The Sword of Destiny (21 page)

"I'm never going home," Dainty said mournfully, adding decisively: "I'll take out a loan to buy a ship and become a pirate."

Vimme Vivaldi scratched his ear, watching him suspiciously.

"Hey!" he said. "You recovered the letter and tore it up a while ago. You're solvent. Nothing surprising about that, with such earnings..."

"Earnings?"

"Indeed, I forgot," grumbled the dwarf, "that I'm expected to be surprised by nothing. You came out far ahead with the cochineal, Biberveldt, because you see, the upheaval that took place in Poviss..."

"I know that already," the halfling interrupted. "Indigo fell and cochineal rose. And I got some money. Is that right, Vimme?"

"That's the truth. You have an account with me for 6,346 crowns and 80 coppers. Net, after subtracting my commission and the amount of tax."

"You paid the tax for me?"

"Shouldn't I have?" Vivaldi asked, surprised. "When you came in an hour ago, you

settled up neatly. One of my clerks already brought the sum to the town hall. About 1,500, because the sale of the horses is of course included."

The office door burst open with a bang to admit something wearing an extremely dirty hat.

"2.30 crowns!" he shouted. "The merchant Hazelquist!"

"Don't sell!" Dainty cried. "Wait for a better price! Both of you, go back to the market at once!"

The two gnomes greedily seized the copper coins tossed to them by the dwarf and disappeared.

"Yes... Where was I, then?" Vivaldi wondered for a moment, toying with the abnormally large amethyst crystal that served as his paperweight. "Ah yes... I was up to the cochineal bought with my promissory note. The letter of credit that I mentioned earlier, you used to buy a large quantity of mimosa bark. You bought a lot, but at a good price: 35 coppers a pound from Zangwebar's broker, that Big-Nose or Snout. The galley docked at the port yesterday. That's where it all started."

"I can imagine," Dainty groaned.

"What is mimosa bark good for?" Dandelion couldn't help but ask.

"Nothing," the halfling groaned sadly. "Unfortunately."

"Mimosa bark, master poet," the dwarf explained, "is a tanning substance used in the manufacture of leather."

"Someone was stupid enough," Dainty interrupted, "to buy mimosa bark from overseas when one can acquire it for next to nothing from Temerian oak."

"That's just where the vampire is buried," said Vivaldi, "because the Temerian druids threatened to set a plague of rats and locusts over the land if the destruction of oak trees is not stopped immediately. The dryads support the druids. It must be said that the Temerian king has always had a certain weakness for dryads. In short: a complete embargo on Temerian oak came into effect yesterday. The price of mimosa is climbing. You had the benefit of good information, Dainty."

Outside the office door there came the sound of footsteps. The thing wearing a green hat burst breathlessly into the office:

"The venerable merchant Sulimir..." the gnome managed to say, "orders me to repeat that the merchant Biberveldt, the halfling, is nothing but a savage hairy-eared swine, a speculator and a swindler, and that he, Sulimir, wishes for Biberveldt to contract scabies. He offers 2.45 crowns. This is his final offer."

"Sell," the halfling concluded. "Go, little one, run and confirm. Calculate, Vimme."

Vivaldi grabbed a stack of parchment and produced a dwarven abacus, a veritable marvel. Unlike those used by humans, the dwarven abacus was shaped like a latticed pyramid. Vivaldi's was crafted from golden filaments upon which small uniform prisms cut from rubies, emeralds, onyx and black agate moved. The dwarf deftly manipulated the jewels at the top, bottom, and sides with his stout fingers.

"This will be... hum... hum... Less cost and my commission... Minus tax... Yes... 15,622 crowns and 25 coppers. Not bad."

"If I've calculated correctly," Dainty Biberveldt said slowly, "that will make a net total of... I should have..."

"Precisely 21,969 crowns and 5 coppers. Not bad."

"Not bad?" Dandelion yelped. "Not bad? With that kind of sum, you could by a whole village or a small castle! Never in my life have I seen that kind of money!"

"Nor have I," said the halfling. "But let's not get carried away, Dandelion. No-one here has seen that money and we may never even see the color of it."

"How is that, Biberveldt?" the dwarf said, scowling. "Where do you get such sorry

thoughts? Sulimir will pay in cash or with a letter of exchange. Sulimir's money is good. What's wrong, then? You're worried about the losses from the purchase of your stinking fish oil and wax? With such profits, you can easily cover those losses..."

"It's not that."

"Then what?"

Dainty bowed his curly head and cleared his throat.

"Vimme," he said, staring at the ground. "Chapelle is sniffing around."

The banker clucked his tongue.

"It's not right," he said, "but it's not surprising. You see, Biberveldt, the commercial information that you used for your transactions also has political implications. No-one suspected that these things would happen in Poviss and Temeria. Not even Chapelle, and Chapelle likes to be the first to know. Now, you can imagine that he's racking his brains to discover how you had access to this information. I think that he must already know. As do I."

"Interesting."

Vivaldi glanced at Dandelion and Geralt, wrinkling his nose.

"Interesting? What is interesting are your associates, Dainty," he said. "A troubadour, a witcher and a merchant. My congratulations. Master Dandelion travels everywhere: he frequents royal courts and no doubt knows how to keep his ears open. The witcher? A bodyguard? A scarecrow to keep away the debtors?"

"Your conclusions are too hasty, master Vivaldi," Geralt replied coldly. "We are not associates."

"And I," Dandelion continued, flushing, "do not eavesdrop. I'm a poet, not a spy!"

"One hears things," the dwarf said, grinning. "Many things, master Dandelion."

"Lies!" the troubadour shouted. "It's not true!"

"All right, all right, I believe you. Only, I don't know if Chapelle will believe you. But who knows, perhaps we are making a lot of noise over nothing. I will tell you, Biberveldt, that Chapelle has changed a great deal since his attack of apoplexy. Perhaps the fear of death crept into his heart and forced him to ask questions? This is not the same Chapelle. He has become friendly, sympathetic, calm and... even honest, in a way."

"What are you telling me?" said the halfling. "Chapelle... honest? Friendly? It's not possible."

"I'm telling you the truth," Vivaldi retorted. "What's more, the Church actually faces another problem in the Eternal Fire."

"How is that?"

"The Eternal Fire must burn everywhere, as they say. Altars devoted to it must be erected throughout the land. Many altars. Don't ask for details, Dainty: I am not a follower of human beliefs. But I know that all the priests, including Chapelle, are concerned only with altars and fire. Grand preparations are in motion. Taxes will increase, for sure."

"My word," said Dainty. "Small consolation, but..."

The office door opened again to reveal the thing in a green hat and rabbit fur garment that the witcher already knew.

"The merchant Biberveldt," he reported, "requests the purchase of bowls. The price is secondary."

"Perfect," the halfling said with a smile, which more resembled the distorted face of an enraged wildcat. "Then buy lots of bowls. The will of master Biberveldt must be obeyed. What else should we buy? Cabbage? Juniper oil? Iron stoves?"

"And," the merchant produced something from his fur coat, "the merchant Biberveldt requests 30 crowns in cash to pay for a jug of wine, a meal and beer to drink. Three scoundrels have stolen his purse at The Pike's Grotto."

"Ah! Three scoundrels," Dainty repeated, emphasizing each word. "My word, this

city is teeming with scoundrels. And where is the venerable merchant Biberveldt right now, if I may ask?"

"Where could he be? At the west bazaar, of course," the thing replied with a sniff.

"Vimme," Dainty said in a dire tone. "Don't ask any questions. Find me a very heavy and solid cane from somewhere. I'm going to the west bazaar, but I can't go without that cane. There are too many scoundrels and thieves over there."

"A cane, you say? That can be arranged. But something continues to nag at me, Dainty. I will not ask any questions. I will not ask, but I will only guess, and you will confirm or deny my suppositions, all right?"

"Guess away."

"That rancid fish oil, the rose essence, the wax and the bowls, the damned cotton cord, it's nothing but a ploy to divert the competition's attention from the cochineal pigment and the mimosa and confuse the market, isn't it, Dainty?"

The office door opened to admit something without a hat.

"Oxyria reports: everything is ready!" it pealed loudly. "He asks if we can pour!"

"Pour!" bawled the halfling. "Pour immediately!"

"By old Rhundurin's beard," exclaimed Vimme Vivaldi, after the gnome had closed the door. "I don't understand! What's going on here? Pour what? Pour it into what?"

"I have no idea," Dainty admitted, "but business must go on."

IV

Sneaking with difficulty through the crowd, Geralt headed directly toward a stall laden with copper dishes, pots and pans reflecting the red light of the sun at the end of the day. Behind the stall stood a dwarf with a red beard, dressed in an olive-green hood and heavy sealskin boots. On the dwarfs face there was a certain surliness: he gave the impression that he could at any moment spit on the customer busy browsing the merchandise. The customer drowned the dwarf in a flood of incoherent words, waving her bust and shaking her golden curls.

The customer was none other than Vespula, whom Geralt already knew from his role in the bombardment. Without waiting to be recognized, the witcher melted back into the crowd.

The west bazaar hummed with energy: crossing such a crowd resembled nothing so much as a stroll through hawthorn bushes. The sleeves and pant legs were continuously, at any given moment, being tugged: by children who had been lost by their mothers when they went into tents to drag out husbands too tempted by alcohol and refreshment; spies from the guard tower; traveling salesmen offering caps of invisibility, aphrodisiacs, and erotic scenes carved in cedar wood. Geralt soon stopped smiling to swear and elbow his way through.

He heard the sound of a lute, followed by a rippling laugh in a familiar timbre. These sounds were coming from a stall as colorful as a storybook, adorned with the sign "Miracles, amulets and fishing bait."

"Has anyone ever told you that you're extremely pretty?" Dandelion called, perched on the counter and cheerfully swinging his dangling legs. "No? But that's impossible! But this is a city of the blind! Come, good people! Who wants to hear a love song? Whosoever wants to be moved and spiritually enriched has only to toss a coin into my hat. What is that you threw me, asshole? Those copper coins, you can keep for the beggars. Don't insult an artist with copper! I may eventually forgive you, but art never will!"

"Dandelion," Geralt said, approaching. "I thought we separated to find the doppler,

but I find you organizing a concert. You're not ashamed to sing in the market like an old beggar?"

"Ashamed?" the bard echoed, shocked. "What's important is that one sings, not where one sings. Besides, I'm hungry. The stall's proprietor promised me lunch. As for the doppler, look for it yourself. Me, I'm not made for pursuit, for fighting and settling scores. I'm a poet."

"You'd be better off not drawing attention to yourself, poet, because your girlfriend is in the area. You could be in trouble."

"My girlfriend?" Dandelion groaned nervously. "Which one? I have several."

Brandishing a copper pan, Vespula forged a path through the crowd with the velocity of a charging aurochs. Dandelion tumbled from the stall to make his escape, hopping nimbly over the baskets of carrots. Vespula turned to the witcher, her nostrils flaring with fury. Geralt flattened himself against the rigid wall of the storefront behind him.

"Geralt!" Dainty Biberveldt cried from the churning crowd, blundering into Vespula. "Quickly, quickly! I saw it! Over there, he ran away!"

"I'll find you, you degenerate!" shouted Vespula, regaining her balance. "I will settle the score with the whole herd of swine! What a group you are! A crook, a tattered vagabond and a hairy-footed midget! You won't soon forget me!"

"Over here, Geralt!" Dainty hollered, bowling over a group of students engaged in a shell game in his path. "There, he slipped between the carts! Block the way to the left! Hurry!"

They hastened in pursuit, surrounded by the curses of the customers and merchants they jostled. Geralt miraculously managed to evade a kid who got tangled in his legs. He bounded over him, but hurtled into two barrels of herring. The fishmonger, furious, flung at his back the live eel whose qualities he had been praising to his customers.

They spotted the doppler, who was trying to hide in a sheep pen.

"The other side!" Dainty shouted. "Get the other side, Geralt!"

The doppler, still visible in his green vest, dashed along the side of the fence like an arrow. It was obvious that he had not transformed so that he could continue to take advantage of the halfling's agility, which no-one could match. Except, of course, another halfling. Or a witcher.

Geralt saw the doppler suddenly change direction, raising a cloud of dust, and slip through a hole in the fence erected around the large tent, home to slaughterhouses and butchers. Dainty spotted it too. He hopped the fence and found himself trapped in the middle of a herd of bleating sheep. He lost time. Geralt veered and threw himself on the doppler's trail between the boards of the fence. He heard then the crackle of a tearing garment. Under his second arm, the jacket became very loose.

The witcher stopped dead to swear and spit. And swear again.

Dainty ran after the doppler toward the tent. Cries, the sound of blows, profanity and a frightful din could be heard within.

The witcher swore a third time with particular vulgarity. He gritted his teeth, raising his right hand and aiming the Aard sign directly toward the tent. It swelled like a sail in a tempest. From within came an inhuman howling, the sound of hooves and bellowing oxen. The tent collapsed.

The doppler managed to crawl out from under the canvas to flee to the side of a smaller tent, most likely serving as the cold room. Geralt turned his hand instinctively toward the fugitive and touched the Sign to his back. The doppler collapsed to the ground as if struck by lightning, but recovered immediately, reaching the side of the tent in a few bounds and disappearing, with the witcher always on his heels.

Under the tent, it reeked of meat. The darkness was oppressive.

Tellico Lunngrevink Letort was standing there, motionless and out of breath, clinging

to a pig carcass suspended from a pole. The tent had no other exit; the canvas was solidly and tightly secured to the ground.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, mimic," Geralt said coldly.

The doppler's breath was loud and heavy.

"Leave me alone," he managed at last. "Why are you chasing me, witcher?"

"Tellico," Geralt replied, "you ask some stupid questions. To come into possession of Biberveldt's horses and appearance, you knocked him out and left him flat broke. You continue to profit from his personality and you're surprised by the trouble it brings you? Devil only knows what you're planning, but I intend to oppose it one way or another. I don't want to kill you or hand you over to the authorities. You must leave this city. I will be particularly vigilant."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I'm the one who'll leave, with a wheelbarrow and a sack."

The doppler swelled suddenly, then thinned just as suddenly and began to grow. His curly chestnut hair blanched and lengthened to reach his shoulders. The halfling's green vest shone like oil and became a black leather. Silver studs appeared on the shoulders and the sleeves. His chubby and ruddy face tapered and grew pale.

Above his right shoulder appeared the hilt of a sword.

"Don't come any closer," called the second witcher, snorting and smiling. "Don't come any closer, Geralt. I won't allow you to touch me."

What a horrible smile, thought Geralt, wanting to seize his sword. / really have a dreadful mouth. My eyes blink appallingly. Is that really the spitting image of me? By the plague.

At the same moment, the doppler's hand and the witcher's touched the hilts of their respective weapons. The two swords were drawn from their sheaths. Both witchers simultaneously executed two small, quick steps: the first forward, the second to the side. Both swung their swords with a hiss like a propeller.

They froze in that position.

"You can't defeat me," growled the doppler, "because I've become you, Geralt."

"You're mistaken, Tellico," the witcher replied in a low voice. "Throw down your sword and take Biberveldt's form again. Otherwise, you'll regret it. I promise you."

"I'm you," the doppler repeated. "You will never have the advantage over me. You can't defeat me, because I'm you!"

"You have no idea what it means to be me, mimic."

Tellico lowered the arm that was holding his sword.

"I am you," he repeated.

"No," the witcher replied. "You know why? Because you're a nice little doppler. A doppler who could have killed Biberveldt and buried his body in the weeds, ensuring that he would never be unmasked, not even by the halfling's wife, the famous Gardenia Biberveldt. But you didn't kill him, Tellico, because that's not in your nature. You are indeed nothing but a nice little doppler whose friends nicknamed him Dudu. Whatever appearance you borrow, you always remain the same. You only know how to copy what is good in us, because the parts that are bad, you don't understand. That is what you are, doppler."

Tellico backed up until his back was flattened against the canvas side of the tent.

"That's why you're going to turn back into Biberveldt and offer your paws for me to bind. You're not capable of resisting me, because there is part of me that you weren't able to copy. You know that very well, Dudu. For a moment you had access to my thoughts."

"You're right, Geralt," he said indistinctly, because his lips were changing shape. "I had access to your thoughts. For a short time, it's true, but it was enough. Do you know what I'll do now?"

The witcher's leather jacket took on a bluebonnet luster. The doppler smiled, adjusted his olive-colored hat adorned with an egret's plume and hung his lute on his shoulder. The lute that, just a moment before, had been a sword.

"I'll tell you what I'll do now, witcher," he said, laughing Dandelion's loud and rippling laugh. "I'll be on my way and lose myself in the crowd, where I'll discreetly transform into someone else, even a beggar. I'd rather be a beggar in Novigrad than a doppler in the barren wilderness. Novigrad owes me a debt, Geralt. The construction of this city destroyed the environment where we could live in our natural surroundings. We were exterminated, hunted like mad dogs. I am one of the few who survived. Once, when wolves attacked me, I transformed into a wolf and ran with the pack for weeks. In this way I survived. I do the same thing today, because I do not want to wander in the woods and spend the winter under tree stumps; I no longer want to feel constant hunger; I no longer want to serve without respite as an archery target. Here, in Novigrad, it's warm, there's food, one can work for a living and people very rarely hunt each other with bows. Novigrad offers me a pack of wolves. I join it to survive, you understand?"

Geralt acknowledged this with a nod of his head.

"You've reached an accord with the dwarves, the halflings, the gnomes and elves; even," he continued, his lips stretching into Dandelion's insolent smile, "a modest degree of integration. What makes me worse than them? Why am I refused the right? What must I do to live in this city? Transform myself into a doe-eyed elf, with long legs and silken hair? Huh? How is an elf better than me? At the sight of an elf, you stare at her legs, but me, when you look at me, you want to vomit? You order me to clear off, you want to banish me, but I'll survive. I know how. In the wolf pack, I ran, howled and bit my confederates for a female's favors. As an inhabitant of Novigrad, I'll trade, weave wicker baskets, beg or steal. As part of your society, I'll do the ordinary things that people do in your society. Who knows, perhaps I'll be able to get married?"

The witcher remained silent.

"As I said," Tellico continued calmly, "I'm going. And you, Geralt, you won't even try to stop me. You won't lift eveb a single finger, because I pierced your thoughts for an instant, Geralt - including those whose existence you refuse to admit, those that you hide from yourself. To stop me, you would have to kill me, but the idea of cutting me down in cold blood fills you with horror. Am I wrong?"

The witcher still did not answer.

Tellico adjusted the strap of his lute again and started toward the exit after turning his back on Geralt. He walked with a resolute gait, but the witcher noticed that his neck stiffened and his shoulders hunched, waiting for the hiss of the blade. Geralt sheathed his sword. The doppler stopped midway and turned to look at him.

"Goodbye, Geralt," he said. "Thank you."

"Goodbye, Dudu," the witcher replied. "Good luck."

The doppler turned in the direction of the crowded bazaar with the same confident, lighthearted and swinging gait as Dandelion. Just like the troubadour, he raised his right hand and waved energetically, smiling broadly at the nearby girls. Geralt followed slowly in his steps. Slowly.

Tellico grasped his lute, walking and, having slowed his pace, played two chords, a prelude to strumming out a melody already known to Geralt. Turning, he sang lightly, like Dandelion: