‘No!’ the creature wailed, flattening itself against the floor and deforming itself even more. ‘Have mercy, nooooo!’

‘Don’t call them!’ the dirty halfling echoed, rushing out of the snug. ‘Grab that girl, Dandelion!’

The troubadour caught the screaming Detchka, carefully choosing the places to seize her by. Detchka squealed and crouched on the floor by his legs.

‘Calm down, innkeeper,’ Dainty Biberveldt panted. ‘It’s a private matter, we won’t call out the guard. I’ll pay for any damage.’

‘There isn’t any damage,’ the innkeeper said level-headedly, looking around.

‘But there will be,’ the plump halfling said, gnashing his teeth, ‘because I’m going to thrash him. And properly. I’m going to thrash him cruelly, at length and frenziedly, and then everything here will be broken.’

The long-limbed and spread-out caricature of Dainty Biberveldt flattened on the floor snivelled pathetically.

‘Nothing doing,’ the innkeeper said coldly, squinting and raising the spade handle a little. ‘Thrash it in the street or in the yard, sir, not here. And I’m calling the guard. Needs must, it is my duty. Forsooth… it’s some kind of monster!’

‘Innkeeper, sir,’ Geralt said calmly, not relieving the pressure on the freak’s neck, ‘keep your head. No one is going to destroy anything, there won’t be any damage. The situation is under control. I’m a witcher, and as you can see, I have the monster in my grasp. And because, indeed, it does look like a private matter, we’ll calmly sort it out here in the snug. Release the girl, Dandelion, and come here. I have a silver chain in my bag. Take it out and tie the arms of this gentleman securely, around the elbows behind its back. Don’t move, chum.’

The creature whimpered softly.

‘Very well, Geralt,’ Dandelion said, ‘I’ve tied it up. Let’s go to the snug. And you, landlord, what are you standing there for? I ordered beer. And when I order beer, you’re to keep serving me until I shout “Water”.’

Geralt pushed the tied-up creature towards the snug and roughly sat him down by the post. Dainty Biberveldt also sat down and looked at him in disgust.

‘It’s monstrous, the way it looks,’ he said. ‘Just like a pile of fermenting dough. Look at its nose, Dandelion, it’ll fall off any second, gorblimey. And its ears are like my mother-in-law’s just before her funeral. Ugh!’

‘Hold hard, hold hard,’ Dandelion muttered. ‘Are you Biberveldt? Yes, you are, without doubt. But whatever’s sitting by that post was you a moment ago. If I’m not mistaken. Geralt! Everybody’s watching you. You’re a witcher. What the bloody hell is going on here? What is it?’

‘It’s a mimic.’

‘You’re a mimic yourself,’ the creature said in a guttural voice, swinging its nose. ‘I am not a mimic, I’m a doppler, and my name is Tellico Lunngrevink Letorte. Penstock for short. My close friends call me Dudu.’

‘I’ll give you Dudu, you whoreson!’ Dainty yelled, aiming a punch at him. ‘Where are my horses? You thief!’

‘Gentlemen,’ the innkeeper cautioned them, entering with a jug and a handful of beer mugs, ‘you promised things would be peaceful.’