“We aren’t murderers,” stammered the sorcerer, blushing. “We hauled him off to Rissberg. And caused a mild commotion… Everybody was against us. Ortolan, astonishingly, behaved cautiously, and we’d actually expected the worst from him. But Biruta Icarti, Pockmarked Axel, Sandoval, even Zangenis, who had previously been on our side… We had to listen to a lengthy lecture about the solidarity of the fellowship, about fraternity, about loyalty. We learned that only utter good-for-nothings send hired killers after confraters, that you have to fall very low to hire a witcher to go after a comrade. For low reasons. Out of envy for our comrade’s talent and prestige; jealousy over his scientific achievements and successes.”

Citing the incidents in the Hills and the forty-four corpses achieved nothing, the Witcher thought to himself. Unless you count shrugs of the shoulders. And probably a lengthy lecture about science and the need to make sacrifices. About the end justifying the means.

“Degerlund,” Pinety continued, “was hauled before the commission and dealt a severe reprimand. For practicing goetia, for the people killed by the demon. He was haughty, clearly counting on an intervention by Ortolan. But Ortolan had somehow forgotten about him, having devoted himself utterly to a fresh new passion: developing a formula for an extremely effective and universal manure, meant to revolutionise agriculture. Left to fend for himself, Degerlund struck a different tone. Tearful and pathetic. He played the victim. A victim in equal measure of his own ambition and magical talent, owing to which he evoked a demon so powerful it was uncontrollable. He swore to abandon the practice of goetia, that he would never touch it again. That he would utterly devote himself to research into perfecting the human species, into transhumanism, speciation, introgression and genetic modification.”

And they lent credence to him, the Witcher thought to himself.

“They lent credence to him. Ortolan, who suddenly appeared before the commission stinking of manure, influenced them. He denominated Degerlund a ‘dear youth’ who had admittedly committed grievous miscalculations, but who is infallible? He didn’t doubt that the youth would calibrate himself and that he would vouch for it. He asked for the commission to temper its ire, to show compassion and not excoriate the youth. He finally promulgated Degerlund his heir and successor, fully transferring his private laboratory in the Citadel to him. He himself, he declared, didn’t need a laboratory, for he had resolved to toil and take exercise under the open sky, on vegetable patches and flower beds. This plan appealed to Biruta, Pockmarked Axel and the rest. The Citadel, bearing in mind its inaccessibility, could successfully be considered a place of correction. Degerlund had ensnared himself. He found himself under house arrest.”

And the affair was swept under the carpet, the Witcher thought to himself.

“I suspect that consideration for you and your reputation had an influence on it,” said Pinety, looking at him keenly.

Geralt raised his eyebrows.