Chapter 12
"Pick, pick, pick away until the ores flow."
"Smash, smash, smash away till the gold it is on show."
"Heave, heave, heave away, to where we do not know."
Part of an old Kovirian mining song that was found scribbled down on some parchment in an overseers chambers. The rest of the song has long since been lost to history.
The piping hot and scented water ached his muscles and caused his wounds to thrum with pain. He was used to pain, being a constant companion of the path and his profession. Still, even as accustomed as he was to suffer, the injuries left by the assassin's weapons seemed to be taking longer to heal than was expected. It was becoming a trend of late that any time he took a hit, or his blood was spilt, that it seemed to take him longer to recover, even slightly. He had brushed it off when he first noticed, but since then, it had become a pattern and one that, even though he talked to no one about it, least of which Triss, was bothering him deeply. He had outrun and outfought countless dangerous opponents in his life and overcame debilitating injuries. Still, he was becoming more and more aware that time was something that no man, nor witcher, could ever hope to cheat.
In the back of his mind, niggling at his anxiety and fears that he kept deeply concealed, Geralt worried that he was getting old. Too old and too slow. That is how many witchers ended their careers, usually on the claws or fangs of a contract that was just a little bit better than they were on the day.
Was the assassin as fast as he thought he had been, or was he just becoming tardy? The wraiths he had fought recently seemed to be more lethal than usual, but had they been, or had he made that up to convince himself? A convenient excuse for a witcher well past his prime?
Eyes closed, head raised to the ceiling far above him, Geralt inhaled deeply and tried to put the thoughts out of his mind. He forced himself to return slowly to the present, banishing the demons of his mind and locking them into the prison where he kept all the others of their ilk with the same efficiency as he banished the undead or undid a curse.
A pair of tender hands grasped his right calf muscle tightly and startled him back to the present. He almost yelped as a fresh wave of agony ripped through his body. His eyes locked on to the middle-aged and plain, but not unpretty, maid who was visibly shaken by his response. She was helping two other maids to bathe him in the cleansing water of the bath and had not known about the injury to his thigh.
"I am sorry, milord, did I hurt you?" she stammered, almost recoiling from him with fright.
Geralt composed himself quickly and shook his head to calm her. "No, it's ok", he lied. "But just be careful on the leg and arm".
The maid bit her lip with fright and nodded in response. The two other maids, one busy cleaning his left arm and chest and the other out of sight behind him, continued their gentle scrubbing as soon as their colleague started again, albeit with far more care than they had moments earlier.
"What time is it?" he asked after some time simply staring and the beautifully frescoed ceiling, distorted through the haze of the steam.
"Around midday milord", the maid behind him replied quickly. I heard the chiming of the guard shift change a few minutes ago. They always change at midday".
Geralt grunted in acknowledgement and sighed deeply. Triss had warned him that the king would want to see him later in the day but had not specified a time. As usual, he was expected to wait until he was summoned by the monarch, which galled him on every possible level. The day was already stolen from him.
"What is next?" he asked the trio.
"As soon as we have finished with you milord, the kings own personal barber will see to you and then his tailor. There will be the customary celebration before the court moves to Lan Exeter. Tonight is a special occasion, and you are to be made fit to attend".
"I've heard that before" he responded grumpily, resigning himself to his fate.
"I beg your pardon, sir," the maid who cleaned his left added after a few minutes of silence only interrupted by the lapping of the soapy water. "But was it you that killed the murderer?". "We heard it was a mercenary from afar that hunted him down and put an end to him. You don't look like you are from around here, and I have never seen eyes like yours or hair so grey on a man so young".
Geralt smiled. Maybe he was not so old then.
"I am a witcher from the south", he replied slowly. "Have you ever seen a witcher?"
"No, I can't say that I have, sir".
"Well, you have now. And yes, I killed him yesterday".
The woman looked over his head at the other maid, who continued to scrub him gently. "Thank you, sir," she mouthed. "He had every woman in Kovir petrified for their life and afeard to leave home".
"Unless he somehow manages it without a head in the future, you are safe now".
They continued to dutifully scrub him clean for the next few minutes in almost silence, utterly unaware that the barber already stood on the opposite side of the oversized but beautifully designed wooden door to the bathroom. Geralt knew that the man had been waiting there unhappily for some time as he had heard the quiet footsteps on the carpet followed by barely audible grunting and tutting with frustration.
"Thank you for your assistance. I can take it from here."
The maids stopped on his command, efficiently tidied the scene, and left him alone with a stack of fresh towels. He stood from the tub slowly once they had closed the door, gripping the rim to steady himself and as he did so, new pain pulsed through his thigh, forcing him to grind his teeth instinctively. After a few moments of rapid panting, he was able to get the pain under control well enough to towel himself and wrap the largest of them around his waist. Gingerly, he stepped from the tub and across the room. "I am ready", he announced to the room beyond.
"I am glad, sir. I was asked to attend you twenty minutes ago, and I did as commanded. I do not have the luxury of being able to loiter, sir, so, unfortunately, what I can do for you in the time available may not be what you desire!" the barber, an older man likely in his sixties, replied curtly. The old man was bent over at the spine so much that he resembled a crone hunched over a cauldron, bones and muscles forged into shape from long hours stooped over his customers during his, likely lifetime, of service to the royal house of Kovir.
"Suits me fine", Geralt stated matter of factly. "Truth is you don't have to do anything. I will go as I am".
"No sir, you most certainly will not. I am duty-bound to make you presentable for the king and will not fail in my duty. Now sit…" the old barber indicated to one of the purple velveted bedroom chairs he had pulled out from under a side table.
Geralt sighed in frustration and sat as he was told, bunching and rolling his shoulders to try and remove some of the stiffness that had set in since he left the hot water.
"Does the gentleman know what he would like?".
Geralt stared into the large, gilded mirror that sat opposite him, and for the first time in a while, he set eyes on his face, seeing clearly what others see. His beard, not quite entirely white but most definitely becoming so with time, had become unkempt and bedraggled, far longer than he would have typically preferred. Stubble blurred the lines of the hair around his cheeks, and his hair did need trimming. As he looked at himself closer, the heavily scarred and battle-hardened skin of his face tightened under inspection. He leaned forward and ran his hands through his hair and beard playfully, cat eyes taking in every minutia of detail.
"Well, sir? I don't have all day…."
"Tidy my beard and shave my stubble. Trim my hair, short on the sides but leave the length on the top as I will pull it back into a warrior tail as is my want".
"As you wish, sir, but that is not the fashion of the…."
"Damn your fashion, man. You asked me what I want, and that is what I want. If it's not good enough for your king and his brown-nosers, then leave me now, and I will happily fetch my horse and begone from here".
The old retainer snorted in disgust and fumbled with a roll of tools he had brought with him. "Very well", he finally replied, brandishing a cutthroat razor in his right hand, which Geralt noticed far too late was shaking violently. He leant over the sitting witcher like a spider looming over its captured prey.
"Are you sure you are safe with that?" Geralt grimaced, very aware of how close the vibrating blade was to his exposed jugulars.
"Sir, the last time I checked, I was sixty and six years old, and I have been shaving kings since I was eighteen summers. My hands may shake now, but I assure you they will be as still as a hunting snowcat when I put the blade to your flesh. I will remind you that there is a reason the king uses me as his barber, and now, unless you have any other clever remarks, I suggest you settle your head back and do not move. I promise this will not hurt a bit".
"Can she talk?"
"Lady, I doubt she can even think. She may not even see again. The beating she took might leave her blind, deaf and dumb for the rest of her life, assuming, of course, she somehow lives".
Triss slowly sat beside the skeletal figure bandaged and bound on the soft bed. The healers under Ube had worked their wonders, as they always did, and the fact that the girl had survived to the next day was a miracle in itself. There was no blood now, the bleeding having been stopped quickly by the healers, but the girl was so heavily bandaged and padded that all she could see what the very tip of her pale chin and the tops of her shoulders where the skin had been cleaned, revealing horrific bruising.
"So many bones broken I lost count if that's what you are thinking," Ube said flatly, her arms crossed behind her back. "And not all of them recent either. Malnourished, suffering from carnal disease and, by the state of her nose and throat, addicted to something potent, probably fisstech. All in all, a pretty sorry state".
"Indeed".
"We will do what we can, sorceress. Leave the healing up to me but please go and deal with the monster that did this, and if you feel so inclined, set fire to his bollocks for me".
Triss smiled darkly. "What a marvellous idea, Ube. You may be in the wrong profession".
Ube nodded. It was as close as Triss had ever got to a smile from the dour woman.
"And when you are finished with him, please don't send what is left up here, or one of us might accidentally slit his throat".
Triss looked down at the near corpse beside her and rested her hand on the girl's chest. It was only just rising and falling.
"Oh, don't worry about that, Ube. I intend to feed what's left to the hounds".
"Good".
"If she wakes at all, please call for me immediately. I need to speak with her, whatever state she might be in. It is critically important".
"As you wish, sorceress, but good luck speaking to her when she has a fractured jaw".
"There are other ways to speak with people Ube that we with the gift can use. Just let me know, please".
Ube watched as the sorceress left her infirmary and disappeared out of sight down one of the corridors leading out to the palace. Triss was not so bad for a magic-user, and she could just about deal with her, despite having her own firm opinions of magic of any kind. When she was sure, no-one was looking, Ube made the sign of Melitele and uttered a short prayer for both the wrapped girl and herself because Ube was of the firm belief that it was not always just about the victim, and sometimes the healer needed a bit of divine support as well.
Geralt was impressed with the speed at which the old man moved and how deft his hands operated the shears and blade. He found himself admiring how the ancient barber seems to instantly know the correct angle that the razor needed to be to ensure the best contact and return on investment. He was thorough, the most thorough that the witcher had ever known, and was completed so quickly that Geralt was sure he had missed something. As he towelled his face clean and rubbed his rough hands through his now well-groomed beard and over the bare skin of his cheeks, he was surprised to find that there had been no mistakes.
"I have to admit it, that was an excellent job you just did. From one blade master to another, I have had far worse shaves from professionals that took three times as long and were three times worse. My thanks to you".
The barber narrowed his eyes, clearly rooting for the sarcasm but then relaxed as he realised there was none. "I have done what I can; with the time available to me, I will leave. You will be summoned shortly for a fitting by the king's tailor. I suggest that you are on time for said fitting as Kaleb is not as relaxed as I am regarding timekeeping. He has opinions".
"Noted, and thank you again."
The barber, the name of which Geralt still did not know, nodded in appreciation and packed up his tools silently. He then proceeded to all but hobble from the room and closed the chamber door behind him quietly.
For the first time all morning, Geralt found himself alone, and he took a moment to peer out of the bay windows overlooking the palace proper beyond. The sky was overcast and foreboding, and the sun was nowhere to be seen, smothered as it was in a thick winter cloud. The snow on the rooftops, crenelations, towers and silos was thickening by the hour, and it would not be long before the capital was buried in a deep blanket, the likes of which only the lands of the far North ever faced. In its way, it was beautiful, with certain similarities to Kaer Morhen to the east, but whereas his true home was old, decrepit, and designed with only military matters in mind, Pont Vanis was anything but. You could see the defensive nature under the façade of beauty if you looked carefully, but it was hard, even for him. Everything, as far as his eyes could see, was perfect. Everything was beautifully designed and implemented by craftsmen of the highest calibre. Even the window he stared out of was a masterpiece of architecture, and it was not lost on him that this was present in one of the bedrooms outside of the main palace itself. He could only guess what luxury the king and his inner circle lived.
He stood and limped into Triss's bedroom, discarding the towels as he did so. Slowly he approached the massive desk on which was spread the bewildering array of lotions and makeup that she used so very well to ensure she was perfectly presented. Whilst the desk she used in their bedroom back at home was a subdued affair; this was the complete opposite, roughly four times the size and packed full of tubes, bottles, jars and vials, the contents of which he could only begin to guess at, even with his higher-than-average understanding of alchemy. Gently, he picked up the closest of the three luxurious hairbrushes which lay discarded, a sublimely crafted object coated in silver and pearl which bore a beautifully engraved dolphin wreathed in the swirls of the ocean waves. With care, he rubbed the calloused fingers of his right hand over the prickly bone needles and smiled as he picked out the red chestnut hair tangled in its trap. As an afterthought, he raised the hair to his nose and inhaled deeply, the scent of her raising a smile.
He turned to face the large four-poster bed that they had spent the night in. Like everything else in the suite, it was ludicrously over crafted and far more extensive than they had needed, let alone a single petite sorceress such as Triss, who usually slept in this bed alone. Assuming she slept on one side, and it was always the right-hand side of the bed without fail, she would have to roll over a dozen times to reach the other side. He was not surprised to see that maids had already squirrelled themselves into the room whilst he was being bathed and had tidied it, remaking the bed with fresh linen. On the bed had been laid some simple clothes for him, a close-fitting pair of green trousers with a brown belt and a lightweight cream buttoned shirt. Well made calf high brown boots were also present below the clothes on the floor, and he recognised her handiwork immediately in the garments. Triss had always liked the colour green and had commented on how she liked Geralt wearing the colour as well. This was her way of making sure he complied on occasion.
He quickly rebandaged his arm and thigh with the fresh cloth that Mother Ube had provided with him and then changed as soon as he could, doing his best to avoid aggravating the injuries further. Once clothed, he made his way to the balcony outside the bedroom and rested his elbows on the railing, taking some time to absorb the scenery further. It was cold, but he was used to the cold, having been raised in the perpetually frigid temperatures of Kaer Morhen, and it was snowing again, though lightly now. Now outside of the suites thick exterior walls, he could hear the hustling and bustling of a city very much still alive with daily business, the important actions required to keep the heart of such a behemoth of civilisation beating. Tradesman and merchants laughed and bartered in the streets far below, and the occasional dog could be heard barking at some perceived threat.
Geralt had seen it all before. Pont Vanis was a city like no other in so many ways, and he had to admit that it was, apart from the complete fairy tale-esq Toussaint far to the southeast, the most beautiful city he had ever seen. It was, however, just a city and shared everything in common with its sisters and brothers across the world, at least those as he had ever visited. It was shiny and pretty in many areas, but he knew well, through painful recent experience the day before, that it also had its darkness to hide.
Three rasps on the main door to the suite raised him suddenly from his reverie, and he instinctively reached for the swords on his back that were not there. "Come", he eventually commanded.
The door opened slowly, revealing a small but very well-dressed boy. The lad, probably no more than ten years old, bowed deeply upon entering and then raised himself slowly to try to meet the witchers eyes. "The tailor awaits milord. Please follow me, and I will take you to him".
Geralt grunted and looked out over the cityscape one more time before turning back to the boy. "Very well, boy, let's get this over with", he sighed with all the finality of a man accepting he is walking to the gallows.
Lord Janssen sat quietly in the chair, patiently waiting for the old man cowled in the shadowy cloak to stop writing. After what seemed like an age eventually lost his patience and coughed abruptly. He had hoped it would put the old assassin off, maybe even miss a letter, but it had no effect at all. The hand kept writing in a perfectly legible but boring font.
"I have been here for some time now, assassin. Why have I been summoned? It is you that works for me, not the other way round".
The old man stopped abruptly as if contemplating his words and then continued writing.
"I must say that the witcher made a mockery of your plans, and because of that, there will be a reduction in the amount that I am willing to pay for your services. You promised me complete efficiency, and your assassin was deftly disposed of by an old witcher no less. It is disappointing".
The hand continued to write, and in the background, from somewhere Jans couldn't place, a ticking clock could be heard.
"And what of the rest of the spectacle that I have ordered? What of the increase in killings to tip the masses?. The king looks in control now, and the tide would appear to have turned against us. What are you going to do?".
"We had a slight setback, but nothing that is unsalvageable", the old man eventually responded. He lifted the quill from the paper and slowly applied the grey sand out of a bit of pot on the desk he was sitting at. "And we now know the measure of the witcher and his sorceress. We will not make the same mistake again".
"So, your plan?"
"The killings will continue as planned, and I have four more agents in place just waiting for the authorisation".
"That is good news".
"There is one loose end that needs tidying up, however".
"And what is that?"
The old man looked up and over Jans left shoulder, and before the fat lord could even register what had happened, a knife had been plunged into his neck and punched out of the throat, splattering the desk and the old man in gore and thick arterial blood.
The illusion surrounding them faded instantly, and Greyhand stood back, looking at the rapidly dying man, gurgling to death on the desk in front of her. "And you couldn't have done that any cleaner, I suppose?" she growled dangerously.
The bulky short figure of Redhand shrugged and wiped the blood from his knife on the fat man's cloak. "Probably".
Greyhand stepped back and made a quick sweep of her hand over her red-stained cloak. The cloak was replaced with a new version in a matter of moments; the magic used crackling and spitting as her hand passed over the garment.
"He ruined your letter", the dwarven assassin stated flatly.
Greyhand looked down at the dwarves barely covered form. She had always believed that Dwarves looked ludicrous in cloaks, and Redhand just proved the point. He was massively muscled under, and it looked more like a poorly laid tent on him than a functional piece of clothing.
"No, not really. I applaud you, in fact, on making it even more impactful," she replied whilst pinching up the letter between her fingers. The parchment was soaked with the blood of the lord now very dead on the desk. "I will send this as soon as it's dried. It will make quite the stir".
"I thought he was paying the fees?" Redhand responded after some time stood staring at the rapidly spreading pool of bright red blood on the floor.
"He was. But we have a new employer now and one that is going to be far more profitable."
"Works for me."
"I am glad. Now go and make ready. Tomorrow is your big day".
The figure nodded and folded itself back into the shadows, the room moving surprisingly well for his size. After she was sure he was gone, Greyhand placed the letter back on the table
"Clean this mess up", she shouted to the darkness as then slowly faded into the shadows of the room herself.
Every year, before the court formally travelled north to Lan Exeter for the winter, the Pont Vanis palace was brought to life by a celebration known to the residents as the Laaste Slaag or the last strike, which was meant to refer to the final strike of the miners during the season. The event, observed by all classes and professions in the capital, was an acknowledgement of the end of the formal mining season and traced its roots back to the first years of Kovir as a nation when everyone outside its borders assumed that the land was barren and contained nothing but snow, thick forest and dangerous wildlife. It was only when someone took the first pick to the mountain rock did, they truly realise that they had literally and figuratively struck gold. Even so, life for the first generations of settlers was not easy, eking out a living on the land but also selling their hard-earned mineral to whoever would take it. The mining season, running a full eight months of the year from spring to winter, was the only thing that counted back then, and the ancestors of those first settlers carried on the tradition more out of respect than necessity. The majority of Kovirians would not know which way was up on a pickaxe in the modern age. However, there were still those thousands of labourers who toiled in the northern mountains in only slightly better conditions than the pioneers of old. This celebration was for them, the lifeblood of the realm, and miners could expect a hearty reception on return to the villages and cities of Kovir and Poviss when they made it back from the North. Much food, ale and no doubt wenching would be partaken in over the next few days and the miners, who had been dry of all the fair that a realm such as Kovir and Poviss could offer during the summer months, tended to sate their needs in such intensity that fights, and deaths were the norm.
Triss had seen and taken part in many of the celebrations during her time serving Tancred. It was a sacred celebration in his court, and she had been invited to attend yearly, as was her right as the personal sorceress to the king and a trusted confidante. Every year the event seemed to get more lavish and preposterous with enough pomp and ceremony to make even Henrietta in Toussaint faint with giddiness. She loved a good ball or party as much as the next sorceress, but she had to admit it was even too much for her to stomach at times. Then again, she had always been on her own at the events. But now…
She tightened her arm around Geralt's as they approached the guest entrance to the grand hall. He was tense, like a coiled snake waiting to strike and kill. The witcher always found a convenient excuse to avoid these events in the past but now, summoned personally by the king, he, in theory at least, had no choice. Not that he had not already tried to saddle Roach and leave earlier in the day after he had returned from the tailor's appointment. She had predicted the move and ensured that Reinard had posted guards at the stable and that Roach had conveniently been moved to other stables further into the palace, one which she was sure Geralt knew nothing about. His mood over the next hour had, apparently, been truly apoplectic, and it had taken Reinard himself to cool him down enough to sheathe his sword and walk away.
"You look very handsome," she said faintly, more to the night sky than to him.
Nothing. Not even a grunt. Not good.
"You will enjoy the evening. There will be the finest food and finest wines. Later there will be an adequate opportunity to disappear, and you can rest assured I will be leaving with you. I tire easily of the court now and only intend to stay as long as is seen to be proper".
She felt the tenseness in his bicep and forearm relax slightly. Progress.
They walked lockstep slowly for some time, quiet in each other's company. Triss's sharp heels on her emerald, green lacy shoes ringing on the cobbles as she stepped, tapping out a staccato rhythm, and though she could see he was hiding it well, she knew enough about Geralt to know when he was hiding pain. His leg, unsurprisingly, was still bothering him greatly.
"I am not angry with you", he eventually chimed.
"I know, but we have been frolicking with royalty long enough to know what is expected of us to smooth the ride. Please remember that Tancred is my king and, despite what you might think of him and other monarchs, you will have to trust me when I say that he is a genuinely good man".
He grunted again. More progress.
"Is he going to want to make a speech about yesterday?"
"Highly likely", she replied. "You are his new favourite toy, and he is going to want to show you off to the rest of the court like a…."
"Freak", he growled. "Like they all do".
"I was going to say like a hero, like an avenging angel or like a saviour from the legends of yore. But settle on freak if that works for you".
"Hmmm".
Triss gripped his arm even tighter and snuggled in closer. The ermine rimmed green hood she wore made it difficult to see him without turning her head sharply, so she contented herself by just hugging him more ferociously.
"After this, we can go back home?" he asked after a few moments of silence.
"Absolutely. I am missing our bed and baked hotcakes in the morning over coffee. We will undoubtedly need to see to the homestead for the winter, and I am sure Henrik will have a list as long as his arm of the repairs that are required. I do not intend to go anywhere all winter unless summoned. I have plenty of books to read and some research to do, and I am sure you will find a way to keep yourself busy. I plan that we will be locked in together, and we must only worry about entertaining each other for the foreseeable future. Do you like the sound of that?"
Geralt almost purred. "Very much", he replied smoothly, clearly in a far more amenable mood now.
The witcher looked down at his wife, who gripped him so tightly. The darkness of the evening was fought back by the hundreds of lanterns and fires that had been lit along the main thoroughfare to the palace. The way was flanked by city guard interspersed with the occasional royal guard, and fresh flower petals of every possible colour, which were now dusted in snow, had been scattered along the processional way. The night was bitterly cold, but he did not feel it as much as she did. Triss was wrapped up tightly in a dark green thick cloak trimmed with white ermine, and he knew that underneath she would look breath-taking. As was apparently custom, he had met her under the arch at the beginning of the processional way, and they had embraced briefly before beginning the slow walk to the palace proper. The guards allowed them some space before the next set of guests stepped off behind them, and in front were other couples similarly spaced. "You smell incredible tonight," he said softly whilst tensing his forearm.
"Thank you", she replied from behind the thick hood. "You don't smell too bad yourself, I might add".
"Au de witcher".
"Ah, but of course", Triss chuckled. "The doublet and trousers are perfect for you, almost like you were poured into them. You look very handsome and groomed, my love, and I fear I will be fighting off the predators tonight".
"I doubt it, Triss. They already know I am marked, and no one would want to cross that line with you so near".
"Just you remember that witcher".
"The doublet is pinching and chafing, and I swear…."
"No, they haven't sewn wire into it, so do hush and accept that style comes at a cost. Do you think it's comfortable to walk in these on cobblestone?". Triss lifted her cloak to give Geralt the briefest of looks at the tastefully but lavishly designed heels that she wore.
He grunted, and they walked on slowly for some time.
"Do you think they would notice if we just went back to your suite now?"
"Tempting…very tempting", she laughed wickedly. "But yes, they most definitely would, and I fear Tancred wouldn't be very amused. I have a position to uphold, and I can't just run off to have carnal fun with my husband when I so choose on the most sacred night of the year".
As they approached the main entrance to the grand hall, they were stopped by two of the palace guards. The gate ahead was barred for security, and the men were taking their duty very seriously, asking everyone to remove hoods and confirm their details. The larger of the pair, a dull-looking man with a large scar running diagonally across his face from eyebrow to chin, motioned for Triss to remove her hood, and she did so with deliberate slowness.
"This is the witcher Geralt of Rivia with a personal invitation from the king. I am Lady Triss Merigold, but of course, you already knew that, didn't you, Jung?"
The man took the gilded invitations from Triss's outstretched palm in his thick leather gloves, inspected them slowly and then smiled as best he could. "Of course, m'lady, but you know how it is…."
"Absolutely and quite right as well. We cannot be too careful, especially with the recent events. How is the wife, Amelia, isn't it?"
"Oh yes, she is far better now, m'lady, and she asked me to thank you kindly for the ointment. It isn't half helping with the discomfort if you know what I mean".
Triss smiled disarmingly once again. "Well, I am glad that it is working for her. Please let me know if there is anything else I can do".
"Thank you, m'lady, and please have an enjoyable evening".
As Triss took the invitations from the guard, she slipped him a small bag that chinked. She then passed another one to the other guard, who was bewildered. "A small token of my thanks, gentleman and for you to enjoy the evening yourselves once off duty, of course".
The guards both smiled even more deeply now and almost bowed as Triss and Geralt stepped forward, the thick black and silver gates opening in front of them as if by magic.
Geralt waited till they were well out of earshot before he spoke. "Care to explain what that was about?"
"If you must know, Jung's wife, Amelia, has birthed six children, and understandably things are a little sore when they feel like having more fun. He came to me for advice and helped a few months ago, and I gave him something I cooked up".
"Interesting. I have never heard of a remedy like that. What did you give her? Some pain suppressant?".
"No, a complete placebo. Nothing but chalk mixed with some milk and rye water. There is nothing I know of which could make up for the damage that pushing six children out of your vagina does. I am a sorceress, not a miracle worker, Geralt. The only thing I could think to do was help her believe something would work, and apparently, that did it. Isn't the mind such a wonderfully curious thing?".
Geralt laughed for the first time that day. "Indeed, it is".
"So, let us hope they stop at six. Nothing is going to work if they don't!".
"Your invitations please," Jung asked politely to the couple who stood in front of him. The man was just a regular noble, flamboyantly attired and almost bouncing with anger at being stopped by the mere soldiery. However, the woman on his arm was staggeringly beautiful, even by the standards of the court. Tall, with the perfect hourglass figure and with lips so enticing, it almost made him weak at the knees. Even in a thick fur coat, it was clear that she was voluptuous and knew how to use it. Jung could just make out the yellow heels she wore which added to her height, bringing her equal in eyeline to himself. Her hair was jet black, and it glistened in the light of the nearby torches, dazzling him and rendering him dumb for a moment.
"Now see here!" the pompous nobleman immediately responded, and it took all Jung's effort to break his gaze away from the beautiful woman on the fop's arm and scowl at the man. "No invitations, no entry, the king's orders".
"Now, gentleman, there is no need for discontent", the lady purred. "Here are our tickets, good sir" she held out a pair of gilded parchment and placed them in Jung's hand slowly.
He took a moment to read them unenthusiastically before happily returning his gaze to the woman. "They all seem to be in order, Lady Balenciaga. Please enjoy your evening".
"Oh, I am sure we will", she smiled.
Jung stood looking forward, completely stunned for some time. Eventually, the other guard, a far younger and more youthful fellow called Caleb, laughed at him, bringing him to his senses. "You are getting old, Jung. She was pretty, aye, but we've seen prettier".
Jung shook his head, his mind fuddled. "Aye, I suppose your right, lad".
"Still wouldn't have kicked her out of bed, mind."
"No, you're right about that lad. And I can assure you that if she were my wife, we would be on two dozen by now…."
