Geralt, shaking off the beer froth, rushed after him, but the second Biberveldt, who was also tearing towards the door, slipped on the sawdust and fell in front of him. The two of them fell over, right on the threshold. Dandelion, clambering out from under the table, cursed hideously.

‘Assaaault!’ yelled the skinny individual, entangled in his purple toga, from the floor. ‘Rooobberrrryyyy! Criminals!

Geralt rolled over the halfling and rushed into the main chamber, to see the doppler–jostling the drinkers–running out into the street. He rushed after him, only to run into a resilient but hard wall of men barring his way. He managed to knock one of them over, smeared with clay and stinking of beer, but others held him fast in the iron grip of powerful hands. He fought furiously, but heard the dry report of snapping thread and rending leather, and the sleeve become loose under his right armpit. The Witcher swore and stopped struggling.

‘We ‘ave ‘im!’ the masons yelled. ‘We’ve got the robber! What do we do now, master?’

‘Lime!’ the master bellowed, raising his head from the table and looking around with unseeing eyes.

‘Guaaard!’ the purple one yelled, crawling from the chamber on all fours. ‘An official has been assaulted! Guard! It will be the gallows for you, villain!’

‘We ‘ave ‘im!’ the masons shouted. ‘We ‘ave ‘im, sir!’

‘That’s not him!’ the individual in the toga bellowed, ‘Catch the scoundrel! After him!’

‘Who?’

‘Biberveldt, the halfling! After him, give chase! To the dungeons with him!’

‘Hold on a moment,’ Dainty said, emerging from the snug. ‘What’s it all about, Mr Schwann? Don’t drag my name through the mud. And don’t sound the alarm, there’s no need.’

Schwann was silent and looked at the halfling in astonishment. Dandelion emerged from the chamber, bonnet at an angle, examining his lute. The masons, whispering among themselves, finally released Geralt. The Witcher, although absolutely furious, limited himself to spitting copiously on the floor.

‘Merchant Biberveldt!’ Schwann crowed, narrowing his myopic eyes. ‘What is the meaning of this? An assault on a municipal official may cost you dearly… Who was that? That halfling, who bolted?’

‘My cousin,’ Dainty said quickly. ‘A distant cousin…’

‘Yes, yes,’ Dandelion agreed, swiftly backing him up and feeling in his element. ‘Biberveldt’s distant cousin. Known as Nutcase-Biberveldt. The black sheep of the family. When he was a child he fell into a well. A dried-up well. But unfortunately the pail hit him directly on his head. He’s usually peaceful, it’s just that the colour purple infuriates him. But there’s nothing to worry about, because he’s calmed by the sight of red hairs on a lady’s loins. That’s why he rushed straight to Passiflora. I tell you, Mr Schwann—’

‘That’s enough, Dandelion,’ the Witcher hissed. ‘Shut up, dammit.’

Schwann pulled his toga down, brushed the sawdust off it and straightened up, assuming a haughty air.

‘Now, then,’ he said. ‘Heed your relatives more attentively, merchant Biberveldt, because as you well know, you are responsible. Were I to lodge a complaint… But I cannot afford the time. I am here, Biberveldt, on official business. On behalf of the municipal authorities I summon you to pay tax.’