No cheerful rays spread from the sun as it slept behind a layer of clouds thick enough to lend a bleary atmosphere. The winds were too lazy to drive off the mist that met the buildings, swirling obscuring even the lamplight to guide one's way. The indecisive pattern of warm and cool left ground pockmarked by thin ice and deeper puddles, a treacherous web to tread through on shaky legs. While these outlying villages were bleak in comparison to the grandeur of the better districts in the best cities, Jaskier thought today appeared particularly grey.
Jaskier bit his lip as hard shiver washed through him. His ratty cloak while patched was not enough to drive off the chill of this winter. His silk jacket been ruined by what he was assured had been required to try restore the garment from his trip through the river and rough countryside. His matching pants he wore anyway, the fabric piled and pulled, and held together only with ugly stitching. The stained shirt hanging off his bandaged shoulder was not his, nor did he not ask from whom it came. The stretch through his back was only rivaled by the stiffness in his legs. A heaviness set in his chest, and while he understood such admittedly minor calisthenics were essential for proper recovery, this walk was the farthest thing from a pleasurable diversion.
In truth, while the company was pleasant, Jaskier felt more an intruder as he spent less time sleeping, becoming more cognizant as he healed. His own supply of money was in danger of running thin, and if his wound was not troublesome, he would be forced by necessity to move on before he burnt through his reserves. The town site itself was not well stocked, many of its hidden troves had been taken with the Nilfgaardian troops before they transferred out. The building carrying the Temerian standard now, military horses tied to hitching posts outside, was the most promising prospect of acquiring provisions.
The age old tradition of trading of stock and gambling among quartermasters and acquisition officers could surely be manipulated to his advantage. Jaskier had a bit of money to start himself, and once he acquired something more, he would be able to arrange for what his essentials. If he retained some of his luxury goods, he would have started off from a better bargaining position. Luckily, the games of chance that were an open secret in every organized military organization would provide him an avenue to improve his fortunes.
For dice or cards, the maths beat into Jaskier at Temple School as when he was a lad must have been fated for this purpose. If sums and probabilities had been taught in this context, he surely would have been a near sighted professor with a hunch in his back instead of a virile advocate of the arts. Such professors had damn sight more comfortable existences, if devoid of romance. But vocally supporting explaining the logistics of gambling youngsters in religious schooling may not receive the intended result, even if his aim was to produce more studious and motivated pupils. Regardless, the talents he painfully acquired made it simpler to work the money into his pocket, considered unscrupulous only if counting cards was regionally frowned upon.
Jaskier banged on the door of the outpost, and once announced, let himself in. The men looked up from their table and a couple scowled. The sight of one of them tucking a deck into his pocket, improved Jaskier's faith his plan would come to fruition this morning. "Don't let me you disturb fine combatants, for I understand I owe you a great debt for delivering my injured person into tender ministrations of the lady Milah. I only wish to convey my thanks for not turning away this humble bard, truly a commendation of the fraternal spirit of the victorious North."
Jaskier flourished his words with elegant bow, somewhat diminished by the poor state of his attire, and the shagginess of his hair, so long he had parted it away from eyes. At least he bore a fresh shave, assisted by Milah herself that morning, before she more or less kicked him out to convalesce with gentle exercise. After his disappointment when he had her clarify what she implied by "gentle exercise".
"Aye our forces have surely driven out those blackguards, that's true. But we'll hold this territory until we have confirmation there will be no regrouping of Nilfgaard's forces." The sergeant answered, looking somewhat disarmed.
"Perfect gentlemen, I know the town's people have spoken highly of the protections you've offered." Jaskier nodded diplomatically, suppressing the memory of the grumbling words overheard the previous evening about the Temerians parading around, and demanding simple services for free. But the fresh grave markers by the shrine on the edge of town, kept the comments peaceably unsupported.
"And you sir owe us nothing, just took you to get some help. That's all." The man who had visited Milah the last two nights, and left her smiling spoke up. His voice was gruff and familiar.
"Oh, but I feel such a boon cannot be so easily brushed aside." Jaskier stepped forward, tilting his head submissively, a grin on his lips, a timely blink. "Let me sit with you, I can offer gripping tales of any vein, or word of the other parts of this continent. I have travelled far, spent time in the presence of many interesting companies, your venerable king included."
A few of the men shifted, leaning eagerly, glancing around the long table. The inclination for gossip was not in the sole custody of the church wife. The sergeant patted a spot at the head of the table. "Have seat then Master, you still look a bit pale around the mouth. It wasn't long ago the war nearly took you from this earth. You must tell us what brought you to the parts, and wounded so. Need something to eat, we still have fresh apples, some cheese and bread?"
"This early in the morning…. I never make a habit of starting to eat before noon. Only if I have beer with it." Jaskier waggled a hand at the tapped keg on a far table.
A round of laughter almost started a pain behind his eyes. Jaskier beamed, and forced a cheeky glint into his eyes. He would have to be careful, a certain sharpness was vital to profit in this game. Jaskier picked at the food, before having a lusty drink of the beer, the heat flowing through immediately. For a bawdy house, the orders of Milah had kept him from all of his more favourite vices.
And to address present vices, "I fear you gentlemen were interrupted from your sporting pursuits with my arrival." Jaskier flashed his left hand over, splaying his fingers dramatically, and walked a silver oren across his knuckles, it having appeared from nowhere. He dropped the coin to the table, having it land on its edge. Jaskier spun it and the light that flickered from its polished surface drew gaze of everyone in the room. If his right hand was not still sore and wrapped tightly he might have juggled instead. He slapped his hand down on the coin, when he lifted his palm to look which side faced up, it was gold laying on the table. "Head's says we continue the game?"
"Only if you quit that sleight of hand." The sergeant guffawed. "And the rest of us can't afford to start so high."
"But of course, sirs. Let's deal a few hands, and I'll do my best to tell you a tale. Perhaps the story of a cursed outlaw king Nivellen, the Fanger, and his spectral lover." Jaskier flexed his right wrist, and observed the sums on the table, deciding how much he would need to win to supplement his barter.
The cards played out, and Jaskier slowly wove money around the table, with a slow tithe to himself. As long as he did not let himself get idle, too reckless and miss on his count of the cards, he would make enough for some simple provisions, paper, ink, and a set of clothes. The story he chose he knew well enough to tell it drunker than skunk in perfect internal rhyme, as he had told it last in such a state. Jaskier finished his second ale as he throat ran dry with the grisly end of Nivellen's lover. Soldiers may tolerate a bit of poetry, but enjoyed it when underwritten with blood and sex.
"Well your luck is turning Master Jaskier." The sergeant eyed the pile of money in front of the Bard.
"Up for trying to win it back? Come on now lads! Where's your spirit?" Jaskier asked as he returned to the table with a newly filled stein.
"Hmmm, no. The men need to patrol, and we're expecting news from a runner this afternoon."
"But I can see you pining for your coin. Since I owe you, as much as you might deny the debt, I would be willing to donate it back as drinking money, for a few simple items of your reserves." Jaskier grinned as innocently as he could.
"We can't be handing out weapons." The sergeant said firmly. "Though I can understand you've certain need."
"Shame, indeed not," Jaskier answered keeping his face inviting, not quizzical and shifting back his rear foot, opening his hands in front of him, palms up. He was also an excellent actor, and all working actors were astute students of human nature. He was on the precipice of learning something important that they thought he knew already, pertinent to his safety and circumstances, Jaskier was sure of it.
Another soldier's voice broke into the conversation, clearly anxious. "Because the White Wolf has died hasn't he?" The room scrutinized Jaskier. "He came through here a few days before you did, nearly fully dead in the back of some merchant's cart. Merchant only said the witcher drove off a pack of monsters, saved his life. You haven't really spoken of that Geralt except in past mention, but your friendship is legendary. Your grief is plain."
Jaskier's look of worry was not feigned, but it took all of his skill, emboldened by his performer's mask already entrenched, to change this surge of hope to sorrow. Jaskier summoned all the pain of their parting from Geralt's harsh words, to his blindness when it came to Geralt's poor management of relationships. Jaskier forced himself to maintain the terror, as Jaskier had surely believed even days ago the brutal exchange was to have been the last time he would have seen his best friend. He was parted from the man who meant everything to him, forever unreconciled. A few tears spilled, and Jaskier spoke from the part of himself that did very much grieve the witcher. "To speak so plainly. A minute. Sorry."
Jaskier fell shakily to chair, again, not feigned. The lightheaded dread lingered; the rush of coincidences. He was so close, and yet so lost. Geralt had been here, in this place not so long before, but hurt. Badly, if the soldiers were sure he had died, but Jaskier's unremitting faith in the witcher tempered his belief in the men's assertions. Geralt made it out of Cintra. He had not been slaughtered with the princess in the city walls. But now laid so low, Geralt looked upon death's door to men experienced with such. Despite Geralt's fatalistic assurance that was his retirement plan, Jaskier refused to believe something in the badlands would be able to kill Geralt. Not when Cirilla skirted her ill fate. But they were still separated, Geralt had travelled with a merchant, not the girl.
It was all supposition of course, rumours of Ciri, first from a brute and likely Nilfgaardian spy, and now a sighting from guardsmen of the witcher. But they had been in the same area, what if. What if. If the witcher had found the girl, too many knew they had been bound. Jaskier had sung the ballad about Pavetta and Duny on every street stage for years, at every betrothal, during every marriage, and every two penny king had personally attended that bloody night, where he so selfishly dragged the witcher to peek under Destiny's skirts.
The men looked on at Jaskier expectantly, sympathetic, yet morbidly curious about the fate of the man who was a living legend. Too many people could associate Geralt with Cirilla, if she was truly alive and sought after by Nilfgaard. It had once benefited the witcher to have his courage and strength advertised to endear the world to him. Young Jaskier had seen Geralt had needed him for that, as much as Geralt needed anyone to see the real man he was. If Jaskier had also seen a business opportunity that he had profited from, it was the mutual companionship that made it work.
The worn Bard that sat here, feeling too raw, and made a calculated choice. Geralt needed a new mythos now, if he was to escape safely north, with his Child Surprise. Too many coincidences, destiny's hand was surely in motion. And Jaskier had been left to reconstruct Geralt's image. This he would do for the witcher. This he could do.
Jaskier cracked his voice on his first words. "I held his hand as he departed, the venom of the nekkers fatal in such large amounts." He knew nothing of what had truly happened, but proposed the first monster he could think of that hunted in groups. Geralt would need to disappear and spies do not look hard for dead men. "The leapt at him on monstrous heron legs even as he whirled with his silver sword flashing. He danced his last that night, on that lonely bridge.
"He had suffered alone for too long. It was a mercy when he finally passed." He allowed himself to choke up, weep. It was not too much emotion for a Bard to part from his muse. "After, I could not stay. We burned him with his enchanted swords, and I left shortly to make my way alone. The Nilfgaardians made it difficult to get through, and I ended up running from a unit I stumbled into by surprise. The cut on my back was the least punishment I could have taken from those cowards who struck so many innocent. Others suffered far worse. I dove into the river to out swim their archers' arrows."
"Oh Master, I know what it is to lose a comrade. Plenty of good ones lost their lives up on Sodden Hill, along with thirteen sorcerers. We will honor those that gave their lives, so easily to protect the common man. For us Soldier's to die in battle, well that our trade, but those sorcerers could have lived forever." The man, who looked fondly at Milah as he drank with her every night, spoke eloquently now drawing attention from the Bard, who was scrambling to piece together what direction to head next. Over to Riverdell, the road through here lead to Riverdell.
"Which Sorcerers?" Jaskier cleared his throat to ask, knowing nothing good could come of their involvement to him personally. He would have to pass through the area, and knowledge of the parties involved would only assist him.
"I'm not rightly sure, a coterie from the North held Sodden alone until our King and Kaedwan drove back the full might of Nilfgaard." The Sergeant answered. "You knew of them too I wonder, for surely Geralt's lover was a sorceress, you sang of her ebony black hair, and enchanting violet eyes. The obsidian star, a magical pendant to entrance unwary men."
Jaskier gave a somewhat hysterical laugh. "You remember much detail."
"Quite a show you've put on before. Though I like the simpler stuff better, good jigs that get everyone up and singing along." The sergeant clapped his hand on the Bard's shoulder, jolting pain through the healing wound. "But you spoke of needing a few things, I can spare a set of clothes and some leather armours. Your attire is not adequate for the climate, and you obviously find trouble all on your own. It may not be to your taste, but I'd like to hear you sing again, safely back up in the North."
"Garments were part of my ask, yes. Simple linens are fine, not one for leathers really. And some paper and inks. Lost much of my work recently, would like to write something out, clear my head. And a small knife, nothing like a real weapon, a water bag." He shifted the coins on the table meaningfully, and forked his winnings back over. "For your next night out men, to remember the ones we lost, the ones we loved."
The gruff voiced man came back with a bundle. "This will do for you, threw in a few bits of kit as well, Milah said you had little with you. If you won't wait and come with the company back North, you'll need a bit more to survive by yourself out there."
"I must away soon. But thank you." Jaskier said, noting the weight. A set of leathers must have been included. He clinked his coins again, and slipped the gold into the middle of the stack, concealed by wider pieces.
"You'll perform tonight, at Bran's? Won't you Master?" The youngest one pouted.
"I will. The stage calls to me."
Jaskier knocked on the panels of the door leading to what had been his shelter. The heavy bundle was over his left shoulder, and his right hand hid behind his back. Lacey's eye appeared as the door cracked and she visibly relaxed and let him through. She had been alone, and looked forlorn. Her age was easier to gage than his own, but she looked it, now as he supposed he did too. She opened her mouth he was sure to comment on something that offended her, but he brought his right hand out, too quickly for she jumped with surprise, and he flinched with pain.
Lacey chuckled, once she forced herself to take a breath. "If you were trying to replace Milah's herb stocks, you've gone too floral."
"I do know a few things about medicinal plants, but no, I picked these for their beauty and their fragrance, for you." Jaskier turned over his bouquet, wrapped together by a piece of lace he'd stolen from a wash line. Someone would be missing their table runner.
"And whose yard did you pilfer. You'll get run out of town by the mayor's wife if I don't miss my guess." Lacey appeared to be annoyed, but spun his arrangement in her hands, and smelled the blue spruce boughs, flowered viburnum, and hellebores.
"I've loitered too long, been too underfoot. Staying this long at a brothel, should have been a better time, yeah? I mean to leave in the morning anyway." Jaskier risked looking in her eye, and she held his gaze. Good.
"You still look terrible." Lacey told him. "I've seen more spirited geriatrics, had much livelier."
"I'd bet you have!" Jaskier laughed, the made eye contact for his own confession, pulling his jaw back, "So have I." He smirked remembering fondly the dowager duchess of Aedirn, who had been an exquisite conversationalist with other verbal skills. "I'd say both of us are more resilient than others would expect." Jaskier hummed, and sat down on stool, so he had to look up at the woman.
Lacey looked at her feet and then back up. "You've been crying." She stated, her eyes squinted. "Why?"
Jaskier flinched, and scrubbed his face. "Had to confront truths, I guess. Reminded of ugliness in the world. Guard's mentioned the dying man that passed through here with the merchant."
"Yurga and the dying witcher." Lacey stopped. "Oh, he was your witcher wasn't he? You called for him dreadfully. I'm sorry."
"I miss him." Jaskier said, not wanting to lie right now.
Lacey pulled him up into a hug, though he towered over the woman. He held her loosely and slowly tightened his grip as he knew she would not recoil.
"We'll be okay." Lacey said simply.
She did not spring away from him as the door opened and Milah entered, a basin of steaming water in her already wet hands. The woman inclined her head at the stool. "Let me check your shoulder, if it's not scabbed well over you shouldn't be going anywhere. Asking for infection to come back if it opens up with no one to help you with it.
"How was the walk? Good for your lungs to get up around, yes, pull your shirt off." Milah unwound the bandages, and pulled off the dry dressing. She dabbed around the edges, only eliciting a throb of dull discomfort, nothing like the burning in the days before. "We'll leave it open tonight, to make sure it's dried up. I'll see you off tomorrow if things are well."
"The poet brought you flowers." Lacey held out the bouquet to the other woman.
"Those flowers are desperately dehydrated." Milah laughed and unwound the lace from them. A wooden stein with some of the wash water served, and she stood it on the shelf by the door. The presentation on a whole was lackluster, the stems looking a little droopy, but the blooms were still bright and sweet-smelling.
The lace fluttered between her fingers. "Well if it is for me, I suppose I can boil this up, use it to secure a dressing in the future, it's long enough."
Lacey huffed and ripped it easily from Milah's fingers. "You'll do no such thing." Lacey shuffled everything off the shelf, and laid the lace out, on a piece of red velvet, and centered the flowers again. "A little class."
Jaskier stood, and redressed in the new clothes provided by the outpost soldiers. He was glad they included a belt. The light deerskin trousers Jaskier pulled over his own, recalling the volume of chamomile needed to mitigate chafing from such harsh clothing. The fresh shirt was blessing, though it took him a while to it thread up. A hooded and padded shirt, he pulled over top, it was meant to go under chainmail. The studded leather jacket did up easily, as it fell loose over the layers, though it hung heavily on his shoulder. A thick pair of gloves, he shoved in the pockets. Jaskier fussed with his riding boots, pulling them over the pants.
Jaskier spun around for them. "Not really me, is it." His coin purse, now disturbingly thin, he tucked into the neck of the padded shirt.
The women stared, and did not speak to agree with him. "It so much dull leather, no flash at all. No one will know me, or offer to pay me to act a troubadour wearing this. It just does not say Master Bard!" Jaskier argued with their silence. "Well you both can keep your comments to yourself then. If you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all."
Lacey listed her head. "If I hadn't wiped your ass for you in the last week, and you hadn't just opened your mouth, I would have called you a handsome rogue."
"Maybe with a haircut." Milah bit in. "Maybe.''
"Oi, hey!"
The night came up faster than Jaskier expected, he had fallen asleep against the wall in their room, lulled by the soft voices and the smell of clean cut spruce. Jaskier woke to find a folded blanket behind his head, and a covered plate of hearty stew with soggy bread still hot on the floor next to his feet. And less desirably cold medicinal tea with a pitcher of well water. Jaskier indulged himself heartily after choking down the bitter tangy brew. This was likely the last good meal he could expect until he arrived at the next real town. He had already paid Bran for a few bits of travel food, none of it near as appealing as the hot meal.
As Jaskier finished scooping the dish into his mouth without his courtly manners, Bran pushed the door open seeking him. "Sing for us Bard, would you. The crowd's begging. Whole town's swarming in there, or have their head's in through the windows. Can't even send the girls upstairs, got to keep the drinks served, and the food rolling."
Jaskier raised his eyebrow expectantly. "Sounds like a lucrative night for you."
"Hold a grudge do you poet? Fine, give you a share in the morning. Ten percent."
"Twenty-five."
"Seventeen."
"Done, though only through the deepest appreciations of your house."
Jaskier stood himself up, trying not to groan. "You really should just let Milah work as healer out of one the rooms. Might get a fair bit of business from those seeking her out her fair touch. I will certainly send those I meet her way."
"Sound advice. Might keep her quieter, and out of my business." Bran agreed. "I'm happier cooking than running this place, truth be told. My brother did the front end, worked things out with the girls."
"Put Lacey in charge as hostess. Have her hire some new courtesans. Plenty of widowed women need work, and they trust places ran by matron's more. Happy girls will mean better business." Jaskier offered.
"Hmmm, would let me get back to cooking. Know Tommen took his share of advice from her anyway." Bran nodded. "But such a change will be easier if the crowd feels generous tonight."
"Oh sir, you forget to whom you speak. I invented inspiring benefaction through song. I'll leave those lucky to be here more parched than if we crossed a dessert from their singing and clapping along. Do be prepared to sate their thirst, keep the drinks flowing."
To start the evening a few jaunty pieces were played, but his wrist tired, so Jaskier told the tale of the last "Silver" Dragon for the first time without a shred of bitterness, highlighting Geralt's gallant actions, and disparaging Boholt's gang as uncouth Southern raiders. Geralt and Yennefer had left together victorious of course, as the Dragon flew away with his secreted prize. Jaskier had of course changed circumstance to protect Borch, but the whole thing was so fantastical, it was hardly worth the effort.
After the grand conclusion, Jaskier broke down and crooned a sweet lament for the witcher lost in the recent upheaval, with a few quick chords he plucked on his lute to set a mood. A bastardization of a funereal piece for ancient warrior king, but too old to be outed here for plagiary. Jaskier had been called a liar before, by Geralt himself, among other indecorous, true, slurs, and he did not deny it then. What Jaskier would make of himself, at least he had noble purpose, this time.
"You're welcome." He said to Geralt, as the crowd's clapping and cheering faded. Timed perfectly, as usual.
Word of Geralt's heroic end would spread by the onlookers present that night. Sweep it would from the lips of the soldiers- first hand witnesses, those townspeople that sat here tonight who would likely claim to know his final resting spot, and the traders that sat together in the corner would offer up the gossip as a pricey part of their transactions. Jaskier analysed the last group, as it might offer him easier travelling in the morning light should they be headed in the correct direction.
Milah and her soldier cuddled in a dark corner. Lacey sat at the bar, alone, but attentive. The two other girls sat at tables with the men at arms when they rested their feet during silence demanded by the performance. Jaskier made his way through a tavern's usual repertoire next, constrained by his still swollen wrist.
The night was growing long, and while Jaskier had not indulged under Milah's apparent strict instruction to keep him sober, his head was truly aching now. And in the early morning, Jaskier needed to get to Riverdell post haste, and then maybe north to catch his witcher and warn him of the danger, keep him from the public eye.
"One more song!" Lacey called out, her voice sure over the crowd.
Jaskier met her look and bowed, and set his lute on the table next to him. While a harmony would have been preferred, the mood was set, and he needed no music for this piece. It was somber and thoughtful, romantic and heartfelt, everything to wind down the crowd, leave them wowed, emotional and ready to disperse.
"For those that will never leave from Sodden Hill. Those that may never have seen true love in front of them.
"I can hear the cannons calling, as though across a dream.
And I can smell the smoke of hell, in every stitch and seam.
And like flowers the bodies tumble around this muddied lot.
I cannot hear them scream forget me not.
Your voice it carries over the hubbub and the hum…"*
*Excerpted from the Amazing Devil's Song "Elsa's Song", by Joey Batey and Madeleine Hyland