The Sword of Destiny

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘I have…’ The halfling darted a suspicious eye over the witcher. ‘Well, what brings you to Novigrad, master Geralt? Have horrible monsters been poking their muzzles around here? Has someone hired your… er, ah… services?’

  ‘No,’ the witcher said, smiling. ‘I am here only to enjoy myself.’

  ‘Oh!’ Dainty responded nervously, his hairy feet fidgeting where they were hanging a foot above the ground. ‘That's good…’

  ‘What's good about it?’ asked Dandelion, swallowing a spoonful of soup and taking a draught of his beer. ‘Perhaps you intend to support us, Biberveldt? Pay for our entertainment, you mean? This couldn't have come at a better time. We intend to start by getting a little drunk here in the Pike's Grotto, then hop over to Passionflower: it's an excellent and extravagant brothel where we can hire a half-elf or maybe even a pure one. We still need a patron.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Someone to pay for it.’

  ‘That's what I thought,’ mumbled Dainty. ‘Sorry, but I have a business appointment. I don't have, moreover, the funds for such entertainment. Besides, the Passionflower doesn't tolerate non-humans.’

  ‘What are we, then? Barn owls? Ah, I understand! Halflings aren't allowed inside. That's true, you're right, Dainty. This is Novigrad, the capital of the world.’

  ‘Yes…’ said the halfling, continuing to watch the witcher, his lips pinched. ‘I'll be going now… I have an appointment…’

  The door to the alcove opened then with a bang: the room was entered by none other than… Dainty Biberveldt!

  ‘By the gods!’ Dandelion exclaimed.

  The halfling standing in the doorway in no way differed from the one who was seated at the table, apart from the fact that he was clean and the new arrival was dirty, his clothing disheveled and wrinkled.

  ‘I have you, you son of a bitch,’ shouted the bedraggled halfling. ‘Blasted thief!’

  His immaculate twin rose abruptly, overturning his stool and scattering the cutlery. Geralt reacted immediately: having seized his sheathed sword from the bench, he struck Biberveldt's neck with the shoulder strap. The halfling dropped and then rolled along the ground before crawling between Dandelion's legs with the intention of reaching the doorway on all fours. His limbs elongated into something like a spider's legs. At the sight, the disheveled Dainty Biberveldt swore, shouted, and leapt back in a movement that threw him against the wooden partition with a bang. Geralt freed his sword from its sheath. He cleared a path by kicking a chair aside and then launched himself after the immaculate Dainty Biberveldt. The latter, no longer having anything in common with the real Dainty Biberveldt except the color of his vest, cleared the threshold of the room like a grasshopper and burst into the common room, barging into the girl with parted lips. Seeing his long legs and his indistinct shape, the girl opened her mouth wide and gave an ear-shattering scream. Making the most of the time gained from the collision with the girl, Geralt caught up to the creature in the middle of the room and tripped it with a deft kick to the knee.

  ‘Don't try to move, little brother,’ he warned, gritting his teeth and pressing the point of his sword to the neck of the shocking apparition. ‘Don't try to move.’

  ‘What's going on here?’ cried the innkeeper, rushing over wielding the handle of a shovel. ‘What is that? Guards! Obstruante, run and alert the guard!’

  ‘No!’ the creature screamed, flattening itself against the ground and growing more and more deformed. ‘Have mercy, no!’

  ‘This is not a matter for the guard,’ agreed the disheveled hobbit, exiting the alcove. ‘Hold the girl, Dandelion!’

  Despite the swiftness of his reaction, the troubadour managed to take hold of Obstruante, who was screaming, and choose his grip with great care. The girl fell at his feet, squealing.

  ‘Easy there, innkeeper,’ Dainty Biberveldt shot, breathing heavily. ‘This is a personal matter. We won't trouble the guard. I'll pay for any damage…’

  ‘There's no damage,’ the master of the house said simply, looking around.

  ‘There will be soon,’ the pot-bellied halfling continued, ‘because I'm going to beat the shit out of him… and how! I'm going to do him in. I'll make it so painful for so long that he'll never be able to forget me: we'll break everything in here.’

  Flattened against the ground like a puddle, the long-legged caricature of Dainty Biberveldt sniffled miserably.

  ‘Out of the question,’ the innkeeper said coldly, blinking and hefting the handle of his shovel. ‘Fight in the street or in the yard, master halfling. Not here. Otherwise I'll call the guard. You can count on it. But it's… but it's a monster, that one!’

  ‘Master innkeeper,’ Geralt intervened evenly, without reducing the pressure of the point of his sword on the creature's neck, ‘stay calm. No-one will break anything in your place. There will be no damage. The situation is under control. I am a witcher. As you see, the monster is neutralized. But as it is indeed a personal matter, I suggest that we clear it up calmly in the alcove. Let go of the girl, Dandelion, and come here. I have a silver chain in my bag. Take it out and tightly bind the limbs of our gracious stranger: at the elbows, behind his back. Don't move, little brother.’

  The creature keened softly.

  ‘Well, Geralt,’ Dandelion said. ‘It's tied. Go into the alcove. And you, innkeeper, what are you standing there for? I ordered beer. And when I order beer, you must continue serving it until I ask for water.’

  Geralt shoved the bound creature into the alcove and had it sit at the base of the post. Dainty Biberveldt sat too, eying it malevolently.

  ‘Look at it: a horror,’ said the halfling. ‘It looks like a mass of fermenting dough. Look at his nose, Dandelion. It looks like it'll fall off. Son of a bitch. His ears are like my mother-in-law's before she was buried. Brrr!’

  ‘Wait, wait,’ Dandelion groaned. ‘You, you're Biberveldt? Uh, yes, obviously. But the thing sitting against the post was also you a few moments ago. If I am not mistaken. Geralt! All eyes now turn to you, witcher. What's going on here, by all the devils? What is that?’

  ‘It's a mimic.’

  ‘Mimic, yourself,’ the creature responded in a guttural voice, wrinkling its nose. ‘I'm not a mimic, but a doppler. My name is Tellico Lunngrevink Letorte, also known as Penstock. My friends call me Dudu.’

  ‘I'll give you 'Dudu,' you damned son of a whore!’ Dainty shouted, shaking his fist. ‘Where are my horses, thief?’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ the innkeeper prompted, entering with a jug and an armful of mugs. ‘You promised to stay quiet.’

  ‘Oh, beer!’ mumbled the halfling. ‘I have such a thirst, by pestilence. And I'm famished!’

  ‘I, too, would gladly drink something,’ said Tellico Lunngrevink Letorte.

  No-one paid attention to his request.

  ‘What is that thing?’ asked the innkeeper, looking at the creature who, at the sight of the beer being served, dragged a long tongue between his drooping lips. ‘What is that, sirs?’

  ‘A mimic,’ repeated the witcher, ignoring the monster's grimace. ‘It goes by a number of names: shifter, double, imitator, pavrat, or even doppler, as he calls himself.’

  ‘A shifter!’ exclaimed the innkeeper. ‘Here, in Novigrad? In my establishment? Quickly, the guard must be alerted without delay! And the priests! My word…’

  ‘Easy, easy,’ Dainty Biberveldt growled, eating Dandelion's soup, which had miraculously not spilled from its bowl. ‘We'll have plenty of time to turn it over to the authorities. But later. This scoundrel has stolen from me. This is not a matter to entrust to the authorities before I have recovered my due. I know you well, you inhabitants of Novigrad and your judges: I won't recover a dime, and even that would take luck…’

  ‘Have mercy,’ the doppler moaned desperately. ‘Don't turn me over to the humans! Don't you know what they do to the ones like me?’

  ‘Of course we know,’ interrupted the innkeeper, nodding his head. ‘The priests exorcise captur
ed dopplers: they tie them securely to a wooden stake and trap them in a ball of clay and slag before baking them until the clay hardens and becomes a brick. At least that's what we did once, when monsters were more common.’

  ‘A barbaric custom, typical of humans,’ Dainty said with a grimace, pushing the empty bowl away. ‘But it might be the proper punishment for the banditry and theft. Come on and talk, scoundrel, where are my horses? Answer quickly, or I will rip off your nose with my feet and shove it up your ass! I ask you, where are my horses!’ ‘I… I sold them,’ said Tellico Lunngrevink Letorte.

  The drooping lips contracted suddenly, taking the shape of a miniature head of cauliflower.

  ‘He sold them? Did you hear that?’ the halfling frothed. ‘He sold my horses!’

  ‘Of course,’ Dandelion commented. ‘He had plenty of time. I've seen him here for three days… That means that… By pestilence, Dainty, this means that…’

  ‘It's obvious what that means!’ the merchant cried, stamping his hairy feet. ‘He robbed me on the way, a day's journey from the city, and came here pretending to be me, you understand? And he sold my horses! I'll kill him! I'll snuff him out with my own hands!’

  ‘Tell us what happened, master Biberveldt.’

  ‘Geralt of Rivia, I presume? Witcher?’

  Geralt acknowledged this with a nod.

  ‘What luck,’ the halfling went on. ‘I'm Dainty Biberveldt of the Persicaires prairie, farmer, rancher and merchant. Call me Dainty, Geralt.’

  ‘Tell us what happened, Dainty.’

  ‘Well, it was like this: we, my servants and myself, were taking the horses by way of the Devil's Crossing to sell. A day's walk from the city, we set up camp. We fell asleep after drinking a keg of brandy. I awake in the night, my bladder fit to burst. So I get out of the cart and while I'm up, check on the horses in the meadow. A damned fog envelops me. I look: someone's coming toward me. ‘Who goes there?’ I ask. The other doesn't say anything. I come closer, and… I see myself, like a mirror. I think that I shouldn't have had so much to drink, damn that brandy. Then this one… because it was him, he hits me in the face! I saw stars and passed out. I wake up in the morning with a blood-covered lump the size of a cucumber on my head. Not a soul to be found. Not a trace of our camp. I wandered for a whole day to find the path. Then I continued my walk, subsisting on little roots and raw mushrooms. He, meanwhile, that revolting Dudulico, whatever his name is, went to Novigrad wearing my appearance to get rid of my horses! I'm going to… As for my servants, the blind fools, I'll give them a hundred blows with a cane on their bare asses for not recognizing their own master and for getting conned like this! Cretins, dunderheads, piss-drunk louts…’

  ‘Don't blame them, Dainty,’ Geralt interrupted. ‘They never had a chance to see through it: a mime makes a copy so perfect that it's impossible to distinguish from the original, in this case the victim. You've never heard of mimics?’

  ‘I've heard of them, sure, but I thought they were imaginary.’

  ‘They are by no means imaginary. A doppler only needs to know or examine the victim to adapt his own shape immediately and perfectly to the structure of the original. I would point out that this is no illusion, but an extremely fine metamorphosis that imitates even the smallest details. How do mimics manage this? That, we don't know. Sorcerers presume that we are dealing with a process similar to that of lycanthropy, but I think that this is an entirely different mechanism, or something like lycanthropy but with an underlying force a thousand times greater. A werewolf can only take two or perhaps three forms at most, while the mimic can transform infinitely so long as what he copies corresponds more or less to his body mass.’

  ‘Body mass?’

  ‘Yes. He can't transform into a colossus. Nor a mouse.’

  ‘I see. And what's the chain you tied him with for?’

  ‘The silver is lethal to a werewolf, but only neutralizes, as you can see, a mimic. He sits quietly without changing form thanks to the power of this chain.’

  The doppler pursed his drooping lips, giving the witcher a sullen look. His troubled eyes had lost the hazel color of the halfling's irises and turned yellow.

  ‘Watch yourself, you son of a bitch,’ Dainty growled. ‘When I think it even came down to the Grotto where I myself usually stay. And it persuaded them, the imbeciles, that it was really me!’

  Dandelion nodded.

  ‘Dainty,’ said the troubadour, ‘it was really you. I've been coming here for three days. It was your appearance and your wording. He thought like you. When the bill came, he was as miserly as you. Maybe even more so.’

  ‘On the latter point I don't care in the least,’ said the halfling, ‘because in that case maybe I can recover some part of my money. I don't dare touch that thing. Get my purse back from him, Dandelion, and see what it contains. There should be a lot of money if the horse thief sold my animals.’

  ‘How many horses did you have, Dainty?’

  ‘Twelve.’

  ‘Based on the current price on the world market,’ the musician continued, inspecting the contents of the purse, ‘and on the influence that you really hold, then I see enough for perhaps one horse here, and that, old and strung out. In Novigrad, this would be enough to acquire two goats, possibly three.’

  The merchant was silent. He looked as though he would burst into tears. Tellico Lunngrevink Letorte flattened his nose as low as possible and his lips lower still, making a feeble gurgle.

  ‘In other words,’ the halfling sighed at last, ‘it's a creature whose existence I had dismissed as a fairy-tale that has robbed and ruined me. That's what I call bad luck.’

  ‘I won't argue with that,’ the witcher remarked, casting a glance at the doppler that was curling in on itself more and more. ‘I was also convinced that mimics belonged to a bygone era. Apparently there were once many of them in the forests and on the surrounding plateaus. But their ability to take other forms alarmed the first settlers, who began to hunt them efficiently. Almost all of them were exterminated.’

  ‘And it's a good thing,’ the innkeeper interrupted, spitting: ‘I swear on the Eternal Fire that I'd prefer dragons or devils, because a dragon is a dragon and a devil a devil. You know what you're dealing with. Werewolves, their metamorphoses and their variations, are all simply horrifying. It is a demonic process, a fraud, the act of a traitor. Humans have everything to lose from such trickery! I tell you: alert the guard and put the monster to the flame!’

  ‘Geralt,’ Dandelion said, intrigued by the subject, ‘I'd be happy to hear the voice of a specialist. These mimics really are menacing and aggressive?’

  ‘They generally use their ability to copy,’ the witcher replied, ‘for defense rather than attack. I have never heard of…’

  ‘By the plague,’ Dainty interrupted, bringing his fist down on the table. ‘If knocking someone out and robbing them isn't aggressive, then I don't know what is. The matter is simple: I was attacked and robbed of not only the fruits of honest labor, but also of my own self. I demand compensation! I will not accept…’

  ‘We must alert the guard,’ repeated the innkeeper. ‘And also the priests! And burn the monster, the non-human!’

  ‘Stop, innkeeper!’ the halfling cut in, looking up. ‘You begin to annoy us with your guards. I note that this non-human has only caused harm to myself. Not to you, until shown otherwise. And, incidentally, you will notice that I am also a non-human.’

  ‘Come now, master Biberveldt…’ the innkeeper replied, with an embarrassed smile. ‘What a difference there is between him and you! Your kind are like humans, of course, while this one is nothing but a monster. I'm surprised, by the way, master witcher, that you stay seated like this without reacting. What is your purpose, one might ask? Isn't it true that you kill monsters?’

  ‘Monsters, indeed,’ Geralt responded coldly, ‘but not members of intelligent races.’

  ‘Here, master,’ said the innkeeper ‘you exaggerate somewhat.’ ‘That's right, Ge
ralt,’ Dandelion interrupted, ‘you're pushing it, calling this an 'intelligent race.' Just look at it.’

  Tellico Lunngrevink Letort indeed did not give the impression of belonging to a sentient race. Fixing the witcher with his troubled yellow eyes, he more closely resembled a puppet made of mud and flour. The sniffles produced by his nose, lying flat on the table, did not make a convincing case for such membership.

  ‘Enough of this meaningless blather!’ Dainty Biberveldt cried suddenly. ‘There is nothing to discuss! All that matters are my horses and my losses! You heard me, you blasted yellow fungus! To whom did you sell my horses? What have you done with the money? Speak now, because I'll kick you and hit you and tear you apart!’

  Opening the door, Obstruante stuck her head into the alcove.

  ‘Some guests just arrived at the inn, father,’ she murmured. ‘Apprentice builders and some others. I'm serving them, but stop shouting like this, because they're starting to ask what's going on in here.’

  ‘By the Eternal Fire!’ the innkeeper swore, looking at the collapsed doppler. ‘If someone comes in and sees it… we're finished. If we don't alert the guard, well… Master witcher! If this is really a shifter, tell this thing to take a more respectable and discreet form. For the moment, at least.’

  ‘Well said,’ Dainty agreed. ‘Turn him into something else, Geralt.’

  ‘Into whom?’ the doppler asked then, gurgling. ‘I can only take the form of someone I can see. Which one of you wants to lend me his appearance?’