The Sword of Destiny (18 page)

"On the latter point I don't care in the least," said the halfling, "because in that case maybe I can recover some part of my money. I don't dare touch that thing. Get my purse back from him, Dandelion, and see what it contains. There should be a lot of money if the horse thief sold my animals."

"How many horses did you have, Dainty?"

"Twelve."

"Based on the current price on the world market," the musician continued, inspecting the contents of the purse, "and on the influence that you really hold, then I see enough for perhaps one horse here, and that, old and strung out. In Novigrad, this would be enough to acquire two goats, possibly three."

The merchant was silent. He looked as though he would burst into tears. Tellico Lunngrevink Letorte flattened his nose as low as possible and his lips lower still, making a feeble gurgle.

"In other words," the halfling sighed at last, "it's a creature whose existence I had dismissed as a fairy-tale that has robbed and ruined me. That's what I call bad luck."

"I won't argue with that," the witcher remarked, casting a glance at the doppler that was curling in on itself more and more. "I was also convinced that mimics belonged to a bygone era. Apparently there were once many of them in the forests and on the surrounding plateaus. But their ability to take other forms alarmed the first settlers, who began to hunt them efficiently. Almost all of them were exterminated."

"And it's a good thing," the innkeeper interrupted, spitting: "I swear on the Eternal Fire that I'd prefer dragons or devils, because a dragon is a dragon and a devil a devil. You know what you're dealing with. Werewolves, their metamorphoses and their variations, are

all simply horrifying. It is a demonic process, a fraud, the act of a traitor. Humans have everything to lose from such trickery! I tell you: alert the guard and put the monster to the flame!"

"Geralt," Dandelion said, intrigued by the subject, "I'd be happy to hear the voice of a specialist. These mimics really are menacing and aggressive?"

"They generally use their ability to copy," the witcher replied, "for defense rather than attack. I have never heard of..."

"By the plague," Dainty interrupted, bringing his fist down on the table. "If knocking someone out and robbing them isn't aggressive, then I don't know what is. The matter is simple: I was attacked and robbed of not only the fruits of honest labor, but also of my own self. I demand compensation! I will not accept..."

"We must alert the guard," repeated the innkeeper. "And also the priests! And burn the monster, the non-human!"

"Stop, innkeeper!" the halfling cut in, looking up. "You begin to annoy us with your guards. I note that this non-human has only caused harm to myself. Not to you, until shown otherwise. And, incidentally, you will notice that I am also a non-human."

"Come now, master Biberveldt..." the innkeeper replied, with an embarrassed smile. "What a difference there is between him and you! Your kind are like humans, of course, while this one is nothing but a monster. I'm surprised, by the way, master witcher, that you stay seated like this without reacting. What is your purpose, one might ask? Isn't it true that you kill monsters?"

"Monsters, indeed," Geralt responded coldly, "but not members of intelligent races."

"Here, master," said the innkeeper "you exaggerate somewhat."

"That's right, Geralt," Dandelion interrupted, "you're pushing it, calling this an 'intelligent race.' Just look at it."

Tellico Lunngrevink Letort indeed did not give the impression of belonging to a sentient race. Fixing the witcher with his troubled yellow eyes, he more closely resembled a puppet made of mud and flour. The sniffles produced by his nose, lying flat on the table, did not make a convincing case for such membership.

"Enough of this meaningless blather!" Dainty Biberveldt cried suddenly. "There is nothing to discuss! All that matters are my horses and my losses! You heard me, you blasted yellow fungus! To whom did you sell my horses? What have you done with the money? Speak now, because I'll kick you and hit you and tear you apart!"

Opening the door, Obstruante stuck her head into the alcove.

"Some guests just arrived at the inn, father," she murmured. "Apprentice builders and some others. I'm serving them, but stop shouting like this, because they're starting to ask what's going on in here."

"By the Eternal Fire!" the innkeeper swore, looking at the collapsed doppler. "If someone comes in and sees it... we're finished. If we don't alert the guard, well... Master witcher! If this is really a shifter, tell this thing to take a more respectable and discreet form. For the moment, at least."

"Well said," Dainty agreed. "Turn him into something else, Geralt."

"Into whom?" the doppler asked then, gurgling. "I can only take the form of someone I can see. Which one of you wants to lend me his appearance?"

"Not me," the innkeeper said quickly.

"Nor me," Dandelion said indignantly. "It wouldn't be good camouflage. The whole world knows me: the sight of two Dandelions seated at the same table would cause a greater sensation than the sight of this naked monster."

"With me, it would be the same," Geralt added, smiling. "That leaves you, Dainty. You're in luck. No offense: you know that humans have difficulty differentiating between

halflings."

The merchant didn't hesitate for long.

"Fine," he said. "So be it. Remove the chain, witcher. Come on, turn yourself into me, 'intelligent race.'"

Freed from the chain, the doppler stretched his pasty limbs, stroked his nose and then studied the halfling. The stretched skin of his face became firmer and took on color. The nose diminished, producing a muffled gurgle. On his bald scalp, curly hair appeared. Dainty widened his eyes. The innkeeper, awed, mutely opened his mouth. Dandelion gasped without interrupting his incessant moan.

The final touch was the change to the color of his eyes.

Dainty Biberveldt the Second gave a rumbling gurgle. He seized the mug belonging to Dainty Biberveldt the First from across the table and brought it greedily to his lips.

"It's impossible, it's impossible," Dandelion repeated in a low voice. "See here: the copy is perfect, it's impossible to differentiate. Everything is there! This time, even the mosquito bites and the stains on the trousers... Truly, the trousers! Geralt, even the sorcerers don't succeed at that! Feel it, that's real wool, not an illusion! Incredible! How does he do it?"

"Nobody knows," the witcher rumbled. "He himself doesn't know. I said that he possesses an ability to completely transform his own matter, but this ability is organic and instinctive..."

"But the trousers... What are the trousers made of? And the vest?"

"It's just his own transformed skin. I don't think that he'd readily agree to take them off. Besides, the skin would immediately lose its woolen properties..."

"Pity," Dainty said, his eyes glinting. "I was just wondering if it was possible for it to transform the matter of that bucket into gold."

Obviously very happy to be the center of attention, the doppler who had become a faithful copy of the halfling took his ease with a broad smile. He adopted a seated position identical to that of Dainty, his hairy feet kicking in the same way.

"You know the subject of dopplers well, Geralt," he said before tipping back his mug, smacking his tongue and burping. "Very well, even."

"By the gods, that's exactly the voice and the mannerisms of Biberveldt," said Dandelion. "Does anyone have a red taffeta ribbon? We must mark it, damn it, because it could all go wrong."

"How is that, Dandelion?" demanded Dainty Biberveldt the First. "There is no way you can confuse me with him! From the first..."

"... glance, there are differences," continued Dainty Biberveldt the Second, stifling a burp. "To confuse us, you would really have to be a horse's ass."

"What did I just say?" Dandelion murmured with admiration. "He thinks and talks like Biberveldt. It is impossible to differentiate..."

"That's a stretch!" The halfling made a face. "A big stretch."

"No," Geralt objected, "it's no stretch. Whether you believe it or not, Dainty, that creature is indeed yourself at the moment. Through means unknown, the doppler also precisely copies the psyche of its victims."

"The psy... what?"

"The characteristics of the mind: character, feeling, thoughts. The soul. This contradicts the claims of the majority of sorcerers and all priests: the soul is also the body."

"You blaspheme..." the innkeeper broke in, breathing unevenly.

"What rubbish," Dainty Biberveldt added forcefully. "Don't joke around, witcher. The properties of the mind, well then: copying someone's nose or trousers is one thing, but the intelligence, that's bullshit. I'll prove it right here. If your flea-bitten doppler copied my business acumen, he would not have sold my horses in Novigrad where the market is weak,

but would have gone to Devil's Crossing, to the horse market, where the prices are decided at auction. There, you do not lose..."

"Of course you lose!" The doppler aped the halfling's pique, imitating his characteristic grumble. "First, the auction prices at Devil's Crossing have been falling, because the merchants decide amongst themselves how much to bid. And a commission must be paid to the organizers."

"You will not teach me commerce, imbecile," Biberveldt raged. "At Devil's Crossing, I would have gotten 90 or even 100 apiece. And you, how much did you get from the rogues in Novigrad?"

"130," replied the doppler.

"You lie, damned porridge-brain!"

"I'm not lying. I took the horses directly to the port, master Dainty, where I found a fur trader from overseas. Furriers don't use oxen to draw their caravans, because the animals are too slow. The furs are light, but valuable. They must therefore travel faster. In Novigrad, there is no market for horses: thus there are no horses either. I was the only one to make an offer. I could therefore name my own price. It's as simple..."

"Don't lecture me, I told you!" Dainty shouted, growing crimson. "Well then, you made some money. But where has it gone now?"

"I invested it," Tellico replied proudly, smoothing a stubborn lock of hair just as Dainty often did. "Money, master Dainty, must always circulate for business to carry on."

"Watch yourself or I'll break your face! What did you use the money from the horses for? Speak!"

"I said: I bought merchandise."

"What merchandise, you damned lunatic?"

"I bought co... cochineal pigment," the doppler stammered, then recited rapidly: "five hundred bushels of cochineal pigment, sixty-two fifths of mimosa bark, fifty-five barrels of rose essence, twenty-three barrels of fish oil, six hundred earthenware bowls and eight hundred pounds of beeswax. Note that the fish oil was a very good price because it was slightly rancid. Ah! I almost forgot: and one hundred cubits of cotton cord."

A very long silence fell.

"Rancid fish oil," Dainty said at last, articulating very slowly and placing emphasis on each word. "Cotton cord, rose essence. I must be dreaming. It's a nightmare. Anything can be bought in Novigrad: the most precious and the most useful items... and this cretin spends my money to acquire this shit. With my appearance! My standing and my reputation as a merchant are ruined. No, it's all too much for me. I can't take it. Give me your sword, Geralt, so I can finally be rid of him."

The door to the alcove opened with a creak.

"Merchant Biberveldt!" called the individual who had just entered. He was so thin that the purple toga he wore seemed to be draped on a coat-hanger; on his head sat a velvet hat shaped something like an overturned chamberpot. "Is the merchant Biberveldt here?"

"Yes," the two halflings replied in unison.

In the instant that followed, one of the two Dainty Biberveldts threw the contents of his mug into the witcher's face, deftly kicked the stool out from under Dandelion and crawled swiftly under the table in the direction of the door, knocking over the individual in the funny hat in the process.

"Fire! Help!" he yelled, falling backward into the common room. "Murder! Call the fire brigade!"

Having wiped the foam from his face, Geralt set off in pursuit of the fugitive, but the other Dainty Biberveldt, who had also rushed to the door, got tangled in his legs after slipping on the sawdust. They fell together in the doorway. Dandelion swore horribly, trying to

extricate himself from under the table.

"Stop, thief!" howled the lanky individual, still on the ground and entangled in the folds of his toga. "Thief! Bandits!"

Geralt trampled the halfling. Finally in the inn's common room, he saw the doppler barrel into the customers and run into the street. The witcher tried to use his momentum to cross this elastic barrier but was halted by the customers who blocked the way. He managed to knock down one of them, black with mud and stinking of beer, but the others, locking their strong shoulders, did not budge an inch. Geralt thrashed, enraged. He heard the sharp crack of thread and leather giving way. Under his arm, he could feel a sudden lack of resistance. The witcher stopped struggling and swore.

"We caught him!" shouted the workers. "We caught the thief! What do we do, chief?"

"Into the quicklime!" the foreman bellowed, lifting his head from the table and trying to orient himself with bleary eyes.

"Guards!" bawled the one dressed in purple, extricating himself from the alcove. "Contempt of court! Guards! You'll end up on the gallows, thief!"

"We have him!" cried the workers. "We have him, sir."

"It's not him," the man in the toga howled in response. "Catch the scoundrel! Chase him!"

"Who?"

"Biberveldt, the hobbit! Catch him, catch him! Lock him up in a dungeon!"

"Just a minute..." Dainty interrupted, stepping out of the alcove. "What are you doing, master Schwann? Don't wipe your mouth with my name. Call off the alarm. It's not necessary."

Schwann grew quiet, watching the halfling warily. Dandelion appeared in the doorway of the alcove, wearing his hat askew and checking the state of his lute. The workers released Geralt at last after having exchanged some words in low voices. Despite his anger, the witcher constrained himself to spitting profusely on the floor.