The two schools for sorcerers—Ban Ard School for boys and Aretuza School for girls, both on the Isle of Thanedd—apart from male and female graduates, also produced rejects. In spite of the strict selection procedure of their entry examinations, which was supposed to facilitate the winnowing out and discarding of hopeless cases, it was only the first semesters that really found and revealed the ones who had managed to remain hidden. The ones for whom thinking turned out to be a disagreeable and hazardous experience. Latent idiots, sluggards and intellectual slackers of both sexes, who had no place in schools of magic. The difficulty was that they were usually the offspring of wealthy people or considered important for other reasons. After being expelled from school it was necessary to do something with these difficult youngsters. There was no problem for the boys rejected by Ban Ard—they joined the diplomatic service, the army, navy or police while politics was left for the stupidest. Magical rejects in the shape of the fairer sex seemed to be more difficult to place. Although expelled, the young ladies had nonetheless crossed the threshold of a school of magic and had tasted magic to some degree or other. And the influence of sorceresses on monarchs, and on all areas of political and economic life, was too powerful for the young ladies to be left in the lurch. They were provided with a safe haven. They joined the judiciary. They became lawyers.

The defence counsel closed the portfolio. Then opened it.

“I recommend an admission of guilt,” she said. “Then we can expect a more lenient punishment—”

“Admit to what?” interrupted the Witcher.

“When the judge asks if you plead guilty you are to reply in the affirmative. An admission of guilt will be regarded as a mitigating circumstance.”

“How do you mean to defend me, then?”

The lawyer closed the portfolio. As though it were a coffin lid.

“Let’s go. The judge is waiting.”

The judge was waiting. For right then the previous miscreant was being escorted from the courtroom. He looks none too cheerful, thought Geralt.

A shield flecked with flies bearing the emblem of Kerack, a blue dolphin naiant, hung on the wall. Under the coat of arms was the bench, with three people sitting behind it. A scrawny scribe. A faded subjudge. And the judge, a woman of equable appearance and countenance.

The bench on the judges’ right was occupied by the tribunal assessor, acting as prosecutor. He looked serious. Serious enough to avoid an encounter with him in a dark alley.

On the other side, on the judges’ left, was the dock. The place assigned to Geralt.

Things moved quickly after that.