‘No,’ smiled the Witcher, ‘I’m here for my own amusement.’

‘Oh,’ Dainty said, nervously wriggling his hirsute feet, which were dangling half a cubit above the floor, ‘that’s good…’

‘What’s good?’ Dandelion asked, swallowing a spoonful of soup and sipping some beer. ‘Do you plan to support us, Biberveldt? In our amusements, I mean? Excellent. We intend to get tipsy, here, in the Spear Blade. And then we plan to repair to the Passiflora, a very dear and high-class den of iniquity, where we may treat ourselves to a half-blood she-elf, and who knows, maybe even a pure-blood she-elf. Nonetheless, we need a sponsor.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Someone to pay the bills.’

‘As I thought,’ Dainty muttered. ‘I’m sorry. Firstly, I’ve arranged several business meetings. Secondly, I don’t have the funds to sponsor such diversions. Thirdly, they only admit humans to the Passiflora.’

‘What are we, then, short-eared owls? Oh, I understand? They don’t admit halflings. That’s true. You’re right, Dainty. This is Novigrad. The capital of the world.’

‘Right then…’ the halfling said, still looking at the Witcher and twisting his mouth strangely. ‘I’ll be off. I’m due to be—’

The door to the chamber opened with a bang and in rushed…

Dainty Biberveldt.

‘O, ye Gods!’ Dandelion yelled.

The halfling standing in the doorway in no way differed from the halfling sitting at the table, if one were to disregard the fact that the one at the table was clean and the one in the doorway was dirty, dishevelled and haggard.

‘Got you, you bitch’s tail!’ the dirty halfling roared, lunging at the table. ‘You thief!’

His clean twin leaped to his feet, overturning his stool and knocking the dishes from the table. Geralt reacted instinctively and very quickly. Seizing his scabbarded sword from the table, he lashed Biberveldt on the nape of his neck with the heavy belt. The half-ling tumbled onto the floor, rolled over, dived between Dandelion’s legs and scrambled towards the door on all fours, his arms and legs suddenly lengthening like a spider’s. Seeing this the dirty Dainty Biberveldt swore, howled and jumped out of the way, slamming his back into the wooden wall. Geralt threw aside the scabbard and kicked the stool out of the way, darting after him. The clean Dainty Biberveldt–now utterly dissimilar apart from the colour of his waistcoat–cleared the threshold like a grasshopper and hurtled into the common bar, colliding with the lass with the half-open mouth. Seeing his long limbs and melted, grotesque physiognomy, the lass opened her mouth to its full extent and uttered an ear-splitting scream. Geralt, taking advantage of the loss of momentum caused by the collision, caught up with the creature in the centre of the chamber and knocked it to the ground with a deft kick behind the knee.

‘Don’t move a muscle, chum,’ he hissed through clenched teeth, holding the point of his sword to the oddity’s throat. ‘Don’t budge.’

‘What’s going on here?’ the innkeeper yelled, running over clutching a spade handle. ‘What’s this all about? Guard! Detchka, run and get the guard!’