‘Get away,’ the halfling said. ‘Chappelle, honest? Courteous? Impossible.’

‘I’m telling you how it is,’ Vivaldi replied. ‘And how it is, is what I’m telling you. What is more, now the temple is facing another problem: namely the Eternal Fire.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The Eternal Fire, as it’s known, is supposed to burn everywhere. Altars dedicated to that fire are going to be built everywhere, all over the city. A huge number of altars. Don’t ask me for details, Dainty, I am not very familiar with human superstitions. But I know that all the priests, and Chappelle also, are concerned about almost nothing else but those altars and that fire. Great preparations are being made. Taxes will be going up, that is certain.’

‘Yes,’ Dainty said. ‘Cold comfort, but—’

The door to the office opened again and the Witcher recognised the something in a green cap and coney fur coat.

‘Merchant Biberveldt,’ it announced, ‘instructs to buy more pots, should they run out. Price no object.’

‘Excellent,’ the halfling smiled, and his smile called to mind the twisted face of a furious wildcat. ‘We will buy huge quantities of pots; Mr Biberveldt’s wish is our command. What else shall we buy more of? Cabbage? Wood tar? Iron rakes?’

‘Furthermore,’ the something in the fur coat croaked, ‘merchant Biberveldt requests thirty crowns in cash, because he has to pay a bribe, eat something and drink some beer, and three miscreants stole his purse in the Spear Blade.’

‘Oh. Three miscreants,’ Dainty said in a slow, drawling voice. ‘Yes, this city seems to be full of miscreants. And where, if one may ask, is the Honourable Merchant Biberveldt at this very moment?’

‘Where else would he be,’ the something said, sniffing, ‘than at the Western Market?’

‘Vimme,’ Dainty said malevolently, ‘don’t ask questions, but find me a stout, robust stick from somewhere. I’m going to the Western Market, but I can’t go without a stick. There are too many miscreants and thieves there.’

‘A stick, you say? Of course. But, Dainty, I’d like to know something, because it is preying on me. I was supposed not to ask any questions, but I shall make a guess, and you can either confirm or deny it. All right?’

‘Guess away.’

‘That rancid cod liver oil, that oil, that wax and those bowls, that bloody twine, it was all a tactical gambit, wasn’t it? You wanted to distract the competition’s attention from the cochineal and the mimosa, didn’t you? To stir up confusion on the market? Hey, Dainty?’

The door opened suddenly and something without a cap ran in.

‘Sorrel reports that everything is ready!’ it yelled shrilly. ‘And asks if he should start pouring.’

‘Yes, he should!’ the halfling bellowed. ‘At once!’

‘By the red beard of old Rhundurin!’ Vimme Vivaldi bellowed, as soon as the gnome had shut the door. ‘I don’t understand anything! What is happening here? Pour what? Into what?’

‘I have no idea,’ Dainty admitted. ‘But, Vimme, the wheels of business must be oiled.’