Stephen Hulin, Page 3

  Chapter Three

  The Public defender assigned to Geralt avoided looking him in the eyes. She was stubbornly going through a folder with documents. There were few of them. Exactly two. The lawyer was probably learning them by heart. To shine with her speech. But this was - he suspected – a vain hope.

  ‘In custody,’ the lawyer finally lifted her eyes, ‘you had beaten two fellow prisoners. I should probably know the reason behind it?’

  ‘Firstly I discarded their sexual advances and they did not want to understand that no means no. Secondly I like to beat people up. Thirdly - it’s a lie. They wounded themselves. With the walls. To denigrate me.’

  He was talking slowly and blankly. A week in custody had made him completely indifferent.

  The defendant closed the folder. Only to open it again a moment later. Then she adjusted her coiffure.

  ‘Those beaten,’ she sighed, ‘it seems, will not complain. Let's focus on the instigators accusation. The assessor of the tribunal accuses you of serious crime with a high penalty.’

  How could it be different, he thought, contemplating the beauty of his lawyer. He pondered at what age she went to sorceresses’ school. And at what age she left it.

  Both functional wizards’ schools - males at Ban Ard and females at Aretuza on Thanedd island- besides alumni also produced waste. Despite the heavy filter of entry exams that in principle allowed throwing away of the hopeless cases, only the first semesters really allowed selection and showed those that could hide. People for which thinking was an experience both unpleasant and dangerous. Concealed fools, deadbeats and the mental languid of both sexes had nothing to do in a school of magic. The trouble was that this was often the offspring of wealthy or otherwise important people. With boys that dropped out of Ban Ard there was no problem - they went to diplomacy. The army, navy and police awaited them. The stupidest were left with only one choice - politics. Magical waste in the form of the prettier sex was only theoretically harder to manage. Although removed the girls crossed the doorstep of magical academy and to some degree tasted the magic. And the influence of sorceresses on rulers and all spheres of political and economic life was too great to leave to the girls to themselves. They were provided with a safe haven. They became lawyers.

  The defender closed the folder. And then she opened it.

  ‘I recommend making a plea of guilty,’ she said, ‘we can count on a more lenient judgment.’

  ‘Guilty of what?’ The witcher interrupted.

  ‘When his honor will ask if you admit to being guilty you will answer positively. Admitting guilt will be treated as an extenuation.’

  ‘How then do you plan on defending me?’

  The lawyer closed the folder. Like the lid of a coffin.

  ‘Let's go - the judge awaits.’

  The judge waited. Because a previous delinquent was being led away from the court. He wasn't very happy - Geralt noticed.

  On the wall there was a shield covered with fly shit with the Kerack coat of arms on it - a blue dolphin nageant. Under this coat of arms stood a table. Sitting behind it were three people – A lean scribe. A bleached sub-judge. And a woman judge - a woman staid both in appearance and visage.

  The bench on the right side was occupied by the tribunal’s assessor. He looked serious. So much so as to want to avoid meeting him in a dark alley

  On the opposite side was the accused bench. A place assigned to him.

  From there things went fast.

  ‘Geralt, called Geralt of Rivia, a witcher by profession, is accuse of the embezzlement of funds, and appropriating goods belonging to the crown. Acting in collusion with his partners, the accused elevated the price of invoices for his services with intention of stealing this excess. Which caused a loss for the state's treasury. Proof of it is in a report, notitia criminis, which was attached to files by the accuser. This report...’

  The tired expression on the face of the judge, and her wandering sight clearly showed that the stately woman was elsewhere in her mind. And that she was troubled by quite a different sets of problems - laundry, children, the colour of her curtains, the dough prepared to bake poppy seed cake and the heralding crisis in her marriage from the stretch marks on her fat ass. The witcher with humility took the fact that he was unimportant. That he was not able to compete with such things.

  ‘A crime committed by the accused,’ continued accuser without emotion, ‘not only brings the state to ruin, but also destroys the social order. The order of law demands...’

  ‘The report put on file,’ interrupted the judge, ‘the Court must treat as a probatio de relatio, evidence from a relation or third party. Can the accuser provide other evidence?’

  ‘Other evidence is lacking... As of now... The accused is a witcher, which was proven. He's a mutant, living outside the bounds society, ignoring its laws and putting himself above them. In his crime generating and sociopathic profession he meets with felons, and also non-humans, including races that are traditionally hostile to humans. Breaking the law is in the nihilistic nature of a witcher. In the case of this witcher a lack of evidence is the best evidence. It proves perfidy and ...’

  ‘Does the accused,’ the judge it seems was uninterested in what else is proved by lack of evidence. ‘Does the accused plead guilty?’

  ‘I do not.’ Geralt ignored desperate signals of his defender, ‘I'm innocent, I haven't committed any crime.’

  He had a bit of skill, he had met with justice before on a few occasions. He had acquainted himself with literature on the law superficially.

  ‘I'm being accused because of prejudice...’

  ‘Objection!’ shrieked the assessor. ‘The accused declaims speech!’

  ‘Overruled.’

  ‘As a result of prejudice against my person and profession that is due to praeiudicium2, and praeiudicium implicates falseness. More - I’m accused on the basis of an anonymous report - one report at that. Testimonium unius non valet Testis unus, testis nullus3. Ergo this is not an accusation, but presumption that is praesumptio. And presumption leaves doubt.’

  ‘In dubio pro reo4,’ the defender spoke up. ‘In dubio pro reo, Your Honor!’

  ‘The court,’ the judge banged her wooden hammer, waking up the sub-judge, ‘rules to assign a bailment fee of five hundred Novigrad crowns.’

  Geralt sighed. He was curious to see if his fellow prisoners had come to their senses, and if they had learned from history. And if he would be forced to beat them up again.

  What is the city but the people?

  William Shakespeare, Coriolanus

  Chapter Four

  On the very edge of the marketplace there stood a shabby stall made of raw boards, served by an old lady in a straw hat, round and florid, like a good fairy out of a fairy-tale. Over the lady was a sign with an inscription on it "Happiness and joy - only here. Cucumber gratis." Geralt stopped, and took some coppers out of his pocket.

  ‘Grandma, pour me,’ he demanded grimly, ‘a quarter of pint of happiness.’

  He took up some air, drank up with a swing, and breathed out. He wiped the tears that were caused by the moonshine.

  He was free. And angry.

  What's interesting was he was freed by a person he knew. By sight. It was the same youngster that was thrown out of the inn “Natura Rerum” in his presence. Who turned out to be a tribunal pen pusher.

  ‘You are free.’ communicated the bald youngster, clasping and unclasping his fingers stained with ink. ‘The bail was paid.’

  ‘Who paid it?’

  This information turned out to be classified, the bald pen pusher refused to share it. He refused also - and also brusquely – to giving Geralt his pouch back. The pouch that carried his money, and bank cheques. Movable properties of the witcher, he announced not without malice, was treated by the government as a cautio pro expensis, an advance on legal expenses and predicted fines.

  There was no point nor any sense in arguing.
Geralt had to be glad that he was given back the things that he had in his pockets when he was arrested. Personal trinkets and small change. So small that no one cared to steal it.

  He counted the rest of his money. And he smiled at the old lady.

  ‘Another quarter of pint of happiness, please. I'll skip the cucumber.’

  After grandma's moonshine the world became markedly more beautiful. Geralt knew that it would not last, so he quickened his pace. He had things to work out.

  Roach, his mare, was luckily overlooked by the court, and was not a part of cautio pro expensis. She was where he left her, in a clean stable stall, well cared for and fed. Something like that the witcher could not live without giving a reward, without any regard to his own wealth. From a handful of silver coins that survived in a pocket hidden in a saddle, a few were given at once to a stable boy. Such generosity left him breathless.

  The horizon over the sea darkened. Geralt thought that he was seeing there sparks of lightning.

  Before entering the guardhouse, he prudently breathed in fresh air. It did not help. The guard ladies must have eaten more beans than usual. Quite a lot more. Who knew? Maybe it was Sunday?

  Some of them - as usual - ate. The others were occupied with a game of dice. Seeing him they have stood up. And surrounded him.

  ‘The witcher, look at him,’ said the commandant standing very near. ‘He came here.’

  ‘I'm leaving town. I'm here to claim my belongings.’

  ‘If we let you,’ a second guard elbowed him seemingly accidentally. ‘What will we get in return? You have to buy yourself out, pal, buy out. Eh, wenches? What we will make him do?’

  ‘Let him kiss every one of us on the bare ass.’

  ‘With licking! And slipping!’

  ‘But girls! He will infect us!’

  ‘But he has to,’ she pushed him with her breast, hard as rocks, ‘please us somehow, no?’

  ‘Let him sing a song for us,’ she farted loudly, ‘and adjust the melody to this tone.’

  ‘Or mine!’ The other farted even louder. ‘Because mine is more melodic!’

  The other ladies were in stitches.

  Geralt made his way, trying to not use too much force. At this moment the door opened and the gentleman in the dun mantle and beret entered. Gonschorek, the depositary, it seemed. Seeing the witcher he opened his mouth wide.

  ‘You?’ he mumbled ‘But how? Your swords...’

  ‘Exactly, my swords. Please give them back.’

  ‘But... but...’ Gonschorek choked, hands clutching his breast, breathing heavily. ‘But I don't have them.’

  ‘Repeat that, please.’

  ‘I don't have them...’ Gonschorek face became red. And shrank, like in a paroxysm of pain. ‘They've been taken.’

  ‘What?’ Geralt felt cold fury building up.

  ‘Taken.’

  ‘What do you mean - taken?’ He grabbed the depositary by the lapels. ‘Taken by whom? What the fuck is the meaning of all this?’

  ‘The receipt...’

  ‘Exactly!’ He felt an iron grip of on his arm. The commandant of the guards pushed him away from choking Gonschorek.

  ‘Exactly! Show us the receipt!’

  The witcher did not have the receipt. The receipt from the arms deposit was in his pouch that was taken from him by the court. Taken as an advance on legal expenses and future fines.

  ‘The receipt!’

  ‘I don't have it. But...’

  ‘No receipt, no deposit,’ the commandant wouldn't let him finish. ‘The swords were taken away, didn’t you hear? You have taken them yourself surely and now you’re making a play of it. You want to get something by cheating? No way! Get out of here!’

  ‘I will not leave before...’

  The commandant, not releasing her grip, dragged Geralt away, and spun him about. With his face toward the door.

  ‘Now get the fuck out!’

  Geralt usually frowned upon using force against women. But he had nothing against using force against someone that had shoulders like a wrestler, a belly like gammon, thighs like a discus-thrower and farted like a mule at that. He pushed the commandant away and whacked her in the jaw with full force. With his favorite right hook. The others froze, but only for a second. Before the commandant had fallen on a table squirting beans and pepper sauce around, he had them on his back. He had without any thought broke the nose of one of them, and jabbed at the other so forcefully that cracking teeth could be heard. The other two were given a taste of the Aard Sign and they flew like puppets at the halberd stand, causing all the halberds to fall with indescribable boom and crash.

  He was struck in the ear by the commandant dripping with sauce. The second guard - the one with hard breasts - caught him from behind in a bear hug. He elbowed her hard, and she howled. He pushed the commandant into the table, and hit her with a swinging hook. The one with smashed nose he hit in the solar plexus, and threw her on the ground, he heard her vomit. The other, he hit in the temple, slamming the shaved back of her head into pillar and instantly fogging her eyes.

  But still four were still standing. And his advantages finished.

  He was hit in the back of the head, and immediately after that in the ear. And then the loins. One of them tripped him, and two of them got on top of him, and pounding him with fists. The rest were not skimping on kicking him.

  With a hit of a forehead in the face he eliminated one of guards lying on him, but the other instantly took over. The commandant he recognized because of the dripping sauce. With a blow from overhead he was hit in the teeth. He spat blood straight into her eyes.

  ‘A knife,’ she shouted, swinging her shaved head. ‘Give me knife! I will cut off his balls!’

  ‘Why a knife!’ shouted another. ‘I'll bite his balls off!’

  ‘Stop! At attention! What's the meaning of this! At attention, I say!’

  A stentorian and forceful voice cut through the battle turmoil, and mitigated the guards. They let Geralt go. He stood with effort, somewhat sore. The sight of the battlefield brightened up his humor a bit. Not without satisfaction he looked at his achievements. The guard lying under the wall had opened her eyes already, but was unable to even sit. The second, was bent over spitting out blood and feeling her teeth with her finger. The third - the one with smashed nose tried to stand, but was constantly falling down into puddle of her beany vomit. From a whole six, only half could stand. The result was satisfying, then. Even taking into account the fact that if there had not been an intervention he would have been gravely hurt, and who knows if he would be able to stand on his feet.

  The one that intervened was richly clothed and radiating with authority, a man with noble features. Geralt didn't know who he was. But he knew his companion very well. An elegant fancy hat with feather an egret stuck into it, with his blonde hair coiffured by irons. Wearing a doublet, the colour of red wine, and a shirt with a lace frill. With his inseparable lute, and inseparable insolent smile on his lips.

  ‘Greetings witcher! O, how you look! With your gob beaten up! I'll burst with laughter!’

  ‘Greetings Dandelion. I'm happy to see you too.’

  ‘What happened here?’ The man with noble features put his hands on his hips. ‘Huh? What's with you? Report! Now!’

  ‘It was him!’ The commandant shook the rest of the sauce out of her ears and accusingly pointed her finger at Geralt. ‘He's guilty honorable Instigator! He argued and got angry, and then started the fight. And all this because of some swords from the deposit, that he had no receipt for. Gonschorek will confirm. Hey, Gonschorek why you are shrinking there in corner? You crapped your pants? Move your ass, stand up, and tell our honorable instigator... Hey Gonschorek? What's up with you?’

  It was enough to look closely, to guess what's with Gonschorek. There was no need to investigate his pulse, it was enough to look at his face, white as a chalk. Gonschorek was dead. He was ordinarily and simply dead.
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  ***

  ‘We will institute an investigation, master from Rivia,’ said Ferrant de Lettenhove, instigator of the royal tribunal. ‘As you put forth the formal complaint and lawsuit, we have to institute it, so says the law. We will ask everyone who during your arrest and in the court had access to your belongings. We will arrest the suspects.’

  ‘The usual ones?’

  ‘Pardon?

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The case will surely be explained and the guilty will be put to justice. If there really was theft. I assure you that we will clear up this mystery, and the truth will be revealed. Sooner or later.’

  ‘I would prefer sooner.’ The witcher didn't like the tone of the instigator voice. ‘My swords are my whole existence; I can't perform my job without them. I know that my profession is seen by many as bad, and my person suffers due to a negative image. An image arising from prejudice, superstition and xenophobia. And I count on this fact not influencing the result of the investigation.

  ‘It will not influence the result,’ said Ferrant de Lettenhove dryly. ‘Because law and order rule here.’

  When the guards removed the deceased Gonschorek's body, on orders from the instigator, a revision of the whole deposit storeroom was carried out. It was easily guessed there was no trace of witcher's swords. Still sulky with Geralt the commandant pointed them to a support with a long needle, onto which claimed receipts had been impaled. And among them the witcher's receipt was promptly found. The commandant looked through register to shove the receipt in their faces.

  ‘Here you are,’ she pointed with triumph, ‘like an ox, a receipt of reception. Signed: Gerland of Ryblia. I said that witcher was here and got his swords. And now he cheats, counting on damages. It's because of him that Gonschorek's dead. Because of the agitation he was overflowed with bile, and was struck by a stroke.’

  Neither she, nor any of other guards had decided to testify to seeing the witcher while he was receiving his weapons. “A lot of people come here”, was the explanation and they were occupied because they were eating.