to have drunk that bloody moonshine, accursed spirit. And this one here–for that’s what it was–ups and conks me on the noggin! I saw stars and went arse over tit. The next day I woke up in a bloody thicket, with a lump like a cucumber on my head, and not a soul in sight, not a sign of our camp, either. I wandered the whole day before I finally found the trail. Two days I trudged, eating roots and raw mushrooms. And in the meantime that… that lousy Dudulico, or whatever it was, has ridden to Novigrad as me and flogged my horses! I’ll get the bloody… And I’ll thrash my ostlers! I’ll give each one a hundred lashes on his bare arse, the cretins! Not to recognise their own guvnor, to let themselves be outwitted like that! Numbskulls, imbeciles, sots…’ ‘Don’t be too hard on them, Dainty,’ Geralt said. ‘They didn’t have a chance. A mimic copies so exactly there’s no way of distinguishing it from the original–I mean, from its chosen victim. Have you never heard of mimics?’ ‘Some. But I thought it was all fiction.’

‘Well it isn’t. All a doppler has to do is observe its victim closely in order to quickly and unerringly adapt to the necessary material structure. I would point out that it’s not an illusion, but a complete, precise transformation. To the minutest detail. How a mimic does it, no one knows. Sorcerers suspect the same component of the blood is at work here as with lycanthropy, but I think it’s either something totally different or a thousandfold more powerful. After all, a werewolf has only two–at most three–different forms, while a doppler can transform into anything it wants to, as long as the body mass more or less tallies.’ ‘Body mass?’

‘Well, he won’t turn into a mastodon. Or a mouse.’

‘I understand. And the chain you’ve bound him up in, what’s that about?’

‘It’s silver. It’s lethal to a lycanthrope, but as you see, for a mimic it merely stops the transmutations. That’s why it’s sitting here in its own form.’ The doppler pursed its glutinous lips and glowered at the Witcher with an evil expression in its dull eyes, which had already lost the hazel colour of the halfling’s irises and were now yellow.

‘I’m glad it’s sitting, cheeky bastard,’ Dainty snarled. ‘Just to think it even stopped here, at the Blade, where I customarily lodge! It already thinks it’s me!’ Dandelion nodded.

‘Dainty,’ he said, ‘It was you. I’ve been meeting it here for three days now. It looked like you and spoke like you. And when it came to standing a round, it was as tight as you. Possibly even tighter.’ ‘That last point doesn’t worry me,’ the halfling said, ‘because perhaps I’ll recover some of my money. It disgusts me to touch it. Take the purse off it, Dandelion, and check what’s inside. There ought to be plenty, if that horse thief really did sell my nags.’ ‘How many horses did you have, Dainty?’

‘A dozen.’

‘Calculating according to world prices,’ the troubadour said, looking into the purse, ‘what’s here would just about buy a single horse, if you chanced upon an old, foundered one. Calculating according to Novigradian prices, there’s enough for two goats, three at most.’ The merchant said nothing, but looked as though he were about to cry. Tellico Lunngrevink Letorte hung his nose down low, and his lower lip even lower, after which he began to softly gurgle.

‘In a word,’ the halfling finally sighed, ‘I’ve been robbed and ruined by a creature whose existence I previously didn’t believe in. That’s what you call bad luck.’ ‘That about sums it up,’ the Witcher said, casting a glance at the doppler huddled on the stool. ‘I was also convinced that mimics had been wiped out long ago. In the past, so I’ve heard, plenty of them used to live in the nearby forests and on the plateau. But their ability to mimic seriously worried the first settlers and they began to hunt them. Quite effectively. Almost all of them were quickly exterminated.’ ‘And lucky for us,’ the innkeeper said, spitting onto the floor. ‘I swear on the Eternal Fire, I prefer a dragon or a demon, which is always a dragon or a demon. You know where you are with them. But werewolfery, all those transmutations and metamorphoses, that hideous, demonic practice, trickery and the treacherous deceit conjured up by those hideous creatures, will be the detriment and undoing of people! I tell you, let’s call the guard and into the fire with this repugnance!’ ‘Geralt?’ Dandelion asked curiously. ‘I’d be glad to hear an expert’s opinion. Are these mimics really so dangerous and aggressive?’ ‘Their ability to mimic,’ the Witcher said, ‘is an attribute which serves as defence rather than aggression. I haven’t heard of—’ ‘A pox on it,’ Dainty interrupted angrily, slamming his fist down on the table. ‘If thumping a fellow in the head and plundering him isn’t aggression, I don’t know what it is. Stop being clever. The matter is simple; I was waylaid and robbed, not just of my hard-earned property, but also of my own form. I demand compensation, and I shall not rest—’ ‘The guard, we must call the guard,’ the innkeeper said. ‘And we should summon the priests! And burn that monster, that non-human!’ ‘Give over, landlord,’ the halfling said, raising his head. ‘You’re becoming a bore with that guard of yours. I would like to point out that that non-human hasn’t harmed anybody else, only me. And incidentally, I’m also a non-human.’ ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mr Biberveldt,’ the innkeeper laughed nervously. ‘What are you and what is that? You’re not far off being a man, and that’s a monster. It astonishes me that you’re sitting there so calmly, Witcher, sir. What’s your trade, if you’ll pardon me? It’s your job to kill monsters, isn’t it?’ ‘Monsters,’ Geralt said coldly, ‘but not the members of intelligent races.’

‘Come, come, sir,’ the innkeeper said. ‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration.’

‘Indeed,’ Dandelion cut in, ‘you’ve overstepped the mark, Geralt, with that “intelligent race”. Just take a look at it.’ Tellico Lunngrevink Letorte, indeed, did not resemble a member of an intelligent race at that moment. He resembled a puppet made of mud and flour, looking at the Witcher with a beseeching look in its dull, yellow eyes. Neither were the snuffling sounds being emitted from its nose–which now reached the table–consistent with a member of an intelligent race.

‘Enough of this empty bullshit!’ Dainty Biberveldt suddenly roared. ‘There’s nothing to argue about! The only thing that counts is my horses and my loss! Do you hear, you bloody slippery jack, you? Who did you sell my nags to? What did you do with the money? Tell me now, before I kick you black and blue and flay you alive!’ Detchka, opening the door slightly, stuck her flaxen-haired head into the chamber.

‘We have visitors, father,’ she whispered. ‘Journeymen masons from the scaffolding and others. I’m serving them, but don’t shout so loudly in here, because they’re beginning to look funny at the snug.’ ‘By the Eternal Fire!’ the innkeeper said in horror, looking at the molten doppler. ‘If someone looks in and sees it… Oh, it’ll look bad. If we aren’t to call the guard, then… Witcher, sir! If it really is a vexling, tell it to change into something decent, as a disguise, like. Just for now.’ ‘That’s right,’ Dainty said. ‘Have him change into something, Geralt.’

‘Into whom?’ the doppler suddenly gurgled. ‘I can only take on a form I’ve had a good look at. Which of you shall I turn into?’ ‘Not me,’ the innkeeper said hurriedly.

‘Nor me,’ Dandelion snorted. ‘Anyway, it wouldn’t be any disguise. Everybody knows me, so the sight of two Dandelions at one table would cause a bigger sensation than the one here in person.’ ‘It would be the same with me,’ Geralt smiled. ‘That leaves you, Dainty. And it’s turned out well. Don’t be offended, but you know yourself that people have difficulty distinguishing one halfling from another.’ The merchant did not ponder this for long.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Let it be. Take the chain off him, Witcher. Right then, turn yourself into me, O intelligent race.’ After the chain had been removed the doppler rubbed its doughy hands together, felt its nose and stared goggle-eyed at the halfling. The sagging skin on its face tightened up and acquired colour. Its nose shrank and drew in with a dull, squelching sound, and curly hair sprouted on its bald pate. Now it was Dainty’s turn to goggle, the innkeeper opened his mouth in mute astonishment and Dandelion heaved a sigh and groaned.

The last thing to change was the colour of its eyes.

The second Dainty Biberveldt cleared its throat, reached across the table, seized the first Dainty Biberveldt’s beer mug and greedily pressed its mouth to it.

‘It can’t be, it can’t be,’ Dandelion said softly. ‘Just look, he’s been copied exactly. They’re indistinguishable. Down to the last detail. This time even the mosquito bites and stains on its britches… Yes, on its britches! Geralt, not even sorcerers can manage that! Feel it, it’s real wool, that’s no illusion! Extraordinary! How does it do it?’ ‘No one knows,’ the Witcher muttered. ‘It doesn’t, either. I said it has the complete ability for the free transformation of material structure, but it is an organic, instinctive ability…’ ‘But the britches… What has it made the britches out of? And the waistcoat?’

‘That’s its own adapted skin. I don’t think it’d be happy to give up those trousers. Anyway, they’d immediately lose the properties of wool—’ ‘Pity,’ Dainty said, showing cunning, ‘because I was just wondering whether to make it change a bucket of matter into a bucket of gold.’ The doppler, now a faithful copy of the halfling, lounged comfortably and grinned broadly, clearly glad to be the centre of interest. It was sitting in an identical pose to Dainty, swinging its hairy feet the same way.

‘You know plenty about dopplers, Geralt,’ it said, then took a swig from the mug, smacked its lips and belched. ‘Plenty, indeed.’ ‘Ye Gods, its voice and mannerisms are also Biberveldt’s,’ Dandelion said. ‘Haven’t any of you got a bit of red silk thread? We ought to mark it, dammit, because there might be trouble.’ ‘Come on, Dandelion,’ the first Dainty Biberveldt said indignantly. ‘Surely you won’t mistake it for me? The differences are clear at…’ ‘… first glance,’ the second Dainty Biberveldt completed the sentence and belched again gracefully. ‘Indeed, in order to be mistaken you’d have to be more stupid than a mare’s arse.’ ‘Didn’t I say?’ Dandelion whispered in amazement. ‘It thinks and talks like Biberveldt. They’re indistinguishable…’ ‘An exaggeration,’ the halfling said, pouting. ‘A gross exaggeration.’

‘No,’ Geralt rebutted. ‘It’s not an exaggeration. Believe it or not, but at this moment it is you, Dainty. In some unknown way the doppler also precisely copies its victim’s mentality.’ ‘Mental what?’

‘The mind’s properties, the character, feelings, thoughts. The soul. Which would confirm what most sorcerers and all priests would deny. That the soul is also matter.’ ‘Blasphemy!’ The innkeeper gasped.

‘And poppycock,’ Dainty Biberveldt said firmly. ‘Don’t tell stories, Witcher. The mind’s properties, I like that. Copying someone’s nose and britches is one thing, but someone’s mind is no bloody mean feat. I’ll prove it to you now. If that lousy doppler had copied my merchant’s mind he wouldn’t have sold the horses in Novigrad, where there’s no market for them; he would have ridden to the horse fair in Devil’s Ford where they’re sold to the highest bidder. You don’t lose money there—’ ‘Well actually, you do.’ The doppler imitated the halfling’s offended expression and snorted characteristically. ‘First of all, the prices at the auctions in Devil’s Ford are coming down, because the merchants are fixing the bidding. And in addition you have to pay the auctioneer’s commission.’ ‘Don’t teach me how to trade, you prat,’ Biberveldt said indignantly. ‘I would have taken ninety or a hundred a piece in Devil’s Ford. And how much did you get off those Novigradian chancers?’ ‘A hundred and thirty,’ the doppler replied.

‘You’re lying, you rascal.’

‘I am not. I drove the horses straight to the port, sir, and found a foreign fur trader. Furriers don’t use oxen when they assemble their caravans, because oxen are too slow. Furs are light, but costly, so one needs to travel swiftly. There’s no market for horses in Novigrad, so neither are there any horses. I had the only available ones, so I could name my price. Simple—’ ‘Don’t teach me, I said!’ Dainty yelled, flushing red. ‘Very well, you made a killing. So where’s the money?’ ‘I reinvested it,’ Tellico said proudly, imitating the halfling’s typical raking of his fingers through his thick mop of hair. ‘Money, Mr Dainty, has to circulate, and business has to be kept moving.’ ‘Be careful I don’t wring your neck! Tell me what you did with the cash you made on the horses.’ ‘I told you. I sank it into goods.’

‘What goods? What did you buy, you freak?’

‘Co… cochineal,’ the doppler stuttered, and then enumerated quickly: ‘A thousand bushels of cochineal, sixty-two hundredweight of mimosa bark, fifty-five gallons of rose oil, twenty-three barrels of cod liver oil, six hundred earthenware bowls and eighty pounds of beeswax. I bought the cod liver oil very cheaply, incidentally, because it was a little rancid. Oh, yes, I almost forgot. I also bought a hundred cubits of cotton string.’ A long–very long–silence fell.

‘Cod liver oil,’ Dainty finally said, enunciating each word very slowly. ‘Cotton string. Rose oil. I must be dreaming. Yes, it’s a nightmare. You can buy anything in Novigrad, every precious and everyday thing, and this moron here spends my money on shit. Pretending to be me. I’m finished, my money’s lost, my merchant’s reputation is lost. No, I’ve had enough of this. Lend me your sword, Geralt. I’ll cut him to shreds here and now.’ The door to the chamber creaked open.

‘The merchant Biberveldt!’ crowed an individual in a purple toga which hung on his emaciated frame as though on a stick. He had a hat on his head shaped like an upturned chamber pot. ‘Is the merchant Biberveldt here?’ ‘Yes,’ the two halflings answered in unison.

The next moment, one of the Dainty Biberveldts flung the contents of the mug in the Witcher’s face, deftly kicked the stool from under Dandelion and slipped under the table towards the door, knocking over the individual in the ridiculous hat on the way.

‘Fire! Help!’ it yelled, rushing out towards the common chamber. ‘Murder! Calamity!’ Geralt, shaking off the beer froth, rushed after him, but the second Biberveldt, who was also tearing towards the door, slipped on the sawdust and fell in front of him. The two of them fell over, right on the threshold. Dandelion, clambering out from under the table, cursed hideously.

‘Assaaault!’ yelled the skinny individual, entangled in his purple toga, from the floor. ‘Rooobberrrryyyy! Criminals!

Geralt rolled over the halfling and rushed into the main chamber, to see the doppler–jostling the drinkers–running out into the street. He rushed after him, only to run into a resilient but hard wall of men barring his way. He managed to knock one of them over, smeared with clay and stinking of beer, but others held him fast in the iron grip of powerful hands. He fought furiously, but heard the dry report of snapping thread and rending leather, and the sleeve become loose under his right armpit. The Witcher swore and stopped struggling.

‘We ‘ave ‘im!’ the masons yelled. ‘We’ve got the robber! What do we do now, master?’ ‘Lime!’ the master bellowed, raising his head from the table and looking around with unseeing eyes.

‘Guaaard!’ the purple one yelled, crawling from the chamber on all fours. ‘An official has been assaulted! Guard! It will be the gallows for you, villain!’ ‘We ‘ave ‘im!’ the masons shouted. ‘We ‘ave ‘im, sir!’

‘That’s not him!’ the individual in the toga bellowed, ‘Catch the scoundrel! After him!’ ‘Who?’

‘Biberveldt, the halfling! After him, give chase! To the dungeons with him!’

‘Hold on a moment,’ Dainty said, emerging from the snug. ‘What’s it all about, Mr Schwann? Don’t drag my name through the mud. And don’t sound the alarm, there’s no need.’ Schwann was silent and looked at the halfling in astonishment. Dandelion emerged from the chamber, bonnet at an angle, examining his lute. The masons, whispering among themselves, finally released Geralt. The Witcher, although absolutely furious, limited himself to spitting copiously on the floor.

‘Merchant Biberveldt!’ Schwann crowed, narrowing his myopic eyes. ‘What is the meaning of this? An assault on a municipal official may cost you dearly… Who was that? That halfling, who bolted?’ ‘My cousin,’ Dainty said quickly. ‘A distant cousin…’

‘Yes, yes,’ Dandelion agreed, swiftly backing him up and feeling in his element. ‘Biberveldt’s distant cousin. Known as Nutcase-Biberveldt. The black sheep of the family. When he was a child he fell into a well. A dried-up well. But unfortunately the pail hit him directly on his head. He’s usually peaceful, it’s just that the colour purple infuriates him. But there’s nothing to worry about, because he’s calmed by the sight of red hairs on a lady’s loins. That’s why he rushed straight to Passiflora. I tell you, Mr Schwann—’ ‘That’s enough, Dandelion,’ the Witcher hissed. ‘Shut up, dammit.’

Schwann pulled his toga down, brushed the sawdust off it and straightened up, assuming a haughty air.

‘Now, then,’ he said. ‘Heed your relatives more attentively, merchant Biberveldt, because as you well know, you are responsible. Were I to lodge a complaint… But I cannot afford the time. I am here, Biberveldt, on official business. On behalf of the municipal authorities I summon you to pay tax.’ ‘Eh?’

‘Tax,’ the official repeated, and pouted his lips in a grimace probably copied from someone much more important. ‘What are you doing? Been infected by your cousin? If you make a profit, you have to pay taxes. Or you’ll have to do time in the dungeon.’ ‘Me?’ Dainty roared. ‘Me, make a profit? All I have is losses, for fuck’s sake! I—’ ‘Careful, Biberveldt,’ the Witcher hissed, while Dandelion kicked the halfling furtively in his hairy shin. The halfling coughed.

‘Of course,’ he said, struggling to put a smile on his chubby face, ‘of course, Mr Schwann. If you make a profit, you have to pay taxes. High profits, high taxes. And the other way around, I’d say.’ ‘It is not for me to judge your business, sir,’ the official said, making a sour face. He sat down at the table, removing from the fathomless depths of his toga an abacus and a scroll of parchment, which he unrolled on the table, first wiping it with a sleeve. ‘It is my job to count up and collect. Now, then… Let us reckon this up… That will be… hmmm… Two down, carry the one… Now, then… one thousand five hundred and fifty-three crowns and twenty pennies.

A hushed wheeze escaped Dainty Biberveldt’s lips. The masons muttered in astonishment. The innkeeper dropped a bowl. Dandelion gasped.

‘Very well. Goodbye, lads,’ the halfling said bitterly. ‘If anybody asks; I’m in the dungeon.’