‘Well actually, you do.’ The doppler imitated the halfling’s offended expression and snorted characteristically. ‘First of all, the prices at the auctions in Devil’s Ford are coming down, because the merchants are fixing the bidding. And in addition you have to pay the auctioneer’s commission.’

‘Don’t teach me how to trade, you prat,’ Biberveldt said indignantly. ‘I would have taken ninety or a hundred a piece in Devil’s Ford. And how much did you get off those Novigradian chancers?’

‘A hundred and thirty,’ the doppler replied.

‘You’re lying, you rascal.’

‘I am not. I drove the horses straight to the port, sir, and found a foreign fur trader. Furriers don’t use oxen when they assemble their caravans, because oxen are too slow. Furs are light, but costly, so one needs to travel swiftly. There’s no market for horses in Novigrad, so neither are there any horses. I had the only available ones, so I could name my price. Simple—’

‘Don’t teach me, I said!’ Dainty yelled, flushing red. ‘Very well, you made a killing. So where’s the money?’

‘I reinvested it,’ Tellico said proudly, imitating the halfling’s typical raking of his fingers through his thick mop of hair. ‘Money, Mr Dainty, has to circulate, and business has to be kept moving.’

‘Be careful I don’t wring your neck! Tell me what you did with the cash you made on the horses.’

‘I told you. I sank it into goods.’

‘What goods? What did you buy, you freak?’

‘Co… cochineal,’ the doppler stuttered, and then enumerated quickly: ‘A thousand bushels of cochineal, sixty-two hundredweight of mimosa bark, fifty-five gallons of rose oil, twenty-three barrels of cod liver oil, six hundred earthenware bowls and eighty pounds of beeswax. I bought the cod liver oil very cheaply, incidentally, because it was a little rancid. Oh, yes, I almost forgot. I also bought a hundred cubits of cotton string.’

A long–very long–silence fell.

‘Cod liver oil,’ Dainty finally said, enunciating each word very slowly. ‘Cotton string. Rose oil. I must be dreaming. Yes, it’s a nightmare. You can buy anything in Novigrad, every precious and everyday thing, and this moron here spends my money on shit. Pretending to be me. I’m finished, my money’s lost, my merchant’s reputation is lost. No, I’ve had enough of this. Lend me your sword, Geralt. I’ll cut him to shreds here and now.’

The door to the chamber creaked open.

‘The merchant Biberveldt!’ crowed an individual in a purple toga which hung on his emaciated frame as though on a stick. He had a hat on his head shaped like an upturned chamber pot. ‘Is the merchant Biberveldt here?’

‘Yes,’ the two halflings answered in unison.

The next moment, one of the Dainty Biberveldts flung the contents of the mug in the Witcher’s face, deftly kicked the stool from under Dandelion and slipped under the table towards the door, knocking over the individual in the ridiculous hat on the way.

‘Fire! Help!’ it yelled, rushing out towards the common chamber. ‘Murder! Calamity!’