“Indeed. The matter will certainly be explained, and those guilty of the theft of the swords will be brought to justice. If a theft was really committed. I promise that we shall solve the mystery and the truth will out. Sooner or later.”

“I’d rather it were sooner.” The Witcher didn’t care too much for the instigator’s tone of voice. “My swords are my existence; I can’t do my job without them. I know my profession is adversely perceived by many and that I suffer as a result of this negative portrayal caused by prejudice, superstition and xenophobia. I hope that fact won’t influence the investigation.”

“It won’t,” replied Ferrant de Lettenhove dryly, “since law and order prevail here.”

After the servants had carried Gonschorek’s body out, the instigator ordered a search of the weapon store and the entire cubbyhole. Predictably, there wasn’t a trace of the Witcher’s swords. And the commandant of the guard—still annoyed with Geralt—pointed out to them a filing spike where the deceased had kept the completed deposit slips. The Witcher’s was soon found among them. The commandant searched through the stack, thrusting it under his nose a moment later.

“There you go.” She pointed triumphantly. “It’s here in black and white. Signed Gerland of Ryblia. Told yer the witcher had bin here and took his swords away. And now ’e’s lying, no doubt to claim damages. Gonschorek turned ’is toes up thanks to ’im! His gall bladder ruptured from the worry and ’is heart gev out.”

But neither she, nor any of the other guards, elected to testify that any of them had actually seen Geralt collect his weapons. The explanation was that “there’s always someone ’anging around ’ere” and they had been busy eating.

Seagulls circled over the roof of the court, uttering ear-splitting screeches. The wind had blown the storm cloud southwards over the sea. The sun was out.

“May I warn you in advance,” said Geralt, “that my swords are protected by powerful spells. Only witchers can touch them; others will have their vitality drained away. It mainly manifests in the loss of male potency. I’m talking about sexual enfeeblement. Absolute and permanent.”

“We shall bear that in mind.” The instigator nodded. “For the moment, though, I would ask you not to leave the city. I’m inclined to turn a blind eye to the brawl in the guardhouse—in any case, they occur there regularly. The guards are pretty volatile. And because Julian—I mean Lord Dandelion—vouches for you, I’m certain that your case will be satisfactorily solved in court.”

“My case—” the Witcher squinted his eyes “—is nothing but harassment. Intimidation resulting from prejudice and hatred—”