Eternal Flame 2

II

‘By tomorrow at noon,’ Dainty groaned. ‘And that whoreson, that Schwann, damn him, the repulsive creep, could have extended it. Over fifteen hundred crowns. How am I to come by that kind of coin by tomorrow? I’m finished, ruined, I’ll rot in the dungeons! Don’t let’s sit here, dammit, let’s catch that bastard doppler, I tell you! We have to catch it!’ The three of them were sitting on the marble sill of a disused fountain, occupying the centre of a small square among sumptuous, but extremely tasteless, merchants’ townhouses. The water in the fountain was green and dreadfully dirty, and the golden ides swimming among the refuse worked their gills hard and gulped in air from the surface through open mouths. Dandelion and the halfling were chewing some fritters which the troubadour had swiped from a stall they had just passed.

‘In your shoes,’ the bard said, ‘I’d forget about catching it and start looking around for somebody to borrow the money off. What will you get from catching the doppler? Perhaps you think Schwann will accept it as an equivalent?’ ‘You’re a fool, Dandelion. When I catch the doppler, I’ll get my money back.’

‘What money? Everything he had in that purse went on covering the damage and a bribe for Schwann. It didn’t have any more.’ ‘Dandelion,’ the halfling grimaced. ‘You may know something about poetry, but in business matters, forgive me, you’re a total blockhead. Did you hear how much tax Schwann is charging me? And what do you pay tax on? Hey? On what?’ ‘On everything,’ the poet stated. ‘I even pay tax on singing. And they don’t give a monkey’s about my explanations that I was only singing from an inner need.’ ‘You’re a fool, I said. In business you pay taxes on profits. On profits. Dandelion! Do you comprehend? That rascal of a doppler impersonated me and made some business transactions–fraudulent ones, no doubt. And made money on them! It made a profit! And I’ll have to pay tax, and probably cover the debts of that scoundrel, if it has run up any debts! And if I don’t pay it off, I’m going to the dungeons, they’ll brand me with a red-hot iron in public and send me to the mines! A pox on it!’ ‘Ha,’ Dandelion said cheerfully. ‘So you don’t have a choice, Dainty. You’ll have to flee the city in secret. Know what? I have an idea. We’ll wrap you up in a sheepskin. You can pass through the gate calling: “I’m a little baa-lamb, baa, baa”. No one will recognise you.’ ‘Dandelion,’ the halfling said glumly. ‘Shut up or I’ll kick you. Geralt?’

‘What, Dainty?’

‘Will you help me catch the doppler?’

‘Listen,’ the Witcher said, still trying in vain to sew up his torn jacket sleeve, ‘this is Novigrad. A population of thirty thousand: humans, dwarves, half-elves, halflings and gnomes, and probably as many out-of-towners again. How do you mean to find someone in this rabbit warren?’ Dainty swallowed a fritter and licked his fingers.

‘And magic, Geralt? Those witcher spells of yours, about which so many tales circulate?’ ‘A doppler is only magically detectable in its own form, and it doesn’t walk down the street in it. And even if it did, magic would be no use, because there are plenty of weak sorcerers’ signals all around. Every second house has a magical lock on the door and three quarters of the people wear amulets, of all kinds: against thieves, fleas and food poisoning. Too many to count.’ Dandelion ran his fingers over the lute’s fingerboard and strummed the strings.

‘Spring will return, with warm rain perfumed!’ he sang. ‘No, that’s no good. Spring will return, the sun—No, dammit. It’s just not coming. Not at all…’ ‘Stop squawking,’ the halfling snapped. ‘You’re getting on my nerves.’

Dandelion threw the ides the rest of his fritter and spat into the fountain.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘Golden fish. It’s said that they grant wishes.’

‘Those ones are red,’ Dainty observed.

‘Never mind, it’s a trifle. Dammit, there are three of us, and they grant three wishes. That works out at one each. What, Dainty? Wouldn’t you wish for the fish to pay the tax for you?’ ‘Of course. And apart from that for something to fall from the sky and whack the doppler on the noggin. And also—’ ‘Stop, stop. We also have our wishes. I’d like the fish to supply me with an ending for my ballad. And you, Geralt?’ ‘Get off my back, Dandelion.’

‘Don’t spoil the game, Witcher. Tell us what you’d wish for.’

The Witcher got up.

‘I would wish,’ he murmured, ‘that the fact we’re being surrounded would turn out to be a misunderstanding.’ From an alleyway opposite the fountain emerged four individuals dressed in black, wearing round, leather caps, heading slowly towards them. Dainty swore softly and looked around.

Another four men came out of a street behind their backs. They did not come any closer and, having positioned themselves, stood blocking the street. They were holding strange looking discs resembling coiled ropes. The Witcher looked around and moved his shoulders, adjusting the sword slung across his back. Dandelion groaned.

From behind the backs of the individuals in black emerged a small man in a white kaftan and a short, grey cape. The gold chain on his neck sparkled to the rhythm of his steps, flashing yellow.

‘Chappelle…’ Dandelion groaned. ‘It’s Chappelle…’

The individuals in black behind them moved slowly towards the fountain. The Witcher reached for his sword.

‘No, Geralt,’ Dandelion whispered, moving closer to him. ‘For the Gods’ sake, don’t draw your weapon. It’s the temple guard. If we resist we won’t leave Novigrad alive. Don’t touch your sword.’ The man in the white kaftan walked swiftly towards them. The individuals in black followed him, surrounding the fountain at a march, and occupied strategic, carefully chosen positions. Geralt observed them vigilantly, crouching slightly. The strange discs they were holding were not–as he had first thought–ordinary whips. They were lamias.

The man in the white kaftan approached them.

‘Geralt,’ the bard whispered. ‘By all the Gods, keep calm—’

‘I won’t let them touch me,’ the Witcher muttered. ‘I won’t let them touch me, whoever they are. Be careful, Dandelion… When it starts, you two flee, as fast as you can. I’ll keep them busy… for some time…’ Dandelion did not answer. Slinging the lute over one shoulder, he bowed low before the man in the white kaftan, which was ornately embroidered with gold and silver threads in an intricate, mosaic pattern.

‘Venerable Chappelle…’

The man addressed as Chappelle stopped and swept them with his gaze. His eyes, Geralt noticed, were frost-cold and the colour of steel. His forehead was pale, beaded unhealthily with sweat and his cheeks were flushed with irregular, red blotches.

‘Mr Dainty Biberveldt, merchant,’ he said. ‘The talented Dandelion. And Geralt of Rivia, a representative of the oh-so rare witcher’s profession. A reunion of old friends? Here, in Novigrad?’ None of them answered.

‘I consider it highly regrettable,’ Chappelle continued, ‘that a report has been submitted about you.’ Dandelion blanched slightly and the halfling’s teeth chattered. The Witcher was not looking at Chappelle. He did not take his eyes off the weapons of the men in leather caps surrounding the fountain. In most of the countries known to Geralt the production and possession of spiked lamias, also called Mayhenian scourges, were strictly prohibited. Novigrad was no exception. Geralt had seen people struck in the face by a lamia. He would never forget those faces.

‘The keeper of the Spear Blade inn,’ Chappelle continued, ‘had the audacity to accuse you gentlemen of collusion with a demon, a monster, known as a changeling or a vexling.’ None of them answered. Chappelle folded his arms on his chest and looked at them coldly.

‘I felt obliged to forewarn you of that report. I shall also inform you that the above-mentioned innkeeper has been imprisoned in the dungeons. There is a suspicion that he was raving under the influence of beer or vodka. Astonishing what people will concoct. Firstly, there are no such things as vexlings. It is a fabrication of superstitious peasants.’ No one commented on this.

‘Secondly, what vexling would dare to approach a witcher,’ Chappelle smiled, ‘and not be killed at once? Am I right? The innkeeper’s accusation would thus be ludicrous, were it not for one vital detail.’ Chappelle nodded, pausing dramatically. The Witcher heard Dainty slowly exhaling a large lungful of air.

‘Yes, a certain, vital detail,’ Chappelle repeated. ‘Namely, we are facing heresy and sacrilegious blasphemy here. For it is a well-known fact that no vexling, absolutely no vexling, nor any other monster, could even approach the walls of Novigrad, because here, in nineteen temples, burns the Eternal Fire, whose sacred power protects the city. Whoever says that he saw a vexling at the Spear Blade, a stone’s throw from the chief altar of the Eternal Fire, is a blasphemous heretic and will have to retract his claim. Should he not want to, he shall be assisted by the power and means, which, trust me, I keep close at hand in the dungeons. Thus, as you can see, there is nothing to be concerned about.’ The expressions on the faces of Dandelion and the halfling showed emphatically that they both thought differently.

‘There is absolutely nothing to be concerned about,’ Chappelle repeated. ‘You may leave Novigrad without let or hindrance. I will not detain you. I do have to insist, gentlemen, however, that you do not broadcast the lamentable fabrications of the innkeeper, that you do not discuss this incident openly. Statements calling into question the divine power of the Eternal Fire, irrespective of the intention, we, the humble servants of the temple, would have to treat as heresy, with all due consequences. Your personal religious convictions, whatever they might be, and however I respect them, are of no significance. Believe in what you will. I am tolerant while somebody venerates the Eternal Fire and does not blaspheme against it. But should they blaspheme, I shall order them burnt at the stake, and that is that. Everybody in Novigrad is equal before the law. And the law applies equally to everybody; anyone who blasphemes against the Eternal Fire perishes at the stake, and their property is confiscate. But enough of that. I repeat; you may pass through the gates of Novigrad without hindrance. Ideally…’ Chappelle smiled slightly, sucked in his cheeks in a cunning grimace, and his eyes swept the square. The few passers-by observing the incident quickened their step and rapidly turned their heads away.

‘… ideally,’ Chappelle finished, ‘ideally with immediate effect. Forthwith. Obviously, with regard to the honourable merchant Biberveldt, that “forthwith” means “forthwith, having settled all fiscal affairs”. Thank you for the time you have given me.’ Dainty turned away, mouth moving noiselessly. The Witcher had no doubt that the noiseless word had been ‘whoreson’. Dandelion lowered his head, smiling foolishly.

‘My dear Witcher,’ Chappelle suddenly said, ‘a word in private, if you would.’

Geralt approached and Chappelle gently extended an arm. If he touches my elbow, I’ll strike him, the Witcher thought. I’ll strike him, whatever happens.

Chappelle did not touch Geralt’s elbow.

‘My dear Witcher,’ he said quietly, turning his back on the others, ‘I am aware that some cities, unlike Novigrad, are deprived of the divine protection of the Eternal Fire. Let us then suppose that a creature similar to a vexling was prowling in one of those cities. I wonder how much you would charge in that case for undertaking to catch a vexling alive?’ ‘I don’t hire myself out to hunt monsters in crowded cities,’ the Witcher shrugged. ‘An innocent bystander might suffer harm.’ ‘Are you so concerned about the fate of innocent bystanders?’

‘Yes, I am. Because I am usually held responsible for their fate. And have to cope with the consequences.’ ‘I understand. And would not your concern for the fate of innocent bystanders be in inverse proportion to the fee?’ ‘It would not.’

‘I do not greatly like your tone, Witcher. But no matter, I understand what you hint at by it. You are hinting that you do not want to do… what I would ask you to do, making the size of the fee meaningless. And the form of the fee?’ ‘I do not understand.’

‘Come, come.’

‘I mean it.’

‘Purely theoretically,’ Chappelle said, quietly, calmly, without any anger or menace in his voice, ‘it might be possible that the fee for your services would be a guarantee that you and your friends would leave this—leave the theoretical city alive. What then?’ ‘It is impossible,’ the Witcher said, smiling hideously, ‘to answer that question theoretically. The situation you are discussing, Reverend Chappelle, would have to be dealt with in practice. I am in no hurry to do so, but if the necessity arises… If there proves to be no other choice… I am prepared to go through with it.’ ‘Ha, perhaps you are right,’ Chappelle answered dispassionately. ‘Too much theory. As concerns practice, I see that there will be no collaboration. A good thing, perhaps? In any case, I cherish the hope that it will not be a cause for conflict between us.’ ‘I also cherish that hope.’

‘Then may that hope burn in us, Geralt of Rivia. Do you know what the Eternal Fire is? A flame that never goes out, a symbol of permanence, a way leading through the gloom, a harbinger of progress, of a better tomorrow. The Eternal Fire, Geralt, is hope. For everybody, everybody without exception. For if something exists that embraces us all… you, me… others… then that something is precisely hope. Remember that. It was a pleasure to meet you, Witcher.’ Geralt bowed stiffly, saying nothing. Chappelle looked at him for a moment, then turned about energetically and marched through the small square, without looking around at his escort. The men armed with the lamias fell in behind him, forming up into a well-ordered column.

‘Oh, mother of mine,’ Dandelion whimpered, timidly watching the departing men, ‘but we were lucky. If that is the end of it. If they don’t collar us right away—’ ‘Calm down,’ the Witcher said, ‘and stop whining. Nothing happened, after all.’

‘Do you know who that was, Geralt?’

‘No.’

‘That was Chappelle, minister for security affairs. The Novigrad secret service is subordinate to the temple. Chappelle is not a priest but the eminence grise to the hierarch, the most powerful and most dangerous man in the city. Everybody, even the Council and the guilds, shake in their shoes before him, because he’s a first-rate bastard, Geralt, drunk on power, like a spider drunk on fly’s blood. It’s common knowledge–though not discussed openly in the city–what he’s capable of. People vanishing without trace. Falsified accusations, torture, assassinations, terror, blackmail and plain plunder. Extortion, swindles and fraud. By the Gods, you’ve landed us in a pretty mess, Biberveldt.’ ‘Give it a rest, Dandelion,’ Dainty snapped. ‘It’s not that you have to be afraid of anything. No one ever touches a troubadour. For unfathomable reasons you are inviolable.’ ‘In Novigrad,’ Dandelion whined, still pale, ‘an inviolable poet may still fall beneath a speeding wagon, be fatally poisoned by a fish, or accidentally drown in a moat. Chappelle specialises in mishaps of that nature. I consider the fact that he talked to us at all something exceptional. One thing is certain, he didn’t do it without a reason. He’s up to something. You’ll see, they’ll soon embroil us in something, clap us in irons and drag us off to be tortured with the sanction of the law. That’s how things are done here!’ ‘There is quite some truth,’ the halfling said to Geralt, ‘in what he says. We must watch out. It’s astonishing that that scoundrel Chappelle hasn’t keeled over yet. For years they’ve been saying he’s sick, that his heart will give out, and everybody’s waiting for him to croak…’ ‘Be quiet, Biberveldt,’ the troubadour hissed apprehensively, looking around, ‘because somebody’s bound to be listening. Look how everybody’s staring at us. Let’s get out of here, I’m telling you. And I suggest we treat seriously what Chappelle told us about the doppler. I, for example, have never seen a doppler in my life, and if it comes to it I’ll swear as much before the Eternal Fire.’ ‘Look,’ the halfling suddenly said. ‘Somebody is running towards us.’

‘Let’s flee!’ Dandelion howled.

‘Calm yourself, calm yourself,’ Dainty grinned and combed his mop of hair with his fingers. ‘I know him. It’s Muskrat, a local merchant, the Guild’s treasurer. We’ve done business together. Hey, look at the expression on his face! As though he’s shat his britches. Hey, Muskrat, are you looking for me?’ ‘I swear by the Eternal Fire,’ Muskrat panted, pushing back a fox fur cap and wiping his forehead with his sleeve, ‘I was certain they’d drag you off to the barbican. It’s truly a miracle. I’m astonished—’ ‘It’s nice of you,’ the halfling sneeringly interrupted, ‘to be astonished. You’ll delight us even more if you tell us why.’ ‘Don’t play dumb, Biberveldt,’ Muskrat frowned. ‘The whole city already knows the profit you made on the cochineal. Everybody’s talking about it already and it has clearly reached the hierarch and Chappelle. How cunning you are, how craftily you benefited from what happened in Poviss.’ ‘What are you blathering about, Muskrat?’

‘Ye Gods, would you stop trying to play the innocent, Dainty? Did you buy that cochineal? For a song, at ten-forty a bushel? Yes, you did. Taking advantage of the meagre demand you paid with a backed bill, without paying out a penny of cash. And what happened? In the course of a day you palmed off the entire cargo at four times the price, for cash on the table. Perhaps you’ll have the cheek to say it was an accident, a stroke of luck? That when buying the cochineal you knew nothing about the coup in Poviss?’ ‘The what? What are you talking about?’

‘There was a coup in Poviss!’ Muskrat yelled. ‘And one of those, you know… levorutions! King Rhyd was overthrown and now the Thyssenid clan is in power! Rhyd’s court, the nobility and the army wore blue, and the weaving mills there only bought indigo. But the colour of the Thyssenids is scarlet, so the price of indigo went down, and cochineal’s gone up, and then it came out that you, Biberveldt, had the only available cargo in your grasp! Ha!’ Dainty fell silent and looked distressed.

‘Crafty, Biberveldt, must be said,’ Muskrat continued. ‘And you didn’t tell anybody anything, not even your friends. If you’d let on, we might both have made a profit, might even have set up a joint factory. But you preferred to act alone, softly-softly. Your choice; but don’t count on me any longer either. On the Eternal Fire, it’s true that every halfling is a selfish bastard and a whoreson. Vimme Vivaldi never gives me a backed bill; and you? On the spot. Because you’re one tribe, you damned inhumans, you poxy halflings and dwarves. Damn the lot of you!’ Muskrat spat, turned on his heel and walked off. Dainty, lost in thought, scratched his head until his mop of hair crunched.

‘Something’s dawning on me, boys,’ he said at last. ‘Now I know what needs to be done. Let’s go to the bank. If anyone can make head or tail of all this, that someone is the banker friend of mine, Vimme Vivaldi.’