The Sword of Destiny

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  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 a while…’

  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. I hit him no matter the consequences.

  Chapelle didn't touch Geralt's elbow.

  ‘Master witcher,’ he said in a low voice, turning his back to the others, ‘I know that certain cities, in contrast to Novigrad, are deprived of the divine protection of the Eternal Fire. Suppose then that a creature like a shifter operated in one of these cities. Tell me, out of curiosity, how much you would charge to capture such a creature alive.’

  ‘I do not offer my services in populated cities,’ the witcher replied, shrugging. ‘A third party could suffer.’

  ‘You are concerned, then, with the fortunes of others?’

  ‘Well yes, because I am in general responsible for their fate. This cannot be without consequences.’

  ‘I understand, but should the degree of deference to third parties not be inversely proportional to the expected remuneration?’

  ‘No, it should not.’

  ‘I don't care for your tone, witcher. But no matter, I understand what you suggest by that tone. You suggest that you do not intend to undertake the… what I could ask you to do, regardless of the amount of your payment. And what about the type of payment?’

  ‘I don't understand.’

  ‘But yes, of course you do.’

  ‘No, truly.’

  ‘What I say is purely theoretical,’ Chapelle continued quietly, calmly, without anger or menace in his voice. ‘Would it be possible if the recompense for your service was the guarantee that your friends and yourself would leave this… theoretical city alive? What do you think?’

  ‘This question,’ the witcher replied, smiling unpleasantly, ‘is not one that it is possible to answer theoretically. The situation you describe, venerable Chapelle, must be realized in practice. I am
absolutely not in a hurry, but if need be… If there is no other way… I am ready to put that scenario to the test.’

  ‘Ah! Perhaps you're right,’ Chapelle responded dispassionately. ‘We theorize too much and I see that, in terms of practice, you do not intend to cooperate. Perhaps it is better that way. I nurture the hope, in any case, that this will not be a source of conflict between us.’

  ‘I too,’ Geralt said, ‘nurture that hope.’

  ‘That hope continues to burn within us, Geralt of Rivia. Do you know the Eternal Fire? A flame that never dies? The symbol of our fortitude? Our path through the darkness? The Eternal Fire, Geralt, is hope. For all, without exception. Because if something is given in part… to you, to me, to others… that thing is simply called hope. Remember this. It was a pleasure to meet you, witcher.’

  Geralt bowed stiffly and kept silent. Chapelle looked at him for a moment, then turned his back and crossed the square without a glance at his escort. The men armed with lamiae followed behind in an orderly formation.

  ‘Oh, my mother,’ Dandelion whimpered timidly, watching them leave. ‘We were lucky. As long as it's over, as long as they're finished with us for now.’

  ‘Calm yourself,’ said the witcher, ‘and stop whining. Nothing happened, as you can see.’

  ‘Do you know who that was, Geralt?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That was Chapelle, the officer of security. Novigrad's secret service is dependent on the Church. Chapelle isn't a priest, but the highest official of the hierarchy, the most powerful and dangerous man in the city. Everyone, even the Council and the guilds, quake in their boots before him: he's a scoundrel of the first order, Geralt, drunk on power like a spider on blood. People whisper about his exploits: disappearances that leave no trace, false accusations, torture, masked assassins, terror, blackmail, ordinary theft, duress, scams and plots. By the gods, you have have the makings of a beautiful story, Biberveldt.’

  ‘Leave me alone, Dandelion,’ Dainty said. ‘You have nothing to fear: no-one harms a hair on the head of a troubadour. For reasons that escape me, you are still untouchable.’

  ‘An untouchable poet,’ Dandelion groaned, still pale, ‘may also fall under the wheels of a runaway cart, be poisoned by eating fish or accidentally drown in a ditch. Such scenarios are Chapelle's specialty. He agreed to talk with us, that's already an extraordinary fact. One thing is certain: he would never have done so without a good reason. He's up to something. You'll see: he'll fall upon us at the first opportunity, clap us in irons and torture us with impunity. Nothing is more normal here!’

  ‘There is a lot of truth in what he says,’ the halfling said to Geralt. ‘We must be wary of the scoundrel who owns this land. They say he's sick, that his blood is spoiled. Everyone is waiting for him to kick the bucket.’

  ‘Shut up, Biberveldt,’ Dandelion hissed timidly, looking around them. ‘Someone could hear. See how everyone's watching. Break camp, I tell you. I advise you to reflect seriously on what Chapelle suggested regarding the doppler. I, for example, have never seen a doppler in my life. If necessary, I am prepared to swear on the Eternal Fire.’

  ‘Look!’ the halfling said suddenly. ‘Someone's coming now!’

  ‘Run!’ Dandelion cried.

  ‘Calm down, calm down,’ Dainty said, smiling broadly and smoothing his stubborn hair. ‘I know him. It's Muscadin, a local merchant, treasurer of the guild. We've done business together. Look at his face! As if he'd shit his pants. Hey, Muscadin, are you looking for me?’

  ‘I swear on the Eternal Fire,’ Muscadin said slowly, breathless, dragging off his fox-cap and wiping his forehead with his sleeve. ‘I was sure they would drag you to the tower. It's a miracle. I'm amazed…’

  The halfling maliciously cut Muscadin's words short: ‘It is kind of you to be amazed… Even kinder of you to explain why.’

  ‘Don't play the fool, Biberveldt,’ Muscadin responded anxiously. ‘Everyone is talking about it. The hierarchy has seen it. Chapelle too. The whole town knows what a deal you got on the cochineal, and with what intelligence and cunning you profited from the events in Poviss.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Muscadin?’

  ‘By the gods, Dainty, would you stop this gloating like the bird of proverb who thinks his nest the best? Did you not buy the cochineal at half price, for 5.20 a bushel? You did. Taking advantage of low demand, you paid with a promissory note. You didn't pay a single cent in cash for the transaction. And what happened? Within the day, you turned over the merchandise for a price four times higher than what you originally paid. Will you have the gall to claim that this was nothing but coincidence or luck, and that in buying the cochineal, you knew nothing of the upheavals taking place in Poviss?’

  ‘What? What are you saying?’

  ‘There has been turmoil in Poviss!’ Muscadin shouted. ‘A… there… what's the word: a ‘rellavotion.’ King Rhyd was deposed. The Thyssenides clan governs now! Rhyd's court, nobility, and army wore blue. The local weavers only bought indigo. But the Thyssenides wear scarlet. The price of indigo fell and cochineal rose! Then we learned that it was you, Biberveldt, who had on hand the only store of cochineal available. Ha!’

  Dainty kept quiet, frowning.

  ‘Biberveldt the cunning, that's the least we can call you,’ Muscadin continued. ‘And without a word to anyone, even your friends… If you had told me, we would all be able to profit. We could even have found a common agency. But you preferred to go it alone. That's your choice. In any case, no longer count on me. By the Eternal Fire, the halflings are nothing but egotistical scoundrels and dogs. Vimme Vivaldi has never endorsed a promissory note for me, and for you? Without hesitation. Rotten, every one of you damned 'non-humans,' accursed halflings and dwarves! Plague take you!’

  Muscadin spat and turned on his heel. Lost in thought, Dainty scratched his head. His cowlick rose.

  ‘Something begins to grow clearer, my lads,’ he said finally. ‘I know what we should do. Let's go to the bank. If anyone can get us through all this, it's my good banker, Vimme Vivaldi.’

  III

  ‘I imagined banks differently,’ Dandelion murmured, examining the room. ‘Where do they keep the money, Geralt?’

  ‘Devil only knows,’ the witcher responded in a low voice, trying to hide the torn sleeve of his jacket. ‘Maybe in the basement?’

  ‘No, I looked: there's no basement here.’

  ‘Must be in the attic.’

  ‘Please come into my office, gentlemen,’ announced Vimme Vivaldi.

  Seated at large tables, young men and dwarves of indeterminate age were busy aligning rows of numbers and letters on sheets of parchment. All, without exception, bowed their heads and stuck out their tongues slightly. The witcher thought that the task must be terribly tedious. It seemed nonetheless to absorb the workers. In one corner, an old man who looked like a beggar was seated on a stool, sharpening pencils. His pace remained slow.

  The banker cautiously closed the door to his office. He smoothed his long beard, which was well-maintained despite ink stains here and there, then adjusted the jacket that was buttoned with difficulty over his belly.

  ‘You know, master Dandelion,’ he said, sitting behind an enormous mahogany table that groaned under the weight of heaped scrolls, ‘I imagined you very differently. I've heard and know your songs: of Queen Vanda, drowned in the Cula river, because no-one would have her. And the kingfisher who dove to the bottom of a latrine…’

  ‘I am not the author,’ Dandelion responded, red with anger. ‘I've never written anything of the sort!’

  ‘Oh. Excuse me.’

  ‘If we could perhaps move on to serious matters,’ Dainty interrupted. ‘Time is wasting while you discuss unnecessary subjects. I have serious problems, Vimme.’

  ‘I was afraid of that,’ the dwarf responded, shaking his head. ‘Remember that I warned you, Biberveldt. I told you three days ago not to invest money in that rancid fish oil. What difference does it make that t
he price was low? The nominal price is not important. What is important is the resale profit. The same for the rose essence and the wax, and the damned cotton cord. What possessed you, Dainty, to buy such shit? In cash, no less, instead of paying reasonably with a letter of credit or exchange! I told you, the cost of storage in Novigrad is expensive. In a span of two weeks it will exceed three times the value of the goods. And you…’

  ‘Yes,’ the halfling moaned quietly. ‘Tell me, Vivaldi. I what?’

  ‘You, you assured me that there was no risk, that you'd sell it all within twenty-four hours. Today you come back to see me with your tail between your legs to admit you're having trouble. You haven't sold any of it, have you? And the storage price went up, eh? Ah, that's no good, it's no good! Do I need to get you out of this now, Dainty? If at least you had insured your merchandise, I would gladly send one of my scribes to discreetly burn your warehouse. No, my friend, the only thing we can do is take things philosophically and say, 'it all went to shit.' That's commerce: win one day, lose the next. In the long run, what's the importance of the money spent to buy fish oil, string, and rose essence? Not much. Let's speak instead of more serious matters. Tell me if I should sell the mimosa bark, because the offers are beginning to stabilize at five and five sixths.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Are you deaf?’ the banker asked, frowning. ‘The latest offer is equivalent to five and five sixths. I hope that you came back to get rid of it, because you will not get seven, Dainty.’