‘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 the 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.’
‘Came back?’
Vivaldi smoothed his beard to dislodge the breadcrumbs that were clinging to it.
‘You came in an hour ago,’ he replied calmly, ‘with the order to hold until seven. To sell at seven times the initial purchase price, this would be 2 crowns and 45 coppers per pound. It's too expensive, Dainty, even in such a favorable market. The tanners have already agreed amongst themselves to freeze the price. I'd bet my head that…’
‘The merchant Sulimir offers 2.15 crowns!’ shouted a strident voice.
‘Six and a sixth,’ Vivaldi calculated swiftly. ‘What shall we do, Dainty?’
‘Sell!’ the halfling cried. ‘Six times the purchase price and you still hesitate, by the plague?’
A second creature, wearing a yellow hat and covered in an overcoat that resembled an old sack, arrived in turn in the office.
‘The merchant Biberveldt recommends not to sell before seven!’ he yelled, before wiping his nose with his sleeve and immediately departing.
‘Ah, ah!’ the dwarf said eventually, after a long delay. ‘A Biberveldt orders me to sell, but another Biberveldt, on the contrary, asks me to wait. Interesting. What shall we do, Dainty? Will you settle the matter before a third Biberveldt orders us aboard a galley to be transported to the land of dog-headed men, eh?’
‘What is that?’ asked Dandelion, indicating the thing dressed in a green hat that was standing motionless in the doorway. ‘What is it, by the plague?’
‘A young gnome,’ Geralt replied.
‘It must be,’ Vivaldi confirmed drily. ‘It's not an old troll. What it is is of no importance. Come, Dainty, I'm listening.’
‘Vimme,’ the halfling said, ‘I implore you: don't ask questions. Something terrible has happened. Know and acknowledge that I, Dainty Biberveldt, honest merchant of the Persicaires prairie, don't have the slightest idea what is going on here. Tell me every detail: everything that's happened over the past three days. I beg you, Vimme.’
‘Interesting,’ said the dwarf. ‘I understand that what with the commissions I collect, I must respect the wishes of my clients. Listen, then. You appeared in my bank three days ago, completely out of breath. You made a deposit of 1,000 crowns and requested a promissory note of 2,520 payable to the bearer. I gave my endorsement.’
‘Without collateral?’
‘Without, because I like you, Dainty.’
‘Tell the rest, Vimme.’
‘The next morning, you rushed in and insisted, making a ruckus and stamping your feet, that I open a line of credit in the Vizima branch of my bank for the substantial amount of 3,500 crowns. The beneficia
ry was to be, if I recall correctly, a certain Ther Lukokian, known as Big-Nose. I opened this credit.’
‘Without collateral,’ the halfling repeated, hope rising in his voice.
‘My fondness for you, Biberveldt,’ the banker sighed, ‘ends at 3,000 crowns. I required a written statement stipulating that in the case of insolvency, the mill will belong to me.’
‘What mill?’
‘The mill of your father-in-law, Arno Hardbotomm of the Persicaires prairie.’
‘I'm never going home,’ Dainty said mournfully, adding decisively: ‘I'll take out a loan to buy a ship and become a pirate.’
Vimme Vivaldi scratched his ear, watching him suspiciously.
‘Hey!’ he said. ‘You recovered the letter and tore it up a while ago. You're solvent. Nothing surprising about that, with such earnings…’
‘Earnings?’
‘Indeed, I forgot,’ grumbled the dwarf, ‘that I'm expected to be surprised by nothing. You came out far ahead with the cochineal, Biberveldt, because you see, the upheaval that took place in Poviss…’
‘I know that already,’ the halfling interrupted. ‘Indigo fell and cochineal rose. And I got some money. Is that right, Vimme?’
‘That's the truth. You have an account with me for 6,346 crowns and 80 coppers. Net, after subtracting my commission and the amount of tax.’
‘You paid the tax for me?’
‘Shouldn't I have?’ Vivaldi asked, surprised. ‘When you came in an hour ago, you settled up neatly. One of my clerks already brought the sum to the town hall. About 1,500, because the sale of the horses is of course included.’
The office door burst open with a bang to admit something wearing an extremely dirty hat.
‘2.30 crowns!’ he shouted. ‘The merchant Hazelquist!’
‘Don't sell!’ Dainty cried. ‘Wait for a better price! Both of you, go back to the market at once!’
The two gnomes greedily seized the copper coins tossed to them by the dwarf and disappeared.
‘Yes… Where was I, then?’ Vivaldi wondered for a moment, toying with the abnormally large amethyst crystal that served as his paperweight. ‘Ah yes… I was up to the cochineal bought with my promissory note. The letter of credit that I mentioned earlier, you used to buy a large quantity of mimosa bark. You bought a lot, but at a good price: 35 coppers a pound from Zangwebar's broker, that Big-Nose or Snout. The galley docked at the port yesterday. That's where it all started.’
‘I can imagine,’ Dainty groaned.
‘What is mimosa bark good for?’ Dandelion couldn't help but ask.
‘Nothing,’ the halfling groaned sadly. ‘Unfortunately.’
‘Mimosa bark, master poet,’ the dwarf explained, ‘is a tanning substance used in the manufacture of leather.’
‘Someone was stupid enough,’ Dainty interrupted, ‘to buy mimosa bark from overseas when one can acquire it for next to nothing from Temerian oak.’
‘That's just where the vampire is buried,’ said Vivaldi, ‘because the Temerian druids threatened to set a plague of rats and locusts over the land if the destruction of oak trees is not stopped immediately. The dryads support the druids. It must be said that the Temerian king has always had a certain weakness for dryads. In short: a complete embargo on Temerian oak came into effect yesterday. The price of mimosa is climbing. You had the benefit of good information, Dainty.’
Outside the office door there came the sound of footsteps. The thing wearing a green hat burst breathlessly into the office:
‘The venerable merchant Sulimir…’ the gnome managed to say, ‘orders me to repeat that the merchant Biberveldt, the halfling, is nothing but a savage hairy-eared swine, a speculator and a swindler, and that he, Sulimir, wishes for Biberveldt to contract scabies. He offers 2.45 crowns. This is his final offer.’
‘Sell,’ the halfling concluded. ‘Go, little one, run and confirm. Calculate, Vimme.’
Vivaldi grabbed a stack of parchment and produced a dwarven abacus, a veritable marvel. Unlike those used by humans, the dwarven abacus was shaped like a latticed pyramid. Vivaldi's was crafted from golden filaments upon which small uniform prisms cut from rubies, emeralds, onyx and black agate moved. The dwarf deftly manipulated the jewels at the top, bottom, and sides with his stout fingers.
‘This will be… hum… hum… Less cost and my commission… Minus tax… Yes… 15,622 crowns and 25 coppers. Not bad.’
‘If I've calculated correctly,’ Dainty Biberveldt said slowly, ‘that will make a net total of… I should have…’
‘Precisely 21,969 crowns and 5 coppers. Not bad.’
‘Not bad?’ Dandelion yelped. ‘Not bad? With that kind of sum, you could by a whole village or a small castle! Never in my life have I seen that kind of money!’
‘Nor have I,’ said the halfling. ‘But let's not get carried away, Dandelion. No-one here has seen that money and we may never even see the color of it.’
‘How is that, Biberveldt?’ the dwarf said, scowling. ‘Where do you get such sorry thoughts? Sulimir will pay in cash or with a letter of exchange. Sulimir's money is good. What's wrong, then? You're worried about the losses from the purchase of your stinking fish oil and wax? With such profits, you can easily cover those losses…’
‘It's not that.’
‘Then what?’
Dainty bowed his curly head and cleared his throat.
‘Vimme,’ he said, staring at the ground. ‘Chapelle is sniffing around.’
The banker clucked his tongue.
‘It's not right,’ he said, ‘but it's not surprising. You see, Biberveldt, the commercial information that you used for your transactions also has political implications. No-one suspected that these things would happen in Poviss and Temeria. Not even Chapelle, and Chapelle likes to be the first to know. Now, you can imagine that he's racking his brains to discover how you had access to this information. I think that he must already know. As do I.’
‘Interesting.’
Vivaldi glanced at Dandelion and Geralt, wrinkling his nose.
‘Interesting? What is interesting are your associates, Dainty,’ he said. ‘A troubadour, a witcher and a merchant. My congratulations. Master Dandelion travels everywhere: he frequents royal courts and no doubt knows how to keep his ears open. The witcher? A bodyguard? A scarecrow to keep away the debtors?’
‘Your conclusions are too hasty, master Vivaldi,’ Geralt replied coldly. ‘We are not associates.’
‘And I,’ Dandelion continued, flushing, ‘do not eavesdrop. I'm a poet, not a spy!’
‘One hears things,’ the dwarf said, grinning. ‘Many things, master Dandelion.’
‘Lies!’ the troubadour shouted. ‘It's not true!’
‘All right, all right, I believe you. Only, I don't know if Chapelle will believe you. But who knows, perhaps we are making a lot of noise over nothing. I will tell you, Biberveldt, that Chapelle has changed a great deal since his attack of apoplexy. Perhaps the fear of death crept into his heart and forced him to ask questions? This is not the same Chapelle. He has become friendly, sympathetic, calm and… even honest, in a way.’
‘What are you telling me?’ said the halfling. ‘Chapelle… honest? Friendly? It's not possible.’
‘I'm telling you the truth,’ Vivaldi retorted. ‘What's more, the Church actually faces another problem in the Eternal Fire.’
‘How is that?’
‘The Eternal Fire must burn everywhere, as they say. Altars devoted to it must be erected throughout the land. Many altars. Don't ask for details, Dainty: I am not a follower of human beliefs. But I know that all the priests, including Chapelle, are concerned only with altars and fire. Grand preparations are in motion. Taxes will increase, for sure.’
‘My word,’ said Dainty. ‘Small consolation, but…’
The office door opened again to reveal the thing in a green hat and rabbit fur garment that the witcher already knew.
‘The merchant Biberveldt,’ he reported, ‘requests the p
urchase of bowls. The price is secondary.’
‘Perfect,’ the halfling said with a smile, which more resembled the distorted face of an enraged wildcat. ‘Then buy lots of bowls. The will of master Biberveldt must be obeyed. What else should we buy? Cabbage? Juniper oil? Iron stoves?’
‘And,’ the merchant produced something from his fur coat, ‘the merchant Biberveldt requests 30 crowns in cash to pay for a jug of wine, a meal and beer to drink. Three scoundrels have stolen his purse at The Pike's Grotto.’
‘Ah! Three scoundrels,’ Dainty repeated, emphasizing each word. ‘My word, this city is teeming with scoundrels. And where is the venerable merchant Biberveldt right now, if I may ask?’
‘Where could he be? At the west bazaar, of course,’ the thing replied with a sniff.
‘Vimme,’ Dainty said in a dire tone. ‘Don't ask any questions. Find me a very heavy and solid cane from somewhere. I'm going to the west bazaar, but I can't go without that cane. There are too many scoundrels and thieves over there.’
‘A cane, you say? That can be arranged. But something continues to nag at me, Dainty. I will not ask any questions. I will not ask, but I will only guess, and you will confirm or deny my suppositions, all right?’
‘Guess away.’
‘That rancid fish oil, the rose essence, the wax and the bowls, the damned cotton cord, it's nothing but a ploy to divert the competition's attention from the cochineal pigment and the mimosa and confuse the market, isn't it, Dainty?’
The office door opened to admit something without a hat.
‘Oxyria reports: everything is ready!’ it pealed loudly. ‘He asks if we can pour!’
‘Pour!’ bawled the halfling. ‘Pour immediately!’
‘By old Rhundurin's beard,’ exclaimed Vimme Vivaldi, after the gnome had closed the door. ‘I don't understand! What's going on here? Pour what? Pour it into what?’ ‘I have no idea,’ Dainty admitted, ‘but business must go on.’
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher] Page 17