A stentorian voice, commanding respect, tore through the hubbub of the fracas, pacifying the guards. They released Geralt from their grasp. He got up with difficulty, somewhat sore. The sight of the battlefield improved his humour a little. He observed his accomplishments with some satisfaction. The guard lying by the wall had opened her eyes, but was still unable even to sit upright. Another, bent over, was spitting blood and feeling her teeth with a finger. Yet another, the one with the smashed nose, was trying hard to stand, but kept falling over, slipping in a puddle of her own beany vomit. Only three of the six could keep their balance. So he could be satisfied with the result. Despite the fact that had it not been for the intervention he would have suffered more serious injuries and might not have been able to get up unaided.

The person who had intervened, however, was an elegantly attired man with noble features, emanating authority. Geralt didn’t know who he was. But he knew perfectly well who the noble-looking man’s companion was. A dandy in a fanciful hat with an egret feather stuck into it, with shoulder-length blond hair curled with irons. Wearing a doublet the colour of red wine and a shirt with a lace ruffle. Along with his ever-present lute and with that ever-present insolent smile on his lips.

“Greetings, Witcher! What do you look like? With that smashed-up fizzog! I’ll split my sides laughing!”

“Greetings, Dandelion. I’m pleased to see you too.”

“What’s going on here?” The man with the noble looks stood with arms akimbo. “Well? What are you up to? Standard report! This moment!”

“It was him!” The commandant shook the last of the sauce from her ears and pointed accusingly at Geralt. “He’s guilty, Honourable Instigator. He lost his temper and stirred up a row, and then began brawling. And all because of some swords in the deposit, what he hasn’t got a docket for. Gonschorek will confirm… Hey, Gonschorek, what are you doing curled up in the corner? Shat yourself? Move your arse, get up, tell the Honourable Instigator… Hey! Gonschorek? What ails you?”

A close look was enough to guess what ailed him. There was no need to check his pulse, it sufficed to look at his chalky white face. Gonschorek was dead. He was, quite simply, deceased.

* * *

“We will institute an investigation, Lord Rivia,” said Ferrant de Lettenhove, instigator of the Royal Tribunal. “Since you are lodging a formal complaint and appeal we must institute one—the law so decrees. We shall interrogate everyone who during your arrest and trial had access to your effects. We shall arrest any suspects.”

“The usual ones?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing, nothing.”