Introducing the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  The door opened with a bang and something in a very dirty cap came running in.

  ‘Two crowns thirty!’ it shouted. ‘Merchant Hazelquist!’

  ‘Don’t sell!’ Dainty called. ‘We’ll wait for a better price! Be gone, back to the market with the both of you!’

  The two gnomes caught some coppers thrown to them by the dwarf, and disappeared.

  ‘Right . . . Where was I?’ Vivaldi wondered, playing with a huge, strangely-formed amethyst crystal serving as a paperweight. ‘Aha, with the cochineal bought with a bill of exchange. And you needed the letter of credit I mentioned to purchase a large cargo of mimosa bark. You bought a deal of it, but quite cheaply, for thirty-five pennies a pound, from a Zangwebarian factor, that Truffle, or perhaps Morel. The galley sailed into port yesterday. And then it all began.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ Dainty groaned.

  ‘What is mimosa bark needed for?’ Dandelion blurted out.

  ‘Nothing,’ the halfling muttered dismally. ‘Unfortunately.’

  ‘Mimosa bark, poet, sir,’ the dwarf explained, ‘is an agent used for tanning hides.’

  ‘If somebody was so stupid,’ Dainty interrupted, ‘as to buy mimosa bark from beyond the seas, when oak bark can be bought in Temeria for next to nothing . . .’

  ‘And here is the nub of the matter,’ Vivaldi said, ‘because in Temeria the druids have just announced that if the destruction of oaks is not stopped immediately they will afflict the land with a plague of hornets and rats. The druids are being supported by the dryads, and the king there is fond of dryads. In short: since yesterday there has been a total embargo on Temerian oak, for which reason mimosa is going up. Your information was accurate, Dainty.’

  A stamping was heard from the chambers beyond the room, and then the something in a green cap came running into the office, out of breath.

  ‘The honourable merchant Sulimir . . .’ the gnome panted, ‘has instructed me to repeat that merchant Biberveldt, the halfling, is a reckless, bristly swine, a profiteer and charlatan, and that he, Sulimir, hopes that Biberveldt gets the mange. He’ll give two crowns forty-four and that is his last word.’

  ‘Sell,’ the halfling blurted out. ‘Go on, shorty, run off and accept it. Count it up, Vimme.’

  Vivaldi reached beneath some scrolls of parchment and took out a dwarven abacus, a veritable marvel. Unlike abacuses used by humans, the dwarven one was shaped like a small openwork pyramid. Vivaldi’s abacus, though, was made of gold wires, over which slid angular beads of ruby, emerald, onyx and black agate, which fitted into each other. The dwarf slid the gemstones upwards, downwards and sideways for some time, with quick, deft movements of his plump finger.

  ‘That will be . . . hmm, hmm . . . Minus the costs and my commission . . . Minus tax . . . Yes. Fifteen thousand six hundred and twenty-two crowns and five-and-twenty pennies. Not bad.’

  ‘If I’ve reckoned correctly,’ Dainty Biberveldt said slowly, ‘all together, net, then I ought to have in my account . . .’

  ‘Precisely twenty-one thousand nine hundred and sixty-nine crowns and five pennies. Not bad.’

  ‘Not bad?’ Dandelion roared. ‘Not bad? You could buy a large village or a small castle for that! I’ve never, ever, seen that much money at one time!’

  ‘I haven’t either,’ the halfling said. ‘But simmer down, Dandelion. It so happens that no one has seen that money yet, and it isn’t certain if anyone ever will.’

  ‘Hey, Biberveldt,’ the dwarf snorted. ‘Why such gloomy thoughts? Sulimir will pay in cash or by a bill of exchange, and Sulimir’s bills are reliable. What then, is the matter? Are you afraid of losing on that stinking cod liver oil and wax? With profits like that you’ll cover the losses with ease . . .’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘So what is the point?’

  Dainty coughed, and lowered his curly mop.

  ‘Vimme,’ he said, eyes fixed on the floor. ‘Chappelle is snooping around me.’

  The banker clicked his tongue.

  ‘Very bad,’ he drawled. ‘But it was to be expected. You see, Biberveldt, the information you used when carrying out the transactions does not just have commercial significance, but also political. No one knew what was happening in Poviss and Temeria – Chappelle included – and Chappelle likes to be the first to know. So now, as you can imagine, he is wracking his brains about how you knew. And I think he has guessed. Because I think I’ve also worked it out.’

  ‘That’s fascinating.’

  Vivaldi swept his eyes over Dandelion and Geralt, and wrinkled his snub nose.

  ‘Fascinating? I’ll tell you what’s fascinating; your party, Dainty,’ he said. ‘A troubadour, a witcher and a merchant. Congratulations. Master Dandelion shows up here and there, even at royal courts, and no doubt keeps his ears open. And the Witcher? A bodyguard? Someone to frighten debtors?’

  ‘Hasty conclusions, Mr Vivaldi,’ Geralt said coldly. ‘We are not partners.’

  ‘And I,’ Dandelion said, flushing, ‘do not eavesdrop anywhere. I’m a poet, not a spy!’

  ‘People say all sorts of things,’ the dwarf grimaced. ‘All sorts of things, Master Dandelion.’

  ‘Lies!’ the troubadour yelled. ‘Damned lies!’

  ‘Very well, I believe you, I believe you. I just don’t know if Chappelle will believe it. But who knows, perhaps it will all blow over. I tell you, Biberveldt, that Chappelle has changed a lot since his last attack of apoplexy. Perhaps the fear of death looked him in the arse and forced him to think things over? I swear, he is not the same Chappelle. He seems to have become courteous, rational, composed and . . . and somehow honest.’

  ‘Get away,’ the halfling said. ‘Chappelle, honest? Courteous? Impossible.’

  ‘I’m telling you how it is,’ Vivaldi replied. ‘And how it is, is what I’m telling you. What is more, now the temple is facing another problem: namely the Eternal Fire.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The Eternal Fire, as it’s known, is supposed to burn everywhere. Altars dedicated to that fire are going to be built everywhere, all over the city. A huge number of altars. Don’t ask me for details, Dainty, I am not very familiar with human superstitions. But I know that all the priests, and Chappelle also, are concerned about almost nothing else but those altars and that fire. Great preparations are being made. Taxes will be going up, that is certain.’

  ‘Yes,’ Dainty said. ‘Cold comfort, but—’

  The door to the office opened again and the Witcher recognised the something in a green cap and coney fur coat.

  ‘Merchant Biberveldt,’ it announced, ‘instructs to buy more pots, should they run out. Price no object.’

  ‘Excellent,’ the halfling smiled, and his smile called to mind the twisted face of a furious wildcat. ‘We will buy huge quantities of pots; Mr Biberveldt’s wish is our command. What else shall we buy more of? Cabbage? Wood tar? Iron rakes?’

  ‘Furthermore,’ the something in the fur coat croaked, ‘merchant Biberveldt requests thirty crowns in cash, because he has to pay a bribe, eat something and drink some beer, and three miscreants stole his purse in the Spear Blade.’

  ‘Oh. Three miscreants,’ Dainty said in a slow, drawling voice. ‘Yes, this city seems to be full of miscreants. And where, if one may ask, is the Honourable Merchant Biberveldt at this very moment?’

  ‘Where else would he be,’ the something said, sniffing, ‘than at the Western Market?’

  ‘Vimme,’ Dainty said malevolently, ‘don’t ask questions, but find me a stout, robust stick from somewhere. I’m going to the Western Market, but I can’t go without a stick. There are too many miscreants and thieves there.’

  ‘A stick, you say? Of course. But, Dainty, I’d like to know something, because it is preying on me. I was supposed not to ask any questions, but I shall make a guess, and you can either confirm or deny it. All right?’

  ‘Guess away.’

  ‘That rancid cod liver oil, that oil, that
wax and those bowls, that bloody twine, it was all a tactical gambit, wasn’t it? You wanted to distract the competition’s attention from the cochineal and the mimosa, didn’t you? To stir up confusion on the market? Hey, Dainty?’

  The door opened suddenly and something without a cap ran in.

  ‘Sorrel reports that everything is ready!’ it yelled shrilly. ‘And asks if he should start pouring.’

  ‘Yes, he should!’ the halfling bellowed. ‘At once!’

  ‘By the red beard of old Rhundurin!’ Vimme Vivaldi bellowed, as soon as the gnome had shut the door. ‘I don’t understand anything! What is happening here? Pour what? Into what?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Dainty admitted. ‘But, Vimme, the wheels of business must be oiled.’

  IV

  Pushing through the crowd with difficulty, Geralt emerged right in front of a stall laden with copper skillets, pots and frying pans, sparkling in the rays of the twilight sun. Behind the stall stood a red-bearded dwarf in an olive-green hood and heavy sealskin boots. The dwarf’s face bore an expression of visible dislike; to be precise he looked as though any moment he intended to spit on the female customer sifting through the goods. The customer’s breast was heaving, she was shaking her golden curls and was besetting the dwarf with a ceaseless and chaotic flow of words.

  The customer was none other than Vespula, known to Geralt as the thrower of missiles. Without waiting for her to recognise him, he melted swiftly back into the crowd.

  The Western Market was bustling with life and getting through the crowd was like forcing one’s way through a hawthorn bush. Every now and then something caught on his sleeves and trouser legs; at times it was children who had lost their mothers while they were dragging their fathers away from the beer tent, at others it was spies from the guardhouse, at others shady vendors of caps of invisibility, aphrodisiacs and bawdy scenes carved in cedar wood. Geralt stopped smiling and began to swear, making judicious use of his elbows.

  He heard the sound of a lute and a familiar peal of laughter. The sounds drifted from a fabulously coloured stall, decorated with the sign: ‘Buy your wonders, amulets and fish bait here’.

  ‘Has anyone ever told you, madam, that you are gorgeous?’ Dandelion yelled, sitting on the stall and waving his legs cheerfully. ‘No? It cannot be possible! This is a city of blind men, nothing but a city of blind men. Come, good folk! Who would hear a ballad of love? Whoever would be moved and enriched spiritually, let him toss a coin into the hat. What are you shoving your way in for, you bastard? Keep your pennies for beggars, and don’t insult an artist like me with copper. Perhaps I could forgive you, but art never could!’

  ‘Dandelion,’ Geralt said, approaching. ‘I thought we had split up to search for the doppler. And you’re giving concerts. Aren’t you ashamed to sing at markets like an old beggar?’

  ‘Ashamed?’ the bard said, astonished. ‘What matters is what and how one sings, and not where. Besides, I’m hungry, and the stallholder promised me lunch. As far as the doppler is concerned, look for it yourselves. I’m not cut out for chases, brawls or mob law. I’m a poet.’

  ‘You would do better not to attract attention, O poet. Your fiancée is here. There could be trouble.’

  ‘Fiancée?’ Dandelion blinked nervously. ‘Which one do you mean? I have several.’

  Vespula, clutching a copper frying pan, had forced her way through the audience with the momentum of a charging aurochs. Dandelion jumped up from the stall and darted away, nimbly leaping over some baskets of carrots. Vespula turned towards the Witcher, dilating her nostrils. Geralt stepped backwards, his back coming up against the hard resistance of the stall’s wall.

  ‘Geralt!’ Dainty Biberveldt shouted, jumping from the crowd and bumping into Vespula. ‘Quickly, quickly! I’ve seen him! Look, there, he’s getting away!’

  ‘I’ll get you yet, you lechers!’ Vespula screamed, trying to regain her balance. ‘I’ll catch up with the whole of your debauched gang! A fine company! A pheasant, a scruff and a midget with hairy heels! You’ll be sorry!’

  ‘This way, Geralt!’ Dainty yelled as he ran, jostling a small group of schoolboys intently playing the shell game. ‘There, there, he’s scarpered between those wagons! Steal up on him from the left! Quick!’

  They rushed off in pursuit, the curses of the stallholders and customers they had knocked over ringing in their ears. By a miracle Geralt avoided tripping over a snot-nosed tot caught up in his legs. He jumped over it, but knocked over two barrels of herrings, for which an enraged fisherman lashed him across the back with a live eel, which he was showing to some customers at that moment.

  They saw the doppler trying to flee past a sheep pen.

  ‘From the other side!’ Dainty yelled. ‘Cut him off from the other side, Geralt!’

  The doppler shot like an arrow along the fence, green waistcoat flashing. It was becoming clear why he was not changing into anybody else. No one could rival a halfling’s agility. No one. Apart from another halfling. Or a witcher.

  Geralt saw the doppler suddenly changing direction, kicking up a cloud of dust, and nimbly ducking into a hole in the fence surrounding a large tent serving as a slaughterhouse and a shambles. Dainty also saw it. The doppler jumped between the palings and began to force his way between the flock of bleating sheep crowded into the enclosure. It was clear he would not make it. Geralt turned and rushed after him between the palings. He felt a sudden tug, heard the crack of leather tearing, and the leather suddenly became very loose under his other arm.

  The Witcher stopped. Swore. Spat. And swore again.

  Dainty rushed into the tent after the doppler. From inside came screaming, the noise of blows, cursing and an awful banging noise.

  The Witcher swore a third time, extremely obscenely, then gnashed his teeth, raised his hand and formed his fingers into the Aard Sign, aiming it straight at the tent. The tent billowed up like a sail during a gale, and from the inside reverberated a hellish howling, clattering and lowing of oxen. The tent collapsed.

  The doppler, crawling on its belly, darted out from beneath the canvas and dashed towards another, smaller tent, probably the cold store. Right away, Geralt pointed his hand towards him and jabbed him in the back with the Sign. The doppler tumbled to the ground as though struck by lightning, turned a somersault, but immediately sprang up and rushed into the tent. The Witcher was hot on his heels.

  It stank of meat inside the tent. And it was dark.

  Tellico Lunngrevink Letorte was standing there, breathing heavily, clinging with both hands onto a side of pork hanging on a pole. There was no other way out of the tent, the canvas firmly fastened to the ground with numerous pegs.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you again, mimic,’ Geralt said coldly.

  The doppler was breathing heavily and hoarsely.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ it finally grunted. ‘Why are you tormenting me, Witcher?’

  ‘Tellico,’ Geralt said, ‘You’re asking foolish questions. In order to come into possession of Biberveldt’s horses and identity, you cut his head open and abandoned him in the wilds. You’re still making use of his personality and ignoring the problems you are causing him. The Devil only knows what else you’re planning, but I shall confuse those plans, in any event. I don’t want to kill you or turn you over to the authorities, but you must leave the city. I’ll see to it that you do.’

  ‘And if I don’t want to?’

  ‘I’ll carry you out in a sack on a handcart.’

  The doppler swelled up abruptly, and then suddenly became thinner and began to grow, his curly, chestnut hair turning white and straightening, reaching his shoulders. The halfling’s green waistcoat shone like oil, becoming black leather, and silver studs sparkled on the shoulders and sleeves. The chubby, ruddy face elongated and paled.

  The hilt of a sword extended above its right shoulder.

  ‘Don’t come any closer,’ the second Witcher said huskily and smiled. ‘Don’t come any nearer, Geralt. I won’t let
you lay hands on me.’

  What a hideous smile I have, Geralt thought, reaching for his sword. What a hideous face I have. And how hideously I squint. So is that what I look like? Damn.

  The hands of the doppler and the Witcher simultaneously touched their sword hilts, and both swords simultaneously sprang from their scabbards. Both witchers simultaneously took two quick, soft steps; one to the front, the other to the side. Both of them simultaneously raised their swords and swung them in a short, hissing moulinet.

  Simultaneously, they both stopped dead, frozen in position.

  ‘You cannot defeat me,’ the doppler snarled. ‘Because I am you, Geralt.’

  ‘You are mistaken, Tellico,’ the Witcher said softly. ‘Drop your sword and resume Biberveldt’s form. Otherwise you’ll regret it, I warn you.’

  ‘I am you,’ the doppler repeated. ‘You will not gain an advantage over me. You cannot defeat me, because I am you!’

  ‘You cannot have any idea what it means to be me, mimic.’

  Tellico lowered the hand gripping the sword.

  ‘I am you,’ he repeated.

  ‘No,’ the Witcher countered, ‘you are not. And do you know why? Because you’re a poor, little, good-natured doppler. A doppler who, after all, could have killed Biberveldt and buried his body in the undergrowth, by so doing gaining total safety and utter certainty that he would not be unmasked, ever, by anybody, including the halfling’s spouse, the famous Gardenia Biberveldt. But you didn’t kill him, Tellico, because you didn’t have the courage. Because you’re a poor, little, good-natured doppler, whose close friends call him Dudu. And whoever you might change into you’ll always be the same. You only know how to copy what is good in us, because you don’t understand the bad in us. That’s what you are, doppler.’

  Tellico moved backwards, pressing his back against the tent’s canvas.