“The Witcher called Geralt of Rivia?” The question was asked by one of three characters dressed in black who had noiselessly approached the table.

“It is I.”

“You are arrested in the name of the law.”

What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong?

William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

CHAPTER THREE

Geralt’s court-appointed barrister avoided eye contact. She flicked through the portfolio of documents with a persistence worthy of a better cause. There were very few papers in it. Two, to be precise. His lawyer had probably learned them by heart. To dazzle them with her speech for the defence, he hoped. But that was, he suspected, a forlorn hope.

“You assaulted two of your cellmates while under arrest.” His lawyer finally raised her eyes. “Ought I perhaps to know the reason?”

“Primo, I rejected their sexual advances. They didn’t want to understand that ‘no’ means ‘no.’ Secundo, I like beating people up. Tertio, it’s a falsehood. They self-inflicted their wounds. By banging themselves against the wall. To slander me.”

He spoke slowly and carelessly. After a week spent in prison he had become utterly indifferent.

His barrister closed the portfolio. Only to open it again straight away. Then she tidied her elaborate coiffure.

“The victims aren’t pressing charges, it transpires.” She sighed. “Let us focus on the prosecutor’s charge. The tribunal assessor is accusing you of a grave crime, punishable by a severe penalty.”

How could it be otherwise? he thought, contemplating the lawyer’s features. He wondered how old she had been when she entered the school for sorcerers. And how old she was when she left.