Eternal Flame 3

III

‘I imagined the bank differently,’ Dandelion whispered, looking around the room. ‘Where do they keep the money, Geralt?’ ‘The Devil only knows,’ the Witcher answered quietly, hiding his torn jacket sleeve. ‘In the cellars, perhaps?’ ‘Not a chance. I’ve had a look around. There aren’t any cellars here.’

‘They must keep it in the loft then.’

‘Would you come to my office, gentlemen?’ Vimme Vivaldi asked.

Young men and dwarves of indiscernible age sitting at long tables were busy covering sheets of parchment with columns of figures and letters. All of them–without exception–were hunched over, with the tips of their tongues sticking out. The work, the Witcher judged, was fiendishly monotonous, but seemed to preoccupy the staff utterly. In the corner, on a low stool, sat an elderly, beggarly-looking man busy sharpening quills. He was making hard work of it.

The banker carefully closed the door to the office, stroked his long, white, well-groomed beard, spotted here and there with ink, and straightened a claret-coloured velvet jerkin stretched over a prominent belly.

‘You know, Dandelion, sir,’ he said, sitting down at an enormous, mahogany table, piled with parchments, ‘I imagined you quite differently. And I know your songs, I know them, I’ve heard them. About Princess Vanda, who drowned in the River Duppie, because no one wanted her. And about the kingfisher that fell into a privy—’ ‘They aren’t mine,’ Dandelion flushed in fury. ‘I’ve never written anything like that!’ ‘Ah. I’m sorry then.’

‘Perhaps we could get to the point?’ Dainty cut in. ‘Time is short, and you’re talking nonsense. I’m in grave difficulties, Vimme.’ ‘I was afraid of that,’ the dwarf nodded. ‘As you recall, I warned you, Biberveldt. I told you three days ago not to sink any resources into that rancid cod liver oil. What if it was cheap? It is not the nominal price that is important, but the size of the profit on resale. The same applies to the rose oil and the wax, and those earthenware bowls. What possessed you, Dainty, to buy that shit, and in hard cash to boot, rather than judiciously pay with a letter of credit or by draft? I told you that storage costs in Novigrad are devilishly high; in the course of two weeks they will surpass the value of those goods threefold. But you—’ ‘Yes,’ the halfling quietly groaned. ‘Tell me, Vivaldi. What did I do?’

‘But you told me not to worry, that you would sell everything in the course of twenty-four hours. And now you come and declare that you are in trouble, smiling foolishly and disarmingly all the while. But it’s not selling, is it? And costs are rising, what? Ha, that’s not good, not good. How am I to get you out of it, Dainty? Had you at least insured that junk, I would have sent one of the clerks at once to quietly torch the store. No, my dear, the only thing to be done is to approach the matter philosophically, and say to oneself: “Fuck this for a game of soldiers”. This is business; you win some, you lose some. What kind of profit was it anyway, that cod liver oil, wax and rose oil? Risible. Let us talk about serious business. Tell me if I should sell the mimosa bark yet, because the offers have begun to stabilise at five and five-sixths.’ ‘Hey?’

‘Are you deaf?’ the banker frowned. ‘The last offer was exactly five and five-sixths. You came back, I hope, to close the deal? You won’t get seven, anyhow, Dainty.’ ‘I came back?’

Vivaldi stroked his beard and picked some crumbs of fruit cake from it.

‘You were here an hour since,’ he said calmly, ‘with instructions to hold out for seven. A sevenfold increase on the price you paid is two crowns five-and-forty pennies a pound. That is too high, Dainty, even for such a perfectly timed market. The tanneries will already have reached agreement and they will solidly stick to the price. I’m absolutely certain—’ The door to the office opened and something in a green felt cap and a coat of dappled coney fur girded with hempen twine rushed in.

‘Merchant Sulimir is offering two crowns fifteen!’ it squealed.

‘Six and one-sixth,’ Vivaldi swiftly calculated. ‘What do we do, Dainty?’ ‘Sell!’ the halfling yelled. ‘A six-fold profit, and you’re still bloody wondering?’ Another something in a yellow cap and a mantle resembling an old sack dashed into the office. Like the first something, it was about two cubits tall.

‘Merchant Biberveldt instructs not to sell for below seven!’ it shouted, wiped its nose on its sleeve and ran out.

‘Aha,’ the dwarf said after a long silence. ‘One Biberveldt orders us to sell, and another Biberveldt orders us to wait. An interesting situation. What do we do, Dainty? Do you set about explaining at once, or do we wait until a third Biberveldt orders us to load the bark onto galleys and ship it to the Land of the Cynocephali? Hey?’ ‘What is that?’ Dandelion stammered, pointing at the something in a green cap still standing in the doorway. ‘What the bloody hell is it?’ ‘A young gnome,’ Geralt said.

‘Undoubtedly,’ Vivaldi confirmed coldly. ‘It is not an old troll. Anyway, it’s not important what it is. Very well, Dainty, if you please.’ ‘Vimme,’ the halfling said. ‘If you don’t mind. Don’t ask questions. Something awful has happened. Just accept that I, Dainty Biberveldt of Knotgrass Meadow, an honest merchant, do not have a clue what’s happening. Tell me everything, in detail. The events of the last three days. Please, Vimme.’ ‘Curious,’ the dwarf said. ‘Well, for the commission I take I have to grant the wishes of the client, whatever they might be. So listen. You came rushing in here three days ago, out of breath, gave me a deposit of a thousand crowns and demanded an endorsement on a bill amounting to two thousand five hundred and twenty, to the bearer. I gave you that endorsement.’ ‘Without a guaranty?’

‘Correct. I like you, Dainty.’

‘Go on, Vimme.’

‘The next day you rushed in with a bang and a clatter, demanding that I issue a letter of credit on a bank in Vizima. For the considerable sum of three thousand five hundred crowns. The beneficiary was to be, if I remember rightly, a certain Ther Lukokian, alias Truffle. Well, I issued that letter of credit.’ ‘Without a guaranty,’ the halfling said hopefully.

‘My affection for you, Biberveldt,’ the banker said, ‘ceases at around three thousand crowns. This time I took from you a written obligation that in the event of insolvency the mill would be mine.’ ‘What mill?’

‘That of your father-in-law, Arno Hardbottom, in Knotgrass Meadow.’

‘I’m not going home,’ Dainty declared glumly, but determinedly. ‘I’ll sign on to a ship and become a pirate.’ Vimme Vivaldi scratched an ear and looked at him suspiciously.

‘Oh, come on,’ he said, ‘you took that obligation and tore it up almost right away. You are solvent. No small wonder, with profits like that—’ ‘Profits?’

‘That’s right, I forgot,’ muttered the dwarf. ‘I was meant not to be surprised by anything. You made a good profit on the cochineal, Biberveldt. Because, you see, there was a coup in Poviss—’ ‘I already know,’ the dwarf interrupted. ‘Indigo’s gone down and cochineal’s gone up. And I made a profit. Is that true, Vimme?’ ‘Yes, it is. You have in my safe keeping six thousand three hundred and forty-six crowns and eighty pennies. Net, after deducting my commission and tax.’ ‘You paid the tax for me?’

‘What else would I do?’ Vivaldi said in astonishment. ‘After all, you were here an hour ago and told me to pay it. The clerk has already delivered the entire sum to city hall. Something around fifteen hundred, because the sale of the horses was, of course, included in it.’ The door opened with a bang and something in a very dirty cap came running in.

‘Two crowns thirty!’ it shouted. ‘Merchant Hazelquist!’

‘Don’t sell!’ Dainty called. ‘We’ll wait for a better price! Be gone, back to the market with the both of you!’ The two gnomes caught some coppers thrown to them by the dwarf, and disappeared.

‘Right… Where was I?’ Vivaldi wondered, playing with a huge, strangely-formed amethyst crystal serving as a paperweight. ‘Aha, with the cochineal bought with a bill of exchange. And you needed the letter of credit I mentioned to purchase a large cargo of mimosa bark. You bought a deal of it, but quite cheaply, for thirty-five pennies a pound, from a Zangwebarian factor, that Truffle, or perhaps Morel. The galley sailed into port yesterday. And then it all began.’ ‘I can imagine,’ Dainty groaned.

‘What is mimosa bark needed for?’ Dandelion blurted out.

‘Nothing,’ the halfling muttered dismally. ‘Unfortunately.’

‘Mimosa bark, poet, sir,’ the dwarf explained, ‘is an agent used for tanning hides.’ ‘If somebody was so stupid,’ Dainty interrupted, ‘as to buy mimosa bark from beyond the seas, when oak bark can be bought in Temeria for next to nothing…’ ‘And here is the nub of the matter,’ Vivaldi said, ‘because in Temeria the druids have just announced that if the destruction of oaks is not stopped immediately they will afflict the land with a plague of hornets and rats. The druids are being supported by the dryads, and the king there is fond of dryads. In short: since yesterday there has been a total embargo on Temerian oak, for which reason mimosa is going up. Your information was accurate, Dainty.’ A stamping was heard from the chambers beyond the room, and then the something in a green cap came running into the office, out of breath.

‘The honourable merchant Sulimir…’ the gnome panted, ‘has instructed me to repeat that merchant Biberveldt, the halfling, is a reckless, bristly swine, a profiteer and charlatan, and that he, Sulimir, hopes that Biberveldt gets the mange. He’ll give two crowns forty-four and that is his last word.’ ‘Sell,’ the halfling blurted out. ‘Go on, shorty, run off and accept it. Count it up, Vimme.’ Vivaldi reached beneath some scrolls of parchment and took out a dwarven abacus, a veritable marvel. Unlike abacuses used by humans, the dwarven one was shaped like a small openwork pyramid. Vivaldi’s abacus, though, was made of gold wires, over which slid angular beads of ruby, emerald, onyx and black agate, which fitted into each other. The dwarf slid the gemstones upwards, downwards and sideways for some time, with quick, deft movements of his plump finger.

‘That will be… hmm, hmm… Minus the costs and my commission… Minus tax… Yes. Fifteen thousand six hundred and twenty-two crowns and five-and-twenty pennies. Not bad.’ ‘If I’ve reckoned correctly,’ Dainty Biberveldt said slowly, ‘all together, net, then I ought to have in my account…’ ‘Precisely twenty-one thousand nine hundred and sixty-nine crowns and five pennies. Not bad.’ ‘Not bad?’ Dandelion roared. ‘Not bad? You could buy a large village or a small castle for that! I’ve never, ever, seen that much money at one time!’ ‘I haven’t either,’ the halfling said. ‘But simmer down, Dandelion. It so happens that no one has seen that money yet, and it isn’t certain if anyone ever will.’ ‘Hey, Biberveldt,’ the dwarf snorted. ‘Why such gloomy thoughts? Sulimir will pay in cash or by a bill of exchange, and Sulimir’s bills are reliable. What then, is the matter? Are you afraid of losing on that stinking cod liver oil and wax? With profits like that you’ll cover the losses with ease…’ ‘That’s not the point.’

‘So what is the point?’

Dainty coughed, and lowered his curly mop.

‘Vimme,’ he said, eyes fixed on the floor. ‘Chappelle is snooping around me.’ The banker clicked his tongue.

‘Very bad,’ he drawled. ‘But it was to be expected. You see, Biberveldt, the information you used when carrying out the transactions does not just have commercial significance, but also political. No one knew what was happening in Poviss and Temeria–Chappelle included–and Chappelle likes to be the first to know. So now, as you can imagine, he is wracking his brains about how you knew. And I think he has guessed. Because I think I’ve also worked it out.’ ‘That’s fascinating.’

Vivaldi swept his eyes over Dandelion and Geralt, and wrinkled his snub nose.

‘Fascinating? I’ll tell you what’s fascinating; your party, Dainty,’ he said. ‘A troubadour, a witcher and a merchant. Congratulations. Master Dandelion shows up here and there, even at royal courts, and no doubt keeps his ears open. And the Witcher? A bodyguard? Someone to frighten debtors?’ ‘Hasty conclusions, Mr Vivaldi,’ Geralt said coldly. ‘We are not partners.’ ‘And I,’ Dandelion said, flushing, ‘do not eavesdrop anywhere. I’m a poet, not a spy!’ ‘People say all sorts of things,’ the dwarf grimaced. ‘All sorts of things, Master Dandelion.’ ‘Lies!’ the troubadour yelled. ‘Damned lies!’

‘Very well, I believe you, I believe you. I just don’t know if Chappelle will believe it. But who knows, perhaps it will all blow over. I tell you, Biberveldt, that Chappelle has changed a lot since his last attack of apoplexy. Perhaps the fear of death looked him in the arse and forced him to think things over? I swear, he is not the same Chappelle. He seems to have become courteous, rational, composed and… and somehow honest.’ ‘Get away,’ the halfling said. ‘Chappelle, honest? Courteous? Impossible.’ ‘I’m telling you how it is,’ Vivaldi replied. ‘And how it is, is what I’m telling you. What is more, now the temple is facing another problem: namely the Eternal Fire.’ ‘What do you mean?’

‘The Eternal Fire, as it’s known, is supposed to burn everywhere. Altars dedicated to that fire are going to be built everywhere, all over the city. A huge number of altars. Don’t ask me for details, Dainty, I am not very familiar with human superstitions. But I know that all the priests, and Chappelle also, are concerned about almost nothing else but those altars and that fire. Great preparations are being made. Taxes will be going up, that is certain.’ ‘Yes,’ Dainty said. ‘Cold comfort, but—’

The door to the office opened again and the Witcher recognised the something in a green cap and coney fur coat.

‘Merchant Biberveldt,’ it announced, ‘instructs to buy more pots, should they run out. Price no object.’ ‘Excellent,’ the halfling smiled, and his smile called to mind the twisted face of a furious wildcat. ‘We will buy huge quantities of pots; Mr Biberveldt’s wish is our command. What else shall we buy more of? Cabbage? Wood tar? Iron rakes?’ ‘Furthermore,’ the something in the fur coat croaked, ‘merchant Biberveldt requests thirty crowns in cash, because he has to pay a bribe, eat something and drink some beer, and three miscreants stole his purse in the Spear Blade.’ ‘Oh. Three miscreants,’ Dainty said in a slow, drawling voice. ‘Yes, this city seems to be full of miscreants. And where, if one may ask, is the Honourable Merchant Biberveldt at this very moment?’ ‘Where else would he be,’ the something said, sniffing, ‘than at the Western Market?’ ‘Vimme,’ Dainty said malevolently, ‘don’t ask questions, but find me a stout, robust stick from somewhere. I’m going to the Western Market, but I can’t go without a stick. There are too many miscreants and thieves there.’ ‘A stick, you say? Of course. But, Dainty, I’d like to know something, because it is preying on me. I was supposed not to ask any questions, but I shall make a guess, and you can either confirm or deny it. All right?’ ‘Guess away.’

‘That rancid cod liver oil, that oil, that wax and those bowls, that bloody twine, it was all a tactical gambit, wasn’t it? You wanted to distract the competition’s attention from the cochineal and the mimosa, didn’t you? To stir up confusion on the market? Hey, Dainty?’ The door opened suddenly and something without a cap ran in.

‘Sorrel reports that everything is ready!’ it yelled shrilly. ‘And asks if he should start pouring.’ ‘Yes, he should!’ the halfling bellowed. ‘At once!’

‘By the red beard of old Rhundurin!’ Vimme Vivaldi bellowed, as soon as the gnome had shut the door. ‘I don’t understand anything! What is happening here? Pour what? Into what?’ ‘I have no idea,’ Dainty admitted. ‘But, Vimme, the wheels of business must be oiled.’