The Sword of Destiny (19 page)

"Merchant Biberveldt!" Schwann yelped, blinking his myopic eyes. "What is the meaning of this? Attacking a municipal functionary could cost you dearly... Who was that, the hobbit who disappeared?"

"A cousin," Dainty replied promptly. "A distant cousin..."

"Yes, yes..." Dandelion confirmed quickly, feeling that he was in his element at last. "A distant cousin of Biberveldt called Toupet-Biberveldt, the black sheep of the family. As a child, he fell down a well. Happily, the well was dry, but unfortunately, the bucket fell on his head. He's usually harmless. Only the sight of the color purple drives him into a rage. But there is nothing to worry about, because the sight of red hair on a lady's pubis has the power to calm him. That's why he fled to Passionflower, I tell you, master Schwann..."

"Enough, Dandelion," the witcher interrupted abruptly. "Shut up, damn it."

Schwann draped himself in his toga, brushed off the sawdust that clung to it and stuck out his chest, adopting an expression of appropriate severity.

"Yes..." he said. "Look after your loved ones more carefully, merchant Biberveldt, because you should know that you are responsible for their actions. If I file a complaint... But I do not have the time. Biberveldt, the errand that brings me here: in the name of the municipal authorities, I order you to pay the taxes that you owe."

"What?"

"The taxes," the functionary repeated, pinching his lips together in the manner of his superiors. "What's gotten into you? Has your cousin made you lose your head? When one makes a profit, one must pay his taxes or expect to find himself thrown into the deepest dungeon."

"Me?" Dainty bawled. "Me, profit? But I have nothing but losses, for fuck's sake!

Me..."

"Careful, Biberveldt," the witcher murmured.

Dandelion dealt a furtive kick to his hairy ankle. The halfling coughed.

"Of course," he said, trying to plaster a smile across his chubby face. "Of course, master Schwann. If one does business, one must pay taxes. Good business generates big taxes. And the reverse, I imagine."

"It is not for me to judge the quality of your transactions, master merchant." The official sat at the table and made a wry face; from the folds of his toga, he produced an abacus and a scroll that he unrolled on the table, smoothing it with his sleeve. "My role is to count and collect. Yes... Let's draw up the bill... That will be... hum... Take off two, carry the one... Yes... 1,553 crowns and 20 coppers."

A hoarse sound burst from Dainty's throat. The workers murmured in amazement. Dandelion sighed.

"Well, goodbye, friends," the halfling said at last. "If anyone asks, tell them I'm rotting in the dungeon."

II

"Until noon tomorrow," Dainty whimpered. "Schwann, that son of a bitch, exaggerates. The repulsive old man could have given me an extension. More than 1,500 crowns! Where will I find that kind of money by tomorrow? I am a finished halfling, ruined, doomed to end my life in prison! Let's not sit here, by the plague. I tell you this: that scoundrel the doppler must be caught. We must catch him!"

The three of them were seated on the edge of the marble basin of a dry fountain, situated in the center of a small square surrounded by the homes of bourgeoisie with great wealth but extremely questionable taste. The water in the basin was green and horribly filthy, teeming with small fish that swam amid the refuse. Mouths gaping, they tried to gulp air from the surface, laboriously opening and closing their gills. Dandelion and the halfling were chewing on beignets that the troubadour had stolen from a street vendor.

"If I were you," said the bard, "I would give up the pursuit and start looking for someone who could loan me the money. What will catching the doppler accomplish? You think that Schwann will accept it as the financial equivalent?"

"You're an idiot, Dandelion. By finding the doppler, I'll get my money back."

"What money? Everything your purse contained was used to pay for the damage and grease Schwann's palm. There was no more."

"Dandelion," the halfling said, grimacing. "You might know something about poetry, but as for business, forgive me for saying so, you have an empty skull. You heard the amount of tax that Schwann calculated? Taxes, they are paid on the basis of what? Eh? Of what?"

"Of everything," replied the poet. "Myself, I am taxed for singing. And the fact that I sing to satisfy an internal need makes little difference."

"You really are an idiot, as I said. In business, taxes are paid on profit. On profit, Dandelion! You understand? That scoundrel the doppler stole my identity and organized a particularly lucrative scam! He made a profit! And me, I must pay the tax and also the debts surely racked up by this vagabond! If I don't pay, I'll end up behind bars; they'll publicly clap me in irons and send me to the mines. By the plague!"

"Ah!" Dandelion said cheerfully. "Then you have no other choice, Dainty. You must leave the city on the sly. You know what? I have an idea. We'll hide you under a sheepskin and when you walk through the gate, you'll only have to repeat: 'Baa, baa, I am a sheep.' No-

one will recognize you."

"Dandelion," the halfling replied hotly. "Shut up or I will put you through hell. Geralt?"

"Yes, Dainty."

"Will you help me catch the doppler?"

"Listen," responded the witcher, trying vainly to repair the torn sleeve of his jacket. "We are in Novigrad, a city of thirty thousand inhabitants: humans, dwarves, half-elves, halflings and gnomes, and perhaps twice as many people passing through. How can you find anyone in that mob?"

Dainty swallowed his beignet and then licked his fingers.

"And magic, Geralt? What about your witcher spells, which are the subject of so many stories?"

"The doppler is only magically detectable when he takes his own appearance. Unfortunately, he doesn't walk down the street in that form. And even then, magic wouldn't be any help, because the area is saturated with weak magical signals. Half the houses have magical locks; three quarters of the people wear an amulet for some purpose or another: to protect against thieves, lice, indigestion... The number is infinite."

Dandelion ran his fingers over the body of the lute, plucking the strings.

"With spring the warm smell of rain returns, " he sang. "No, that won't do. With spring comes the smell of the sun... Damn it, no! Definitely not. But then not everything..."

"Stop squawking," the halfling snapped. "You're getting on my nerves."

Dandelion threw the rest of his beignet to the fish and and spat into the basin.

"Look," he said, "golden carp. They say these fish grant wishes."

"Those are red," Dainty remarked.

"What's the difference? By the plague, there are three of us, and they grant three wishes. One per person. What do you think, Dainty? Wouldn't you like a fish to pay your taxes?"

"Of course. I would also like for a meteor to fall from the sky and bash in the doppler's head. And then..."

"Stop, stop. We have wishes to make, too. Me, I'd like the fish to whisper the end of my ballad to me. And you, Geralt?"

"Leave me be, Dandelion."

"Don't spoil the mood, witcher. Simply say what you'd like."

The witcher stood.

"I'd like," he murmured, "for the fact that we are being followed to turn out to be a misunderstanding."

Four people dressed in black and wearing leather caps were emerging from an alley and heading straight for the fountain. Dainty swore quietly, seeing them approach.

Four others appeared behind them, from the same alley. These didn't approach. Arranged in a line, they were content to block the exit. They held curious hoops resembling coiled lengths of rope. The witcher examined the area. He rolled his shoulders to adjust the position of the sword on his back. Dandelion gave a moan.

A man of short stature, dressed in a white doublet and a short gray coat, appeared behind the men dressed in black. The gold chain he wore around his neck flashed, in time with his footsteps, with the golden hue of the sun.

"Chapelle," Dandelion groaned. "It's Chapelle..."

The men dressed in black were slowly moving behind them in the direction of the fountain. The witcher moved to draw his sword.

"No, Geralt," Dandelion murmured, pressing close to him. "By the gods, don't draw your weapon. This is the temple guard. If we resist, we'll never get out of Novigrad alive.

Don't touch your sword."

The man in the white doublet approached them with a purposeful stride. The men dressed in black dispersed behind him to surround the basin and fully occupy the terrain. Geralt watched attentively, hunching slightly. The strange circles the men held in their hands were not whips, as he had first thought. They were lamiae.

The man in the white doublet approached.

"Geralt," the bard murmured, "by all the gods, stay calm..."

"I will not allow them to touch me," he growled. "I will not let a single person touch me. Whatsoever. Be careful, Dandelion... When I begin, run for your life. I'll stop them... for awhile..."

Dandelion didn't answer. Having set his lute on his shoulder, he bowed deeply before the man in the white doublet, which was richly embroidered with gold and silver thread in a mosaic of tiny patterns.

"Venerable Chapelle..."

The man called Chapelle stopped and looked them over. Geralt had noticed that his horribly chilly eyes reflected the color of metal. His abnormally sweaty brow had a sickly pallor; blotches of crimson stood out on his cheeks.

"Master Dainty Biberveldt, merchant," he announced. "The talented Master Dandelion. And Geralt of Rivia, representing the ever noble brotherhood of witchers. Is this a reunion between old friends? In our home, in Novigrad?"

No-one answered.

"To compound the misfortune," Chapelle continued, "I must divulge that someone has already reported you."

Dandelion paled slightly. The halfling's teeth chattered. Not to be distracted from his surveillance of the individuals in black wearing leather hats who surrounded the basin, the witcher ignored Chapelle. In most of the countries Geralt knew, manufacture and possession of a barbed lamia, also called a Whip of Mayhe, was strictly prohibited. Novigrad was no exception. Geralt had seen men struck in the face by a lamia. It was impossible afterward to forget the sight.

"The proprietor of the inn The Pike's Grotto" Chapelle continued, "had the impudence to reproach your lordships for associating with a demon, a monster known generally as a shifter or mimic."

No-one responded. Chapelle crossed his arms over his chest and stared at them coldly.

"I felt compelled to warn you that this denunciation had been made. I also inform you that the innkeeper in question has been imprisoned in a dungeon. We suspect him of inventing the story under the influence of beer or liquor. The things these people will invent. To begin with, shifters don't exist. They're an invention of credulous yokels."

No-one made any comment.

"Furthermore, no shifter could approach a witcher," Chapelle continued, smiling, "without being killed on the spot. Isn't that right?

"The accusation of the innkeeper would be in these circumstances absolutely absurd if a certain detail did not nevertheless leave some doubt."

Chapelle shook his head in the imposing silence. The witcher heard the slow exhalation of the air that Dainty had previously sucked deep into his lungs.

"Yes, a certain detail is very important," Chapelle repeated. "We are indeed dealing with an act of heresy and sacrilegious blasphemy. It is obvious that no shifter, I say none, and no monster for that matter, would be able to approach the walls of Novigrad by reason of the presence of its nineteen Temples of Eternal Fire, whose sacred virtue protects the city. Anyone who claims to have seen a shifter in The Pike's Grotto, situated a stone's throw from the main altar of Eternal Fire, is a sacrilegious heretic who must repudiate his words. If it

happens that he refuses to repudiate them, I will be obliged to assist in the form of forces and means that remain, believe me, at my disposal in my jails. You see, there is no need to worry."

The expressions on the faces of Dandelion and the halfling proved beyond doubt that they were of a different opinion.

"There is absolutely no need to worry," Chapelle repeated. "Your lordships may leave Novigrad without interference. I will not keep you, but I would insist that your lordships do not spread the imaginary allegations of the innkeeper and do not comment loudly on these events. We, humble servants of the Church, must consider stories questioning the power of the Eternal Fire to be heresy, with all the attending consequences. The religious convictions of your lordships, which I respect for what they are, do not enter into this. Simply be aware, and do what you will. I am tolerant so long as one respects the Eternal Fire and does not blaspheme against it. He who dares to blaspheme, I will condemn to burn, that is all. In Novigrad, all are equal before the law. The law is the same for all: anyone who blasphemes against the Eternal Fire perishes in the flames and sees his assets confiscated. But enough talk about all that. I say again: you can go through the gates of Novigrad uimpeded. It would be best..."

Chapelle smiled slightly, giving the impression of a malicious grimace: he puffed out his cheeks, looking around the small square. Witnessing the scene, the few passersby quickened their step and quickly looked away.

"... best," Chapelle finally said, "best to leave immediately, without delay. It is obvious that, in the case of my lord the merchant Biberveldt, the absence of delay signifies 'without delay after meeting his fiscal obligations.' I thank you, my lords, for the time that you have kindly granted me."

Turning discreetly to the others, Dainty silently mouthed a word. The witcher had no doubt that the unspoken word could only be 'bastard.' Dandelion bowed his head, smiling stupidly.

"Master witcher," Chapelle said suddenly. "With your permission, I would have a private word with you."

Geralt approached. Chapelle reached his hand out slightly. If he touches my elbow, I hit him, thought the witcher. / hit him no matter the consequences.