The Sword of Destiny (20 page)

Chapelle didn't touch Geralt's elbow.

"Master witcher," he said in a low voice, turning his back to the others, "I know that certain cities, in contrast to Novigrad, are deprived of the divine protection of the Eternal Fire. Suppose then that a creature like a shifter operated in one of these cities. Tell me, out of curiosity, how much you would charge to capture such a creature alive."

"I do not offer my services in populated cities," the witcher replied, shrugging. "A third party could suffer."

"You are concerned, then, with the fortunes of others?"

"Well yes, because I am in general responsible for their fate. This cannot be without consequences."

"I understand, but should the degree of deference to third parties not be inversely proportional to the expected remuneration?"

"No, it should not."

"I don't care for your tone, witcher. But no matter, I understand what you suggest by that tone. You suggest that you do not intend to undertake the... what I could ask you to do, regardless of the amount of your payment. And what about the type of payment?"

"I don't understand."

"But yes, of course you do."

"No, truly."

"What I say is purely theoretical," Chapelle continued quietly, calmly, without anger or menace in his voice. "Would it be possible if the recompense for your service was the guarantee that your friends and yourself would leave this... theoretical city alive? What do you think?"

"This question," the witcher replied, smiling unpleasantly, "is not one that it is possible to answer theoretically. The situation you describe, venerable Chapelle, must be realized in practice. I am absolutely not in a hurry, but if need be... If there is no other way... I am ready to put that scenario to the test."

"Ah! Perhaps you're right," Chapelle responded dispassionately. "We theorize too much and I see that, in terms of practice, you do not intend to cooperate. Perhaps it is better that way. I nurture the hope, in any case, that this will not be a source of conflict between us."

"I too," Geralt said, "nurture that hope."

"That hope continues to burn within us, Geralt of Rivia. Do you know the Eternal Fire? A flame that never dies? The symbol of our fortitude? Our path through the darkness? The Eternal Fire, Geralt, is hope. For all, without exception. Because if something is given in part... to you, to me, to others... that thing is simply called hope. Remember this. It was a pleasure to meet you, witcher."

Geralt bowed stiffly and kept silent. Chapelle looked at him for a moment, then turned his back and crossed the square without a glance at his escort. The men armed with lamiae followed behind in an orderly formation.

"Oh, my mother," Dandelion whimpered timidly, watching them leave. "We were lucky. As long as it's over, as long as they're finished with us for now."

"Calm yourself," said the witcher, "and stop whining. Nothing happened, as you can see."

"Do you know who that was, Geralt?"

"No."

"That was Chapelle, the officer of security. Novigrad's secret service is dependent on the Church. Chapelle isn't a priest, but the highest official of the hierarchy, the most powerful and dangerous man in the city. Everyone, even the Council and the guilds, quake in their boots before him: he's a scoundrel of the first order, Geralt, drunk on power like a spider on blood. People whisper about his exploits: disappearances that leave no trace, false accusations, torture, masked assassins, terror, blackmail, ordinary theft, duress, scams and plots. By the gods, you have have the makings of a beautiful story, Biberveldt."

"Leave me alone, Dandelion," Dainty said. "You have nothing to fear: no-one harms a hair on the head of a troubadour. For reasons that escape me, you are still untouchable."

"An untouchable poet," Dandelion groaned, still pale, "may also fall under the wheels of a runaway cart, be poisoned by eating fish or accidentally drown in a ditch. Such scenarios are Chapelle's specialty. He agreed to talk with us, that's already an extraordinary fact. One thing is certain: he would never have done so without a good reason. He's up to something. You'll see: he'll fall upon us at the first opportunity, clap us in irons and torture us with impunity. Nothing is more normal here!"

"There is a lot of truth in what he says," the halfling said to Geralt. "We must be wary of the scoundrel who owns this land. They say he's sick, that his blood is spoiled. Everyone is waiting for him to kick the bucket."

"Shut up, Biberveldt," Dandelion hissed timidly, looking around them. "Someone could hear. See how everyone's watching. Break camp, I tell you. I advise you to reflect seriously on what Chapelle suggested regarding the doppler. I, for example, have never seen a doppler in my life. If necessary, I am prepared to swear on the Eternal Fire."

"Look!" the halfling said suddenly. "Someone's coming now!"

"Run!" Dandelion cried.

"Calm down, calm down," Dainty said, smiling broadly and smoothing his stubborn hair. "I know him. It's Muscadin, a local merchant, treasurer of the guild. We've done business together. Look at his face! As if he'd shit his pants. Hey, Muscadin, are you looking forme?"

"I swear on the Eternal Fire," Muscadin said slowly, breathless, dragging off his fox-cap and wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "I was sure they would drag you to the tower. It's a miracle. I'm amazed..."

The halfling maliciously cut Muscadin's words short: "It is kind of you to be amazed... Even kinder of you to explain why."

"Don't play the fool, Biberveldt," Muscadin responded anxiously. "Everyone is talking about it. The hierarchy has seen it. Chapelle too. The whole town knows what a deal you got on the cochineal, and with what intelligence and cunning you profited from the events in Poviss."

"What are you talking about, Muscadin?"

"By the gods, Dainty, would you stop this gloating like the bird of proverb who thinks his nest the best? Did you not buy the cochineal at half price, for 5.20 a bushel? You did. Taking advantage of low demand, you paid with a promissory note. You didn't pay a single cent in cash for the transaction. And what happened? Within the day, you turned over the merchandise for a price four times higher than what you originally paid. Will you have the gall to claim that this was nothing but coincidence or luck, and that in buying the cochineal, you knew nothing of the upheavals taking place in Poviss?"

"What? What are you saying?"

"There has been turmoil in Poviss!" Muscadin shouted. "A... there... what's the word: a "rellavotion." King Rhyd was deposed. The Thyssenides clan governs now! Rhyd's court, nobility, and army wore blue. The local weavers only bought indigo. But the Thyssenides wear scarlet. The price of indigo fell and cochineal rose! Then we learned that it was you, Biberveldt, who had on hand the only store of cochineal available. Ha!"

Dainty kept quiet, frowning.

"Biberveldt the cunning, that's the least we can call you," Muscadin continued. "And without a word to anyone, even your friends... If you had told me, we would all be able to profit. We could even have found a common agency. But you preferred to go it alone. That's your choice. In any case, no longer count on me. By the Eternal Fire, the halflings are nothing but egotistical scoundrels and dogs. Vimme Vivaldi has never endorsed a promissory note for me, and for you? Without hesitation. Rotten, every one of you damned 'non-humans,' accursed halflings and dwarves! Plague take you!"

Muscadin spat and turned on his heel. Lost in thought, Dainty scratched his head. His cowlick rose.

"Something begins to grow clearer, my lads," he said finally. "I know what we should do. Let's go to the bank. If anyone can get us through all this, it's my good banker, Vimme Vivaldi."

Ill

"I imagined banks differently," Dandelion murmured, examining the room. "Where do they keep the money, Geralt?"

"Devil only knows," the witcher responded in a low voice, trying to hide the torn sleeve of his jacket. "Maybe in the basement?"

"No, I looked: there's no basement here."

"Must be in the attic."

"Please come into my office, gentlemen," announced Vimme Vivaldi.

Seated at large tables, young men and dwarves of indeterminate age were busy aligning rows of numbers and letters on sheets of parchment. All, without exception, bowed their heads and stuck out their tongues slightly. The witcher thought that the task must be terribly tedious. It seemed nonetheless to absorb the workers. In one corner, an old man who looked like a beggar was seated on a stool, sharpening pencils. His pace remained slow.

The banker cautiously closed the door to his office. He smoothed his long beard, which was well-maintained despite ink stains here and there, then adjusted the jacket that was buttoned with difficulty over his belly.

"You know, master Dandelion," he said, sitting behind an enormous mahogany table that groaned under the weight of heaped scrolls, "I imagined you very differently. I've heard and know your songs: of Queen Vanda, drowned in the Cula river, because no-one would have her. And the kingfisher who dove to the bottom of a latrine..."

"I am not the author," Dandelion responded, red with anger. "I've never written anything of the sort!"

"Oh. Excuse me."

"If we could perhaps move on to serious matters," Dainty interrupted. "Time is wasting while you discuss unnecessary subjects. I have serious problems, Vimme."

"I was afraid of that," the dwarf responded, shaking his head. "Remember that I warned you, Biberveldt. I told you three days ago not to invest money in that rancid fish oil. What difference does it make that the price was low? The nominal price is not important. What is important is the resale profit. The same for the rose essence and the wax, and the damned cotton cord. What possessed you, Dainty, to buy such shit? In cash, no less, instead of paying reasonably with a letter of credit or exchange! I told you, the cost of storage in Novigrad is expensive. In a span of two weeks it will exceed three times the value of the goods. And you..."

"Yes," the halfling moaned quietly. "Tell me, Vivaldi. I what?"

"You, you assured me that there was no risk, that you'd sell it all within twenty-four hours. Today you come back to see me with your tail between your legs to admit you're having trouble. You haven't sold any of it, have you? And the storage price went up, eh? Ah, that's no good, it's no good! Do I need to get you out of this now, Dainty? If at least you had insured your merchandise, I would gladly send one of my scribes to discreetly burn your warehouse. No, my friend, the only thing we can do is take things philosophically and say, 'it all went to shit.' That's commerce: win one day, lose the next. In the long run, what's the importance of the money spent to buy fish oil, string, and rose essence? Not much. Let's speak instead of more serious matters. Tell me if I should sell the mimosa bark, because the offers are beginning to stabilize at five and five sixths."

"Huh?"

"Are you deaf?" the banker asked, frowning. "The latest offer is equivalent to five and five sixths. I hope that you came back to get rid of it, because you will not get seven, Dainty."

"Came back?"

Vivaldi smoothed his beard to dislodge the breadcrumbs that were clinging to it.

"You came in an hour ago," he replied calmly, "with the order to hold until seven. To sell at seven times the initial purchase price, this would be 2 crowns and 45 coppers per pound. It's too expensive, Dainty, even in such a favorable market. The tanners have already agreed amongst themselves to freeze the price. I'd bet my head that..."

"The merchant Sulimir offers 2.15 crowns!" shouted a strident voice.

"Six and a sixth," Vivaldi calculated swiftly. "What shall we do, Dainty?"

"Sell!" the halfling cried. "Six times the purchase price and you still hesitate, by the

plague?"

A second creature, wearing a yellow hat and covered in an overcoat that resembled an old sack, arrived in turn in the office.

"The merchant Biberveldt recommends not to sell before seven!" he yelled, before wiping his nose with his sleeve and immediately departing.

"Ah, ah!" the dwarf said eventually, after a long delay. "A Biberveldt orders me to sell, but another Biberveldt, on the contrary, asks me to wait. Interesting. What shall we do, Dainty? Will you settle the matter before a third Biberveldt orders us aboard a galley to be transported to the land of dog-headed men, eh?"

"What is that?" asked Dandelion, indicating the thing dressed in a green hat that was standing motionless in the doorway. "What is it, by the plague?"

"A young gnome," Geralt replied.

"It must be," Vivaldi confirmed drily. "It's not an old troll. What it is is of no importance. Come, Dainty, I'm listening."

"Vimme," the halfling said, "I implore you: don't ask questions. Something terrible has happened. Know and acknowledge that I, Dainty Biberveldt, honest merchant of the Persicaires prairie, don't have the slightest idea what is going on here. Tell me every detail: everything that's happened over the past three days. I beg you, Vimme."

"Interesting," said the dwarf. "I understand that what with the commissions I collect, I must respect the wishes of my clients. Listen, then. You appeared in my bank three days ago, completely out of breath. You made a deposit of 1,000 crowns and requested a promissory note of 2,520 payable to the bearer. I gave my endorsement."

"Without collateral?"

"Without, because I like you, Dainty."

"Tell the rest, Vimme."

"The next morning, you rushed in and insisted, making a ruckus and stamping your feet, that I open a line of credit in the Vizima branch of my bank for the substantial amount of 3,500 crowns. The beneficiary was to be, if I recall correctly, a certain Ther Lukokian, known as Big-Nose. I opened this credit."

"Without collateral," the halfling repeated, hope rising in his voice.

"My fondness for you, Biberveldt," the banker sighed, "ends at 3,000 crowns. I required a written statement stipulating that in the case of insolvency, the mill will belong to me."

"What mill?"

"The mill of your father-in-law, Arno Hardbotomm of the Persicaires prairie."