The Dragon's Heart Is Mine || Geralt Targaryen [1]

45 • THE WITCHER & THE PRIEST OF NOVIGRAD

"Merchant Biberveldt!" Schwann yelped, blinking his myopic eyes. "What is the meaning of this? Attacking a municipal functionary could cost you dearly... Who was that, the hobbit who disappeared?"

"A cousin," Dainty replied promptly.

"A distant cousin?" Schwann asked.

"Yes, yes..." Jaskier confirmed quickly, feeling that he was in his element at last.

"A distant cousin of Biberveldt called Toupet-Biberveldt, the black sheep of the family. As a child, he fell down a well. Happily, the well was dry, but unfortunately, the bucket fell on his head. He's usually harmless. Only the sight of the color purple drives him into a rage. But there is nothing to worry about, because the sight of red hair on a lady's pubis has the power to calm him. That's why he fled to Passionflower, I tell you, master Schwann..." Jaskier trailed on.

"Enough, Jaksier," the witcher interrupted abruptly.

"Shut up, damn it." Schwann draped himself in his toga, brushed off the sawdust that clung to it and stuck out his chest, adopting an expression of appropriate severity.

"Yes..." he said. "Look after your loved ones more carefully, merchant Biberveldt, because you should know that you are responsible for their actions. If I file a complaint.. But I do not have the time. Biberveldt, the errand that brings me here: in the name of the municipal authorities, I order you to pay the taxes that you owe."

"What?"

"The taxes," the functionary repeated, pinching his lips together in the manner of his superiors.

"What's gotten into you? Has your cousin made you lose your head? When one makes a profit, one must pay his taxes or expect to find himself thrown into the deepest dungeon."

"Me?" Dainty bawled. "Me, profit? But I have nothing but losses, for fuck's sake! Dainty snaps.

"Careful, Biberveldt," the witcher murmured. Jaskier dealt a furtive kick to his hairy ankle.

Dainty the halfling coughed. "Of course," he said, trying to plaster a smile across his chubby face. "Of course, master Schwann. If one does business, one must pay taxes. Good business generates big taxes. And the reverse, I imagine."

"It is not for me to judge the quality of your transactions, master merchant." The official sat at the table and made a wry face; from the folds of his toga, he produced an abacus and a scroll that he unrolled on the table, smoothing it with his sleeve.

"My role is to count and collect. Yes... Let's draw up the bill... That will be... hum... Take off two, carry the one... Yes... 1,553 golden dragons and 20 coppers."

A hoarse sound burst from Dainty's throat. The workers murmured in amazement.

Jaskier sghed. "Well, goodbye, friends," the halfling said at last. "If anyone asks, tell them I'm rotting in the dungeon."

"Until noon tomorrow," Dainty whimpered.

"Schwann, that son of a bitch, exaggerates. The repulsive old man could have given me an extension. More than 1,500 gold dragons! Where will I find that kind of money by tomorrow? I am a finished halfling, ruined, doomed to end my life in prison! Let's not sit here, by the plague. I tell you this: that scoundrel the doppler must be caught. We must catch him!"

The three of them were seated on the edge of the marble basin of a dry fountain, situated in the center of a small square surrounded by the homes of bourgeoisie with great wealth but extremely questionable taste.

The water in the basin was green and horribly filthy, teeming with small fish that swam amid the refuse. Mouths gaping, they tried to gulp air from the surface, laboriously opening and closing their gills.