The Witcher

THE ETERNAL FIRE I

“Scum! Worthless singer! Crook!”

Geralt, his curiosity piqued, led his mare to the corner of the alley. Before he had the time to locate the origin of the screams, he heard a crash of glass join the chorus of cries. A jar of cherry jam, he thought. That is the sound of a jar of cherry jam thrown by someone from a great height or with great force. He perfectly remembered Yennefer, during their time together, throwing in anger the jars like it that she received from her customers. Yennefer was ignorant of all the secrets of making jams: her magic in this area was still desperately incomplete.

A fairly large group of onlookers had amassed around the corner of the alley, at the foot of a narrow pink-painted house. A young woman with blonde hair was standing in her nightgown on a flowered balcony suspended just below the overhanging edge of the rooftop.

Soft and rounded shoulders appeared beneath the frills of her bodice. She seized a flower pot with the intention of throwing it.

The thin man, wearing an olive-colored hat adorned with a feather, barely had time to leap back, like a goat, to avoid the impact of the pot that exploded on the ground just in front of him and scattered into a thousand pieces.

“I beg you, Vespula!” he cried. “Don't believe them! I am faithful to you! May I die on the spot if it isn't true!”

“Scoundrel! Demonspawn! Vagabond!” the plump blonde yelled back before

retreating into the depths of the house to search, no doubt, for new ammunition.

“Hey, Dandelion!” called the witcher, leading his recalcitrant mount onto the

battlefield. “How are you? What's going on?”

“Everything's fine,” replied the troubadour, flashing his teeth in a smile. “The usual.

Hello, Geralt. What are you doing here? By the plague, look out!”

A pewter cup whistled through the air and rebounded with a crash on the paving

stones. Dandelion recovered it from the ground to examine its condition and then tossed it into the gutter.

“Don't forget to take your clothes,” shouted the blonde, the ruffles of her nightgown dancing on her buxom chest. “Get out of my sight! Don't set foot here again, you good-for-nothing musician!”

“That's not mine,” Dandelion said in surprise, retrieving the multicolored pants from the ground. “I have, in all my life, never worn a pair of pants like these.”

“Go away! I don't want to see you anymore! You... You... You want to know what

you're worth in bed? Nothing! Nothing, you hear? You hear, everyone?”

Another flower pot burst forth: the dried stalk of the plant hummed through the air.

Dandelion had just enough time to dive. A copper pot of at least two and a half gallons followed the same course, whirling. The crowd of bystanders, standing out of the path of the projectiles, burst into laughter. Most of these clowns applauded, outrageously encouraging the young woman to continue.

“Does she have a crossbow in the house?” the witcher asked uneasily.

“It's possible,” replied the poet, craning his neck toward the balcony. “What bric-a-brac she has in there! Did you see these pants?”

“It would be prudent not to stay here. You can come back when she calms down.”

“By all the devils,” Dandelion grimaced, “I do not return to a house where I've had slander and copper pots thrown in my face. Our brief liaison is finished. Wait a little longer for her to throw me... Oh, by the gods! No! Vespula! Not my lute!”

The troubadour lunged, holding out his arms, tripped and fell, grabbing the instrument at the last moment just above the ground. The lute uttered a groaned song.

“Phew!” he murmured, rising. “I have it. All is well, Geralt, we can go. I left with her, it's true, a coat with a marten-fur collar, but never mind, that will be the price I pay. Because I know she'll never throw the coat.”

“Liar! Blackguard!” the blonde bawled before spitting pointedly from the balcony.

“Vagabond! Damned crook!”

“Why is she so upset? Have you done something stupid, Dandelion?”

“The usual,” the troubadour replied with a shrug. “She requires that I be

monogamous, but she herself doesn't hesitate to display another man's pants to the whole world. You heard her name-calling? By the gods, I personally have bedded better women, but I refrain from shouting as much in the middle of the street. Let's go.”

“Where do you suggest we go?”

“Where do you think? Certainly not the Temple of the Eternal Fire. Let's go to The Pike's Grotto. I need to settle my nerves.”

Without protest, the witcher led his mount behind Dandelion, who was already walking with a purposeful stride through the narrow alley. The troubadour tuned his instrument and plucked a few strings before playing a deep and vibrant chord:

Autumn's scents have pervaded the air,

the wind stole the word from our lips.

That's the way it must be, please don't shed

those diamonds that run down your cheeks.

Dandelion broke off. He waved happily to two girls who passed next to them,

carrying baskets of vegetables. The girls giggled.

“What brings you to Novigrad, Geralt?”

“Supplies: a harness, equipment, and this new jacket.” The witcher stroked the fresh, brand new leather of his jacket. “What do you think, Dandelion?”

“You are certainly no fashion plate,” the bard said, grimacing and stroking the

chicken feathers on the puffed sleeve of his own bright blue doublet with the notched collar.

“I'm happy to see you in Novigrad, the capital, the center and the cultural heart of the world.

An enlightened man can breathe deeply here!” 

“Then let's breathe on the next street over,” suggested Geralt, seeing a barefooted man squatting, his eyes wide, in the act of defecating in an adjacent alley.

“Your incessant sarcasm grows tiresome,” Dandelion said, grimacing again. “In

Novigrad, Geralt, there are houses made of brick, paved city streets, a seaport, warehouses, four watermills, slaughterhouses, sawmills, a large manufactory of pointed-toe shoes, and all desirable guilds and artisans, a mint, eight banks and nineteen pawnbrokers, a breathtaking castle and guard tower, and then every sort of diversion: a scaffold, a gibbet equipped with a trapdoor, thirty-five inns, a theater, a zoo, a bazaar and twelve brothels... I don't remember how many temples. Lots, in any case. And all these women, Geralt, proper ones, combed and perfumed... The satins, the velours, the silks, the bustles, the ribbons. Oh, Geralt! The verse writes itself!”

Your home all surrounded by snow,

glassy frost covers rivers and lakes.

That's the way it must be, please don't show

this yearning and grief on your face.

“A new ballad?”

“Yes. It's entitled Winter, but it isn't finished yet. I haven't come up with an ending because of Vespula: I'm shattered and the verse isn't coming to me. By the way, I forgot, how is it going with Yennefer?”

“So-so.”

“I understand.”

“No, you don't understand a thing. Well then, where is this inn? Is it far from here?”

“Just around the corner. There it is, we've arrived. You see the sign?”

“I see it.”

“I greet you warmly!” Dandelion called, smiling broadly at the young woman

sweeping the stairs. “My word, has everyone ever told you, dear girl, how lovely you are?”

The girl blushed, tightening her grip on her broom. Geralt thought for a moment that she wanted to strike Dandelion. He was mistaken. The girl gave him a smile, batting her eyelashes. Dandelion, as he usually did, ignored her reaction.

“I salute you and wish you good health! Good day!” Dandelion boomed, entering the inn and striking a resonant chord on his lute, whose strings jumped under the repeated movement of his thumb. “Master Dandelion, the most celebrated poet in the land, pays a visit to your unworthy establishment, innkeeper! He was struck by the desire for a beer! Do you appreciate the magnitude of the honor that I grant you, old miser?”

“I do,” the innkeeper replied despondently, emerging from behind the counter. “I am delighted to see you again, master singer. I rejoice to see that you have kept your word. You had indeed promised to return this morning to pay your debts from last night. And I thought it was only hot air, as usual. I am ashamed of my mistake.”

“Don't torment yourself without reason, my good man,” the troubadour replied

cheerfully, “because I don't have any money. We'll discuss it later.”

“No,” the innkeeper responded coldly. “We will discuss it now. Your credit is dead, master poet. You will not extort from me twice in a row.”

Dandelion hung his lute on a hook stuck in the wall and then sat at a table. He

removed his hat and meticulously examined the egret plume.

“Do you have any money, Geralt?” he asked, with a trace of hope in his voice.

“I don't. I spent everything I had on my jacket.”

“That's not good, that's not good,” Dandelion sighed. “By the plague, there isn't a soul to treat us. Innkeeper, why is your establishment so empty today?” 

“It's too early for the regular customers. The workers repairing the temple have

already left and gone on to the site, taking the foreman with them.”

“No-one else?”

“No-one else, apart from his magnificence, the merchant Biberveldt, who takes his breakfast in the alcove.”

“Dainty is here,” Dandelion said, pleased. “You should have said so earlier. Come with me to the alcove, Geralt. You know Dainty Biberveldt, the halfling?”

“No.”

“That's all right. You'll get to know him. Oh, oh!” called the troubadour, making his way to the side of the room. “I can already pick up the smell and the fragrance of onion soup, so sweet in my nostrils. Yoo-hoo! It's us! Surprise!”

At the base of the alcove's central post, which was decorated with garlands of garlic and bundles of dried herbs, there sat a chubby and curly-haired halfling dressed in a pistachio-green jacket. His right hand held a wooden spoon, the left an earthenware bowl.

Seeing Dandelion and Geralt, the halfling froze and opened his mouth wide. His round hazel eyes dilated with terror.

“Hi, Dainty,” Dandelion said cheerfully, waving his hat.

The halfling remained motionless, without closing his mouth. Geralt noticed that his hand shook slightly and caused a long morsel of cooked onion hanging from his spoon to swing like a pendulum.

“H-h... Hello to you, Dandelion,” he managed to say, stammering and swallowing.

“You have the hiccups? Want me to scare you? Listen: your wife was seen arriving at the toll gate! She'll arrive any second! Gardénia Biberveldt in the flesh! Haha!”

“You sure can be stupid, Dandelion,” the halfling said reproachfully.

Dandelion broke into laughter again, accompanied by two chords played on his lute.

“If only you could see your face, brother: so foolish. Besides, you look at us as if we had horns and tails. It's the witcher who scares you... eh? Perhaps you think that hunting season on halflings has just opened! Perhaps...”

“Stop,” Geralt interrupted in annoyance, approaching the table. “Pardon us, friend.

Dandelion has just been through a personal tragedy that he has not yet digested. He tries to use jokes to hide his sadness, dejection, and shame.”

“Don't tell me.” The halfling finally swallowed the contents of his spoon. “Let me guess: Vespula finally threw you out? Is that it, Dandelion?”

“I do not discuss delicate subjects with individuals who are drinking and stuffing themselves while their friends are forced to stand,” replied the troubadour, who sat down without waiting to be invited.

The halfling swallowed a spoonful of soup and began to lick up the drips of cheese.

“Sure,” he conceded reluctantly. “Join me, then. Have a seat. They're serving onion soup today... Will you have some?”

“In principle, I never eat so early in the morning,” Dandelion replied insolently. “But so be it: I'll eat, but certainly not with a dry throat... Hey! Innkeeper! Some beer, if you please! Quickly!”

A girl with her hair pulled back in a long braid that reached her thighs brought some goblets and bowls of soup. Having noticed her mouth surrounded by downy hairs, Geralt considered that she could have nice lips if only she remembered to close them.

“Dryad of the forest!” Dandelion cut in, seizing her hand and kissing the palm.

“Sylph! Vision! Divine entity with pale blue eyes like a lake. Beautiful as the break of day.

The form of your open lips, so exciting...”

“Give him some beer, quickly,” groaned Dainty. “He'll get into trouble.”

“Nothing of the kind, nothing of the kind,” the bard assured him. “Isn't that right, Geralt? It's difficult to find someone quieter than the two of us. I, master merchant, am a poet and musician: music softens the mood. The witcher here only poses a threat to monsters. I present to you: Geralt of Rivia, the terror of striga, werewolves and others of their breed. You have certainly heard of him, Dainty!”

“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 b***h,” 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 s**t 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 b***h. 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 w***e!” 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 captured 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 a*s! 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 b***h,” 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.”