Introducing the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘Didn’t I say?’ Dandelion whispered in amazement. ‘It thinks and talks like Biberveldt. They’re indistinguishable . . .’

  ‘An exaggeration,’ the halfling said, pouting. ‘A gross exaggeration.’

  ‘No,’ Geralt rebutted. ‘It’s not an exaggeration. Believe it or not, but at this moment it is you, Dainty. In some unknown way the doppler also precisely copies its victim’s mentality.’

  ‘Mental what?’

  ‘The mind’s properties, the character, feelings, thoughts. The soul. Which would confirm what most sorcerers and all priests would deny. That the soul is also matter.’

  ‘Blasphemy!’ The innkeeper gasped.

  ‘And poppycock,’ Dainty Biberveldt said firmly. ‘Don’t tell stories, Witcher. The mind’s properties, I like that. Copying someone’s nose and britches is one thing, but someone’s mind is no bloody mean feat. I’ll prove it to you now. If that lousy doppler had copied my merchant’s mind he wouldn’t have sold the horses in Novigrad, where there’s no market for them; he would have ridden to the horse fair in Devil’s Ford where they’re sold to the highest bidder. You don’t lose money there—’

  ‘Well actually, you do.’ The doppler imitated the halfling’s offended expression and snorted characteristically. ‘First of all, the prices at the auctions in Devil’s Ford are coming down, because the merchants are fixing the bidding. And in addition you have to pay the auctioneer’s commission.’

  ‘Don’t teach me how to trade, you prat,’ Biberveldt said indignantly. ‘I would have taken ninety or a hundred a piece in Devil’s Ford. And how much did you get off those Novigradian chancers?’

  ‘A hundred and thirty,’ the doppler replied.

  ‘You’re lying, you rascal.’

  ‘I am not. I drove the horses straight to the port, sir, and found a foreign fur trader. Furriers don’t use oxen when they assemble their caravans, because oxen are too slow. Furs are light, but costly, so one needs to travel swiftly. There’s no market for horses in Novigrad, so neither are there any horses. I had the only available ones, so I could name my price. Simple—’

  ‘Don’t teach me, I said!’ Dainty yelled, flushing red. ‘Very well, you made a killing. So where’s the money?’

  ‘I reinvested it,’ Tellico said proudly, imitating the halfling’s typical raking of his fingers through his thick mop of hair. ‘Money, Mr Dainty, has to circulate, and business has to be kept moving.’

  ‘Be careful I don’t wring your neck! Tell me what you did with the cash you made on the horses.’

  ‘I told you. I sank it into goods.’

  ‘What goods? What did you buy, you freak?’

  ‘Co . . . cochineal,’ the doppler stuttered, and then enumerated quickly: ‘A thousand bushels of cochineal, sixty-two hundredweight of mimosa bark, fifty-five gallons of rose oil, twenty-three barrels of cod liver oil, six hundred earthenware bowls and eighty pounds of beeswax. I bought the cod liver oil very cheaply, incidentally, because it was a little rancid. Oh, yes, I almost forgot. I also bought a hundred cubits of cotton string.’

  A long – very long – silence fell.

  ‘Cod liver oil,’ Dainty finally said, enunciating each word very slowly. ‘Cotton string. Rose oil. I must be dreaming. Yes, it’s a nightmare. You can buy anything in Novigrad, every precious and everyday thing, and this moron here spends my money on shit. Pretending to be me. I’m finished, my money’s lost, my merchant’s reputation is lost. No, I’ve had enough of this. Lend me your sword, Geralt. I’ll cut him to shreds here and now.’

  The door to the chamber creaked open.

  ‘The merchant Biberveldt!’ crowed an individual in a purple toga which hung on his emaciated frame as though on a stick. He had a hat on his head shaped like an upturned chamber pot. ‘Is the merchant Biberveldt here?’

  ‘Yes,’ the two halflings answered in unison.

  The next moment, one of the Dainty Biberveldts flung the contents of the mug in the Witcher’s face, deftly kicked the stool from under Dandelion and slipped under the table towards the door, knocking over the individual in the ridiculous hat on the way.

  ‘Fire! Help!’ it yelled, rushing out towards the common chamber. ‘Murder! Calamity!’

  Geralt, shaking off the beer froth, rushed after him, but the second Biberveldt, who was also tearing towards the door, slipped on the sawdust and fell in front of him. The two of them fell over, right on the threshold. Dandelion, clambering out from under the table, cursed hideously.

  ‘Assaaault!’ yelled the skinny individual, entangled in his purple toga, from the floor. ‘Rooobberrrryyyy! Criminals!

  Geralt rolled over the halfling and rushed into the main chamber, to see the doppler – jostling the drinkers – running out into the street. He rushed after him, only to run into a resilient but hard wall of men barring his way. He managed to knock one of them over, smeared with clay and stinking of beer, but others held him fast in the iron grip of powerful hands. He fought furiously, but heard the dry report of snapping thread and rending leather, and the sleeve become loose under his right armpit. The Witcher swore and stopped struggling.

  ‘We ’ave ‘im!’ the masons yelled. ‘We’ve got the robber! What do we do now, master?’

  ‘Lime!’ the master bellowed, raising his head from the table and looking around with unseeing eyes.

  ‘Guaaard!’ the purple one yelled, crawling from the chamber on all fours. ‘An official has been assaulted! Guard! It will be the gallows for you, villain!’

  ‘We ‘ave ‘im!’ the masons shouted. ‘We ‘ave ‘im, sir!’

  ‘That’s not him!’ the individual in the toga bellowed, ‘Catch the scoundrel! After him!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Biberveldt, the halfling! After him, give chase! To the dungeons with him!’

  ‘Hold on a moment,’ Dainty said, emerging from the snug. ‘What’s it all about, Mr Schwann? Don’t drag my name through the mud. And don’t sound the alarm, there’s no need.’

  Schwann was silent and looked at the halfling in astonishment. Dandelion emerged from the chamber, bonnet at an angle, examining his lute. The masons, whispering among themselves, finally released Geralt. The Witcher, although absolutely furious, limited himself to spitting copiously on the floor.

  ‘Merchant Biberveldt!’ Schwann crowed, narrowing his myopic eyes. ‘What is the meaning of this? An assault on a municipal official may cost you dearly . . . Who was that? That halfling, who bolted?’

  ‘My cousin,’ Dainty said quickly. ‘A distant cousin . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Dandelion agreed, swiftly backing him up and feeling in his element. ‘Biberveldt’s distant cousin. Known as Nutcase-Biberveldt. The black sheep of the family. When he was a child he fell into a well. A dried-up well. But unfortunately the pail hit him directly on his head. He’s usually peaceful, it’s just that the colour purple infuriates him. But there’s nothing to worry about, because he’s calmed by the sight of red hairs on a lady’s loins. That’s why he rushed straight to Passiflora. I tell you, Mr Schwann—’

  ‘That’s enough, Dandelion,’ the Witcher hissed. ‘Shut up, dammit.’

  Schwann pulled his toga down, brushed the sawdust off it and straightened up, assuming a haughty air.

  ‘Now, then,’ he said. ‘Heed your relatives more attentively, merchant Biberveldt, because as you well know, you are responsible. Were I to lodge a complaint . . . But I cannot afford the time. I am here, Biberveldt, on official business. On behalf of the municipal authorities I summon you to pay tax.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Tax,’ the official repeated, and pouted his lips in a grimace probably copied from someone much more important. ‘What are you doing? Been infected by your cousin? If you make a profit, you have to pay taxes. Or you’ll have to do time in the dungeon.’

  ‘Me?’ Dainty roared. ‘Me, make a profit? All I have is losses, for fuck’s sake! I—’

  ‘Careful, Biberveldt,’ the Witcher hissed, while Dandelion k
icked the halfling furtively in his hairy shin. The halfling coughed.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, struggling to put a smile on his chubby face, ‘of course, Mr Schwann. If you make a profit, you have to pay taxes. High profits, high taxes. And the other way around, I’d say.’

  ‘It is not for me to judge your business, sir,’ the official said, making a sour face. He sat down at the table, removing from the fathomless depths of his toga an abacus and a scroll of parchment, which he unrolled on the table, first wiping it with a sleeve. ‘It is my job to count up and collect. Now, then . . . Let us reckon this up . . . That will be . . . hmmm . . . Two down, carry the one . . . Now, then . . . one thousand five hundred and fifty-three crowns and twenty pennies.

  A hushed wheeze escaped Dainty Biberveldt’s lips. The masons muttered in astonishment. The innkeeper dropped a bowl. Dandelion gasped.

  ‘Very well. Goodbye, lads,’ the halfling said bitterly. ‘If anybody asks; I’m in the dungeon.’

  II

  ‘By tomorrow at noon,’ Dainty groaned. ‘And that whoreson, that Schwann, damn him, the repulsive creep, could have extended it. Over fifteen hundred crowns. How am I to come by that kind of coin by tomorrow? I’m finished, ruined, I’ll rot in the dungeons! Don’t let’s sit here, dammit, let’s catch that bastard doppler, I tell you! We have to catch it!’

  The three of them were sitting on the marble sill of a disused fountain, occupying the centre of a small square among sumptuous, but extremely tasteless, merchants’ townhouses. The water in the fountain was green and dreadfully dirty, and the golden ides swimming among the refuse worked their gills hard and gulped in air from the surface through open mouths. Dandelion and the halfling were chewing some fritters which the troubadour had swiped from a stall they had just passed.

  ‘In your shoes,’ the bard said, ‘I’d forget about catching it and start looking around for somebody to borrow the money off. What will you get from catching the doppler? Perhaps you think Schwann will accept it as an equivalent?’

  ‘You’re a fool, Dandelion. When I catch the doppler, I’ll get my money back.’

  ‘What money? Everything he had in that purse went on covering the damage and a bribe for Schwann. It didn’t have any more.’

  ‘Dandelion,’ the halfling grimaced. ‘You may know something about poetry, but in business matters, forgive me, you’re a total blockhead. Did you hear how much tax Schwann is charging me? And what do you pay tax on? Hey? On what?’

  ‘On everything,’ the poet stated. ‘I even pay tax on singing. And they don’t give a monkey’s about my explanations that I was only singing from an inner need.’

  ‘You’re a fool, I said. In business you pay taxes on profits. On profits. Dandelion! Do you comprehend? That rascal of a doppler impersonated me and made some business transactions – fraudulent ones, no doubt. And made money on them! It made a profit! And I’ll have to pay tax, and probably cover the debts of that scoundrel, if it has run up any debts! And if I don’t pay it off, I’m going to the dungeons, they’ll brand me with a red-hot iron in public and send me to the mines! A pox on it!’

  ‘Ha,’ Dandelion said cheerfully. ‘So you don’t have a choice, Dainty. You’ll have to flee the city in secret. Know what? I have an idea. We’ll wrap you up in a sheepskin. You can pass through the gate calling: “I’m a little baa-lamb, baa, baa”. No one will recognise you.’

  ‘Dandelion,’ the halfling said glumly. ‘Shut up or I’ll kick you. Geralt?’

  ‘What, Dainty?’

  ‘Will you help me catch the doppler?’

  ‘Listen,’ the Witcher said, still trying in vain to sew up his torn jacket sleeve, ‘this is Novigrad. A population of thirty thousand: humans, dwarves, half-elves, halflings and gnomes, and probably as many out-of-towners again. How do you mean to find someone in this rabbit warren?’

  Dainty swallowed a fritter and licked his fingers.

  ‘And magic, Geralt? Those witcher spells of yours, about which so many tales circulate?’

  ‘A doppler is only magically detectable in its own form, and it doesn’t walk down the street in it. And even if it did, magic would be no use, because there are plenty of weak sorcerers’ signals all around. Every second house has a magical lock on the door and three quarters of the people wear amulets, of all kinds: against thieves, fleas and food poisoning. Too many to count.’

  Dandelion ran his fingers over the lute’s fingerboard and strummed the strings.

  ‘Spring will return, with warm rain perfumed!’ he sang. ‘No, that’s no good. Spring will return, the sun— No, dammit. It’s just not coming. Not at all . . .’

  ‘Stop squawking,’ the halfling snapped. ‘You’re getting on my nerves.’

  Dandelion threw the ides the rest of his fritter and spat into the fountain.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Golden fish. It’s said that they grant wishes.’

  ‘Those ones are red,’ Dainty observed.

  ‘Never mind, it’s a trifle. Dammit, there are three of us, and they grant three wishes. That works out at one each. What, Dainty? Wouldn’t you wish for the fish to pay the tax for you?’

  ‘Of course. And apart from that for something to fall from the sky and whack the doppler on the noggin. And also—’

  ‘Stop, stop. We also have our wishes. I’d like the fish to supply me with an ending for my ballad. And you, Geralt?’

  ‘Get off my back, Dandelion.’

  ‘Don’t spoil the game, Witcher. Tell us what you’d wish for.’

  The Witcher got up.

  ‘I would wish,’ he murmured, ‘that the fact we’re being surrounded would turn out to be a misunderstanding.’

  From an alleyway opposite the fountain emerged four individuals dressed in black, wearing round, leather caps, heading slowly towards them. Dainty swore softly and looked around.

  Another four men came out of a street behind their backs. They did not come any closer and, having positioned themselves, stood blocking the street. They were holding strange looking discs resembling coiled ropes. The Witcher looked around and moved his shoulders, adjusting the sword slung across his back. Dandelion groaned.

  From behind the backs of the individuals in black emerged a small man in a white kaftan and a short, grey cape. The gold chain on his neck sparkled to the rhythm of his steps, flashing yellow.

  ‘Chappelle . . .’ Dandelion groaned. ‘It’s Chappelle . . .’

  The individuals in black behind them moved slowly towards the fountain. The Witcher reached for his sword.

  ‘No, Geralt,’ Dandelion whispered, moving closer to him. ‘For the Gods’ sake, don’t draw your weapon. It’s the temple guard. If we resist we won’t leave Novigrad alive. Don’t touch your sword.’

  The man in the white kaftan walked swiftly towards them. The individuals in black followed him, surrounding the fountain at a march, and occupied strategic, carefully chosen positions. Geralt observed them vigilantly, crouching slightly. The strange discs they were holding were not – as he had first thought – ordinary whips. They were lamias.

  The man in the white kaftan approached them.

  ‘Geralt,’ the bard whispered. ‘By all the Gods, keep calm—’

  ‘I won’t let them touch me,’ the Witcher muttered. ‘I won’t let them touch me, whoever they are. Be careful, Dandelion . . . When it starts, you two flee, as fast as you can. I’ll keep them busy . . . for some time . . .’

  Dandelion did not answer. Slinging the lute over one shoulder, he bowed low before the man in the white kaftan, which was ornately embroidered with gold and silver threads in an intricate, mosaic pattern.

  ‘Venerable Chappelle . . .’

  The man addressed as Chappelle stopped and swept them with his gaze. His eyes, Geralt noticed, were frost-cold and the colour of steel. His forehead was pale, beaded unhealthily with sweat and his cheeks were flushed with irregular, red blotches.

  ‘Mr Dainty Biberveldt, merchant,’ he said. ‘The talented Dandelion. And Geralt
of Rivia, a representative of the oh-so rare witcher’s profession. A reunion of old friends? Here, in Novigrad?’

  None of them answered.

  ‘I consider it highly regrettable,’ Chappelle continued, ‘that a report has been submitted about you.’

  Dandelion blanched slightly and the halfling’s teeth chattered. The Witcher was not looking at Chappelle. He did not take his eyes off the weapons of the men in leather caps surrounding the fountain. In most of the countries known to Geralt the production and possession of spiked lamias, also called Mayhenian scourges, were strictly prohibited. Novigrad was no exception. Geralt had seen people struck in the face by a lamia. He would never forget those faces.

  ‘The keeper of the Spear Blade inn,’ Chappelle continued, ‘had the audacity to accuse you gentlemen of collusion with a demon, a monster, known as a changeling or a vexling.’

  None of them answered. Chappelle folded his arms on his chest and looked at them coldly.

  ‘I felt obliged to forewarn you of that report. I shall also inform you that the above-mentioned innkeeper has been imprisoned in the dungeons. There is a suspicion that he was raving under the influence of beer or vodka. Astonishing what people will concoct. Firstly, there are no such things as vexlings. It is a fabrication of superstitious peasants.’

  No one commented on this.

  ‘Secondly, what vexling would dare to approach a witcher,’ Chappelle smiled, ‘and not be killed at once? Am I right? The innkeeper’s accusation would thus be ludicrous, were it not for one vital detail.’

  Chappelle nodded, pausing dramatically. The Witcher heard Dainty slowly exhaling a large lungful of air.

  ‘Yes, a certain, vital detail,’ Chappelle repeated. ‘Namely, we are facing heresy and sacrilegious blasphemy here. For it is a well-known fact that no vexling, absolutely no vexling, nor any other monster, could even approach the walls of Novigrad, because here, in nineteen temples, burns the Eternal Fire, whose sacred power protects the city. Whoever says that he saw a vexling at the Spear Blade, a stone’s throw from the chief altar of the Eternal Fire, is a blasphemous heretic and will have to retract his claim. Should he not want to, he shall be assisted by the power and means, which, trust me, I keep close at hand in the dungeons. Thus, as you can see, there is nothing to be concerned about.’