The Sword of Destiny

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘Not me,’ the innkeeper said quickly.

  ‘Nor me,’ Dandelion said indignantly. ‘It wouldn't be good camouflage. The whole world knows me: the sight of two Dandelions seated at the same table would cause a greater sensation than the sight of this naked monster.’

  ‘With me, it would be the same,’ Geralt added, smiling. ‘That leaves you, Dainty. You're in luck. No offense: you know that humans have difficulty differentiating between halflings.’

  The merchant didn't hesitate for long.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘So be it. Remove the chain, witcher. Come on, turn yourself into me, 'intelligent race.'’

  Freed from the chain, the doppler stretched his pasty limbs, stroked his nose and then studied the halfling. The stretched skin of his face became firmer and took on color. The nose diminished, producing a muffled gurgle. On his bald scalp, curly hair appeared. Dainty widened his eyes. The innkeeper, awed, mutely opened his mouth. Dandelion gasped without interrupting his incessant moan.

  The final touch was the change to the color of his eyes.

  Dainty Biberveldt the Second gave a rumbling gurgle. He seized the mug belonging to Dainty Biberveldt the First from across the table and brought it greedily to his lips.

  ‘It's impossible, it's impossible,’ Dandelion repeated in a low voice. ‘See here: the copy is perfect, it's impossible to differentiate. Everything is there! This time, even the mosquito bites and the stains on the trousers… Truly, the trousers! Geralt, even the sorcerers don't succeed at that! Feel it, that's real wool, not an illusion! Incredible! How does he do it?’

  ‘Nobody knows,’ the witcher rumbled. ‘He himself doesn't know. I said that he possesses an ability to completely transform his own matter, but this ability is organic and instinctive…’

  ‘But the trousers… What are the trousers made of? And the vest?’

  ‘It's just his own transformed skin. I don't think that he'd readily agree to take them off. Besides, the skin would immediately lose its woolen properties…’

  ‘Pity,’ Dainty said, his eyes glinting. ‘I was just wondering if it was possible for it to transform the matter of that bucket into gold.’

  Obviously very happy to be the center of attention, the doppler who had become a faithful copy of the halfling took his ease with a broad smile. He adopted a seated position identical to that of Dainty, his hairy feet kicking in the same way.

  ‘You know the subject of dopplers well, Geralt,’ he said before tipping back his mug, smacking his tongue and burping. ‘Very well, even.’

  ‘By the gods, that's exactly the voice and the mannerisms of Biberveldt,’ said Dandelion. ‘Does anyone have a red taffeta ribbon? We must mark it, damn it, because it could all go wrong.’

  ‘How is that, Dandelion?’ demanded Dainty Biberveldt the First. ‘There is no way you can confuse me with him! From the first…’

  ‘… glance, there are differences,’ continued Dainty Biberveldt the Second, stifling a burp. ‘To confuse us, you would really have to be a horse's ass.’

  ‘What did I just say?’ Dandelion murmured with admiration. ‘He thinks and talks like Biberveldt. It is impossible to differentiate…’

  ‘That's a stretch!’ The halfling made a face. ‘A big stretch.’

  ‘No,’ Geralt objected, ‘it's no stretch. Whether you believe it or not, Dainty, that creature is indeed yourself at the moment. Through means unknown, the doppler also precisely copies the psyche of its victims.’

  ‘The psy… what?’

  ‘The characteristics of the mind: character, feeling, thoughts. The soul. This contradicts the claims of the majority of sorcerers and all priests: the soul is also the body.’

  ‘You blaspheme…’ the innkeeper broke in, breathing unevenly.

  ‘What rubbish,’ Dainty Biberveldt added forcefully. ‘Don't joke around, witcher. The properties of the mind, well then: copying someone's nose or trousers is one thing, but the intelligence, that's bullshit. I'll prove it right here. If your flea-bitten doppler copied my business acumen, he would not have sold my horses in Novigrad where the market is weak, but would have gone to Devil's Crossing, to the horse market, where the prices are decided at auction. There, you do not lose…’

  ‘Of course you lose!’ The doppler aped the halfling's pique, imitating his characteristic grumble. ‘First, the auction prices at Devil's Crossing have been falling, because the merchants decide amongst themselves how much to bid. And a commission must be paid to the organizers.’

  ‘You will not teach me commerce, imbecile,’ Biberveldt raged. ‘At Devil's Crossing, I would have gotten 90 or even 100 apiece. And you, how much did you get from the rogues in Novigrad?’

  ‘130,’ replied the doppler.

  ‘You lie, damned porridge-brain!’

  ‘I'm not lying. I took the horses directly to the port, master Dainty, where I found a fur trader from overseas. Furriers don't use oxen to draw their caravans, because the animals are too slow. The furs are light, but valuable. They must therefore travel faster. In Novigrad, there is no market for horses: thus there are no horses either. I was the only one to make an offer. I could therefore name my own price. It's as simple…’

  ‘Don't lecture me, I told you!’ Dainty shouted, growing crimson. ‘Well then, you made some money. But where has it gone now?’

  ‘I invested it,’ Tellico replied proudly, smoothing a stubborn lock of hair just as Dainty often did. ‘Money, master Dainty, must always circulate for business to carry on.’

  ‘Watch yourself or I'll break your face! What did you use the money from the horses for? Speak!’

  ‘I said: I bought merchandise.’

  ‘What merchandise, you damned lunatic?’

  ‘I bought co… cochineal pigment,’ the doppler stammered, then recited rapidly: ‘five hundred bushels of cochineal pigment, sixty-two fifths of mimosa bark, fifty-five barrels of rose essence, twenty-three barrels of fish oil, six hundred earthenware bowls and eight hundred pounds of beeswax. Note that the fish oil was a very good price because it was slightly rancid. Ah! I almost forgot: and one hundred cubits of cotton cord.’

  A very long silence fell.

  ‘Rancid fish oil,’ Dainty said at last, articulating very slowly and placing emphasis on each word. ‘Cotton cord, rose essence. I must be dreaming. It's a nightmare. Anything can be bought in Novigrad: the most precious and the most useful items… and this cretin spends my money to acquire this shit. With my appearance! My standing and my reputation as a merchant are ruined. No, it's all too much for me. I can't take it. Give me your sword, Geralt, so I can finally be rid of him.’

  The door to the alcove opened with a creak.

  ‘Merchant Biberveldt!’ called the individual who had just entered. He was so thin that the purple toga he wore seemed to be draped on a coat-hanger; on his head sat a velvet hat shaped something like an overturned chamberpot. ‘Is the merchant Biberveldt here?’

  ‘Yes,’ the two halflings replied in unison.

  In the instant that followed, one of the two Dainty Biberveldts threw the contents of his mug into the witcher's face, deftly kicked the stool out from under Dandelion and crawled swiftly under the table in the direction of the door, knocking over the individual in the funny hat in the process.

  ‘Fire! Help!’ he yelled, falling backward into the common room. ‘Murder! Call the fire brigade!’ Having wiped the foam from his face, Geralt set off in pursuit of the fugitive, but the other Dainty Biberveldt, who had also rushed to the door, got tangled in his legs after slipping on the sawdust. They fell together in the doorway. Dandelion swore horribly, trying to extricate himself from under the table.

  ‘Stop, thief!’ howled the lanky individual, still on the ground and entangled in the folds of his toga. ‘Thief! Bandits!’

  Geralt trampled the halfling. Finally in the inn's common room, he saw the doppler barrel into the customers and run into the street. The witcher tried to use his momentum to cross this elastic barrier but wa
s halted by the customers who blocked the way. He managed to knock down one of them, black with mud and stinking of beer, but the others, locking their strong shoulders, did not budge an inch. Geralt thrashed, enraged. He heard the sharp crack of thread and leather giving way. Under his arm, he could feel a sudden lack of resistance. The witcher stopped struggling and swore.

  ‘We caught him!’ shouted the workers. ‘We caught the thief! What do we do, chief?’

  ‘Into the quicklime!’ the foreman bellowed, lifting his head from the table and trying to orient himself with bleary eyes.

  ‘Guards!’ bawled the one dressed in purple, extricating himself from the alcove. ‘Contempt of court! Guards! You'll end up on the gallows, thief!’

  ‘We have him!’ cried the workers. ‘We have him, sir.’

  ‘It's not him,’ the man in the toga howled in response. ‘Catch the scoundrel! Chase him!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Biberveldt, the hobbit! Catch him, catch him! Lock him up in a dungeon!’

  ‘Just a minute…’ Dainty interrupted, stepping out of the alcove. ‘What are you doing, master Schwann? Don't wipe your mouth with my name. Call off the alarm. It's not necessary.’

  Schwann grew quiet, watching the halfling warily. Dandelion appeared in the doorway of the alcove, wearing his hat askew and checking the state of his lute. The workers released Geralt at last after having exchanged some words in low voices. Despite his anger, the witcher constrained himself to spitting profusely on the floor.

  ‘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.’

  Dan
delion 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.