‘Give over, landlord,’ the halfling said, raising his head. ‘You’re becoming a bore with that guard of yours. I would like to point out that that non-human hasn’t harmed anybody else, only me. And incidentally, I’m also a non-human.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mr Biberveldt,’ the innkeeper laughed nervously. ‘What are you and what is that? You’re not far off being a man, and that’s a monster. It astonishes me that you’re sitting there so calmly, Witcher, sir. What’s your trade, if you’ll pardon me? It’s your job to kill monsters, isn’t it?’

‘Monsters,’ Geralt said coldly, ‘but not the members of intelligent races.’

‘Come, come, sir,’ the innkeeper said. ‘That’s a bit of an exaggeration.’

‘Indeed,’ Dandelion cut in, ‘you’ve overstepped the mark, Geralt, with that “intelligent race”. Just take a look at it.’

Tellico Lunngrevink Letorte, indeed, did not resemble a member of an intelligent race at that moment. He resembled a puppet made of mud and flour, looking at the Witcher with a beseeching look in its dull, yellow eyes. Neither were the snuffling sounds being emitted from its nose–which now reached the table–consistent with a member of an intelligent race.

‘Enough of this empty bullshit!’ Dainty Biberveldt suddenly roared. ‘There’s nothing to argue about! The only thing that counts is my horses and my loss! Do you hear, you bloody slippery jack, you? Who did you sell my nags to? What did you do with the money? Tell me now, before I kick you black and blue and flay you alive!’

Detchka, opening the door slightly, stuck her flaxen-haired head into the chamber.

‘We have visitors, father,’ she whispered. ‘Journeymen masons from the scaffolding and others. I’m serving them, but don’t shout so loudly in here, because they’re beginning to look funny at the snug.’

‘By the Eternal Fire!’ the innkeeper said in horror, looking at the molten doppler. ‘If someone looks in and sees it… Oh, it’ll look bad. If we aren’t to call the guard, then… Witcher, sir! If it really is a vexling, tell it to change into something decent, as a disguise, like. Just for now.’

‘That’s right,’ Dainty said. ‘Have him change into something, Geralt.’

‘Into whom?’ the doppler suddenly gurgled. ‘I can only take on a form I’ve had a good look at. Which of you shall I turn into?’

‘Not me,’ the innkeeper said hurriedly.

‘Nor me,’ Dandelion snorted. ‘Anyway, it wouldn’t be any disguise. Everybody knows me, so the sight of two Dandelions at one table would cause a bigger sensation than the one here in person.’

‘It would be the same with me,’ Geralt smiled. ‘That leaves you, Dainty. And it’s turned out well. Don’t be offended, but you know yourself that people have difficulty distinguishing one halfling from another.’

The merchant did not ponder this for long.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Let it be. Take the chain off him, Witcher. Right then, turn yourself into me, O intelligent race.’

After the chain had been removed the doppler rubbed its doughy hands together, felt its nose and stared goggle-eyed at the halfling. The sagging skin on its face tightened up and acquired colour. Its nose shrank and drew in with a dull, squelching sound, and curly hair sprouted on its bald pate. Now it was Dainty’s turn to goggle, the innkeeper opened his mouth in mute astonishment and Dandelion heaved a sigh and groaned.