‘Ah, beer,’ the halfling sighed. ‘Oh, but I’m damned thirsty. And hungry!’

‘I could do with a drink, too,’ Tellico Lunngrevink Letorte declared gurglingly. He was totally ignored.

‘What is it?’ the innkeeper asked, contemplating the creature, who at the sight of the beer stuck its long tongue out beyond sagging, doughy lips. ‘What is it, gentlemen?’

‘A mimic,’ the Witcher repeated, heedless of the faces the monster was making. ‘It actually has many names. A changeling, shape-shifter, vexling, or fetch. Or a doppler, as it called itself.’

‘A vexling!’ the innkeeper yelled. ‘Here, in Novigrad? In my inn? Swiftly, we must call the guard! And the priests! Or it will be on my head…’

‘Easy does it,’ Dainty Biberveldt rasped, hurriedly finishing off Dandelion’s soup from a bowl which by some miracle had not been spilled. ‘There’ll be time to call anyone we need. But later. This scoundrel robbed me and I have no intention of handing it over to the local law before recovering my property. I know you Novigradians–and your judges. I might get a tenth, nothing more.’

‘Have mercy,’ the doppler whimpered plaintively. ‘Don’t hand me over to humans! Do you know what they do to the likes of me?’

‘Naturally we do,’ the innkeeper nodded. ‘The priests perform exorcisms on any vexling they catch. Then they tie it up with a stick between its knees and cover it thickly with clay mixed with iron filings, roll it into a ball, and bake it in a fire until the clay hardens into brick. At least that’s what used to be done years ago, when these monsters occurred more often.’

‘A barbaric custom. Human indeed,’ Dainty, said, grimacing and pushing the now empty bowl away, ‘but perhaps it is a just penalty for banditry and thievery. Well, talk, you good-for-nothing, where are my horses? Quickly, before I stretch that nose of yours between your legs and shove it up your backside! Where are my horses, I said.’

‘I’ve… I’ve sold them,’ Tellico Lunngrevink Letorte stammered, and his sagging ears suddenly curled up into balls resembling tiny cauliflowers.

‘Sold them! Did you hear that?’ the halfling cried, frothing at the mouth. ‘It sold my horses!’

‘Of course,’ Dandelion said. ‘It had time to. It’s been here for three days. For the last three days you’ve… I mean, it’s… Dammit, Dainty, does that mean—’

‘Of course that’s what it means!’ the merchant yelled, stamping his hairy feet. ‘It robbed me on the road, a day’s ride from the city! It came here as me, get it? And sold my horses! I’ll kill it! I’ll strangle it with my bare hands!’

‘Tell us how it happened, Mr Biberveldt.’

‘Geralt of Rivia, if I’m not mistaken? The Witcher?’

Geralt nodded in reply.

‘That’s a stroke of luck,’ the halfling said. ‘I’m Dainty Biberveldt of Knotgrass Meadow. Farmer, stock breeder and merchant. Call me Dainty, Geralt.’

‘Say on, Dainty.’