Vivaldi reached beneath some scrolls of parchment and took out a dwarven abacus, a veritable marvel. Unlike abacuses used by humans, the dwarven one was shaped like a small openwork pyramid. Vivaldi’s abacus, though, was made of gold wires, over which slid angular beads of ruby, emerald, onyx and black agate, which fitted into each other. The dwarf slid the gemstones upwards, downwards and sideways for some time, with quick, deft movements of his plump finger.

‘That will be… hmm, hmm… Minus the costs and my commission… Minus tax… Yes. Fifteen thousand six hundred and twenty-two crowns and five-and-twenty pennies. Not bad.’

‘If I’ve reckoned correctly,’ Dainty Biberveldt said slowly, ‘all together, net, then I ought to have in my account…’

‘Precisely twenty-one thousand nine hundred and sixty-nine crowns and five pennies. Not bad.’

‘Not bad?’ Dandelion roared. ‘Not bad? You could buy a large village or a small castle for that! I’ve never, ever, seen that much money at one time!’

‘I haven’t either,’ the halfling said. ‘But simmer down, Dandelion. It so happens that no one has seen that money yet, and it isn’t certain if anyone ever will.’

‘Hey, Biberveldt,’ the dwarf snorted. ‘Why such gloomy thoughts? Sulimir will pay in cash or by a bill of exchange, and Sulimir’s bills are reliable. What then, is the matter? Are you afraid of losing on that stinking cod liver oil and wax? With profits like that you’ll cover the losses with ease…’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘So what is the point?’

Dainty coughed, and lowered his curly mop.

‘Vimme,’ he said, eyes fixed on the floor. ‘Chappelle is snooping around me.’

The banker clicked his tongue.

‘Very bad,’ he drawled. ‘But it was to be expected. You see, Biberveldt, the information you used when carrying out the transactions does not just have commercial significance, but also political. No one knew what was happening in Poviss and Temeria–Chappelle included–and Chappelle likes to be the first to know. So now, as you can imagine, he is wracking his brains about how you knew. And I think he has guessed. Because I think I’ve also worked it out.’

‘That’s fascinating.’

Vivaldi swept his eyes over Dandelion and Geralt, and wrinkled his snub nose.

‘Fascinating? I’ll tell you what’s fascinating; your party, Dainty,’ he said. ‘A troubadour, a witcher and a merchant. Congratulations. Master Dandelion shows up here and there, even at royal courts, and no doubt keeps his ears open. And the Witcher? A bodyguard? Someone to frighten debtors?’

‘Hasty conclusions, Mr Vivaldi,’ Geralt said coldly. ‘We are not partners.’

‘And I,’ Dandelion said, flushing, ‘do not eavesdrop anywhere. I’m a poet, not a spy!’

‘People say all sorts of things,’ the dwarf grimaced. ‘All sorts of things, Master Dandelion.’

‘Lies!’ the troubadour yelled. ‘Damned lies!’

‘Very well, I believe you, I believe you. I just don’t know if Chappelle will believe it. But who knows, perhaps it will all blow over. I tell you, Biberveldt, that Chappelle has changed a lot since his last attack of apoplexy. Perhaps the fear of death looked him in the arse and forced him to think things over? I swear, he is not the same Chappelle. He seems to have become courteous, rational, composed and… and somehow honest.’