The wandering troubadour of nowhere in particular had graced a few fine establishments for the noble elite, differentiated solely by the cost. The Passiflora was the most well-known, for its gilded frame, the scented candles burning in every hollow, and the beauties marketed for every conventional appetite of the lords and ladies, and all appealing to his. He performed in many that were well-kept for the wealthy untitled, gaining a reputation for himself among the obscenely rich as well as prominent scholars. Jaskier usually found himself in the better class of pub affordable for the common man both to entertain and to stay, but the building he was brought to this afternoon was a repurposed pisshole.
The atmosphere did not merit to rank among dingiest of pubs and was in fact rancorous with what had to be weeks' accumulation of drunken vomit and excrement. Absent was a central hearth used anywhere else for light, heat and cooking. This place was cool with only a poorly vented stove in the corner of the room. The light was dim and entirely unsuitable to even converse with the fellow next to him. The furniture was poor quality, wobbly and repaired from nightly brawls with poorly placed nails and old bits of course twine. All of these things were readily apparent to the bard, who hovered there unwilling to sit or signal that he was ostentatiously comfortable with these surroundings.
As Jaskier had stepped off the back of the wagon, part of caravan of tinkers, traders and tradesmen making for less war-torn parts of the continent, he had heard himself hailed by a man leaning against the building with a sign too weathered to read. The man who called himself Yurga patted a three legged stool next to bar that had never seen a polish cloth. He had looked up and away, before reciting his name, failing to identify his family or his profession as was customary, and then directed a meaningful glance at the least hospitable building Jaskier had yet entered.
The name Yurga had struck a chord of familiarity with Jaskier, who followed him into the depraved excuse for an alehouse. Jaskier kept a tight grip on his possessions, and relieved he did not have a visible purse of money. "What do I owe this introduction to?" Jaskier asked, glancing about. No one else took any interest in his person. No one was crowding up behind him. This man appeared to be working alone.
This Yurga was incongruous. His dress was poor in dusty dark colors, unkempt, but he had a new set of black boots. Jaundice overtook the whites of his eyes, as it was set off wonderfully by the yellow and rot in his teeth displayed in a crocodile's grin. His face had hard creases, but was more tanned than should have been expected for the season. What was left of his hair struck up in patchy matts. His hands were hidden, perhaps for warmth, but he fiddled with something in his cloak pocket, the action continuous and distracted. Even in the shadows of the room, it was easy to see the three long scratches across the man's face. The deepest parts were an angry color, though the injury was days old.
"We have a mutual friend." The response was almost snide. And most unhelpful. Jaskier had many fair weather friends, and many dealings with folks who veiled themselves as such, but were decided too self-interested or politically motivated to be more than associates. And he was not expecting to check in with anyone who introduced themselves as such, until he was much further north.
"If you bring word of a mutual friend, isn't it something we might discuss more plainly in private?" Jaskier looked the man over again. He bore no insignia dictating a loyalty, but the boots were military issue, mass produced and stiff. "Ah, not really the place for such business."
"What kind of business are you expecting?" The man looked at the bard with new scrutiny. His eyes swept over the Bard's attire, and to the corner of his shoulder, where his belongings were visible. "Thought you'd appreciate somewhere out of the wind and a drink." The enunciation on some of the words also sounded off color, not at all a local dialect. The fricative's were entirely missed, some of his speech blended together. A medley surer from Attre, than accents prominent around the Yaruga.
"If we truly had the same friends, I wouldn't need to answer. And you would have made appropriate introductions in a more proper space." Jaskier was glad he had remained standing. "I'm not clear what your purpose is, you might have me mistaken for someone else in these turbulent times."
"I wanted to buy a thirsty man a drink is all, the ale up north is far more interesting." The man offered, shaking a swollen purse. "Consider it a gift, a gesture of goodwill. Not a lot of goodwill, going around. Lots of desperate folk around, fleeing from the Battle for Cintra."
"Uh, what you intend to buy with that fat purse, in place like this, can't all be for the beer. And I'm more of a wine man myself." Jaskier backed up. Looks were cast at them now, but the focus was on the money held aloft in the man's grip. The sleepy barman even looked up from his station in the corner by the stove, his boot heels had come down from their propped rest.
"Well, I'd like some of your time to talk about our friends. I hear you like to talk, real agreeable like. Not just when you're prancing about on stage." The man pushed up with a sigh. Jaskier shook his head made for the door. "Fine. I wait on a drink for now."
Jaskier noted how shaky the man's hands were before they made contact with the sticky wooden surface, and distinctive illness in the tinge to his eyes. "For not long I bet." The man jutted his chin out, but growled out a breath that wound down, and made to follow him. Jaskier swallowed and spoke, checking his tone. "Heard from who? What mutual friends, as you say?" Jaskier kept walking, not certain what do to do if the man followed. He wondered where the party he had travelled with had settled- the inn, the town hall, or the market square. The place was sprawling, vaster than he had expected.
Jaskier headed towards the stables out of habit. Jaskier knew he was in the general area the merchant resided, the rescued man who had in turn sheltered the injured witcher. The merchant whose name was Yurga. Odd coincidence, but the man who had attached himself to the bard was not as the burly, caring man had been described. Low chance Geralt remained in the area, it had been sometime that Jaskier had been delayed in following. But if Geralt was slowed by an injury, he may have ventured out recently enough the stableman would recall his mount and unique style of tack. Such things stuck out to enthusiasts, let alone the impression a white haired armoured man with two swords and yellow eyes would make.
The man who had named himself Yurga, caught up next to the bard. Huffing, annoyed, "nah, just some mouthy bitch, thought she was better than trash." He gestured at his face. "She talked, a bit too much, thought to waste the time I paid for by talking about you, a famous guest. Like you'd want to hear about another man in whore house. Socked her good back for these cat scratches."
"I don't believe we would have anyone in common, I don't associate with scoundrels like you." Jaskier snapped back, and saw he was alone with the man he was trying to warn Geralt about. A man with a cruel heart and a temper, who proved himself capable of at least intimate assault.
"But we do have a common friend. I helped your Geralt, after he saved me from a swarm of drowners. I took him with me, he could barely sit his horse. But he followed me to get his reward. Expensive git."
"And yet you have plenty of coin left, you knave. Normally, I'd be dying to hear the rest of your sordid tale, but not in the market right now. Actually working entirely in fantastical romances, really just children's stories." Jaskier bit off, feeling like he was becoming ensnared. The liveryman had absconded from his charges evidently, not another humanoid was in the stable. This man was a Nilfgaardian spy, and selected for his persistence more than cleverness. He must have heard at least part of the same story Jaskier had, and tried to force himself into the role to gain the bard's confidences.
"I'm a what, a scoundrel or a knave. Your witcher and I got along just fine, two peas in a pod." The man's face was nothing like a smile.
"Uh, really, I must be going, or does this conversation have a point?" Jaskier tried to get past the man, but again he drew out his purse. But left his other hand hidden in the cloak pocket.
"If you see your friend again, let me know. He missed getting his just reward, I must make that right. What's the song I've heard, Toss a Coin at your Witcher?" He shoved the bard back into the barn.
Jaskier's gut turned to ice. Not only were the words egregiously off-key, they held a menace that frightened more than offended the bard. "Ah, yeah. Message received. But I think our 'business' is concluded. Off you go!"
"So you haven't heard word of Geralt, or anyone one else he's with?" The man pressed, his hand in his pocket again.
"Nope, just got in today. Think you saw him last actually." Jaskier swallowed hard. His new knife, was bundled up, likely on the bottom of his pack. The straps were digging into his shoulder, and his lute case was the most solid thing he could reach easily though physical confrontation was not his thing. He forced down the urge to take swing, or poke holes in the ruse presented to him. The back of his knees caught the edge of a hay bale, and Jaskier tumbled, sitting roughly. He rolled to take the pressure off his lute case. The pull through his shoulder with the sudden torque reminded him more directly of the need to be circumspect.
"I'll keep my eye out, but I doubt he's anywhere near here. Favours winter's at the coast. Sunsets, the voluptuous mermaids, long walks on sandy beaches." Jaskier watched the man's face approximate a victory.
"Alright Bard. But if you do hear something." He shook his coin purse. "It will be worth your time, you get paid to squawk, holler and bend over anyway."
"Fuck off." Jaskier spit out. "I really think you should leave. Before I report you to the watch."
The Nilfgaardian spy took a step closer, then faced away. "Should have pretended to play nice. You're no smarter than the whore." He turned suddenly, and swung a small scrap of metal and leather, striking the bard across the unbruised half of his face. Jaskier fell away, cracking the opposite side of his head on the cool floor of the barn. Stunned, everything was spinning giddily around him. The world went white. He was kicked to his ribs, and his mouth and nose scraped the pungent cobbled floor, before his head flopped to the side. His arms were yanked behind his back as his pack and lute were ripped from him. Something was said to him, the words suppressed under the coursing in his ears, and then he felt another kick to his hip. The pain roused him and he rolled away. A few shouts, and the sound of fleeing feet.
"Fuck." Well Jaskier tried to speak, but throbbing in his temple erupted through his face. Metal filled his mouth. He choked on it and spat to the floor. He circled with his tongue the inside of his rapidly swelling cheek gouged from his teeth. The man had caught him when he was about to speak with what must have been a blackjack. He palpated the impact point just in front of his ear, and was relieved to find the skin intact, though with the amount it was pulsing, if it split it may have hurt less. He wanted to keep lying there, but was aware enough to contemplate the depth of the shittiness his situation. No one was going to pick him up.
Jaskier fought through the heaviness in his ribs, and rested his back against the bale, cradling his head ingloriously, hoping he would be able to see straight before the spy came back to just slit his throat. A loud and wet crunch interrupted his musing. Jaskier gingerly looked up to pair of blue and brown eyes of a skewbald horse, more white than roan. It snorted and tossed its head victoriously. Then reached down to grab the fallen half of the Bard's apple, and helped itself with big chomping bites. The rest of the contents of the bag were scattered in front of the animal having rolled into the first stall. Jaskier brought his lute to him, and hugged it to his chest. It would have been so easy for the man to have grabbed it, but perhaps it was too bulky and too hard to sell.
"Good horsey, be a good chap, no need to kick, I'll just pull these things out of your way. Though if you do strike out, just do me a favor and put me out of my misery. That would just be perfect, top, after the week I've had."
Jaskier crawled to collect his things, and groaned piteously. The horse did not in fact protest, but he did not lift his hoof off a sheaf of blank paper. Every ache accumulated in the last week renewed, joined by the harsh flexion on his hip, the inadequate pants of breath and the pounding through his head. He found everything except his leather bound journal. That journal contained the remnants of his last great song, and the beginnings of a new ode to Geralt's triumphant, fictitious death. He chortled and his eyes watered. How he found the journal had mocked him, to remain so despairingly empty, his paltry creative efforts of late not worthwhile to be written. And now that he had inspired something worth committing to the rich paper, it was stolen from him. The spy must have taken it hoping to find insights. "Enjoy the fiction, you prick."
The bard had stayed there, hunched over, drowning in the loss, the pain for too long. He had been surprised, and reacted rashly, stammering, insulting and entirely botching the interaction. The spy could have been directed successfully elsewhere, or Jaskier could have actually admitted he and witcher had fallen out, and he had not seen the man in half a year, and did not expect to ever again. He could have played it a hundred different ways, if he had been prepared. He had not done well under pressure. He never had, he was not half a charming as he intended, unscripted out of his element. His only talent was in peacocking in a ballroom, or at the front of a crowd in a tavern or lecture hall on the rare opportunity he had to speak at the University. Of his possessions only his lute remained to him, everything else of his identity had been stolen or lost to misfortune. He was sure he even would look a stranger to himself in a mirror, beaten beyond recognition, beard unshorn, his hair long unevenly parted from his brow. The clothing he wore was alien.
Introspection and self-loathing had never been his pursuits, but he was rapidly becoming more adept. He was sick to his stomach, and he clenched to keep himself from vomiting scared of the pain through his chest. Jaskier cried out when the ache at the corner of his maxilla spiked. And perhaps this was why the soft footsteps behind him stopped before he heard them.
An unsure intake of breath Jaskier did hear, as he turned with a groan to assess who had found him whimpering in the muck. Jaskier scrubbed a hand over his face, combing his hair from his eyes back over his forehead. Dirt and dung came away, and Jaskier brushed his hand over his studded black jacket. He was unfocused, but he raked his eyes over the petite form, wrapped in a once rich blue cloak. White blonde hair was braided, but hung over her shoulder. He knew those eyes, the exceptional shade of blue, on the regal pixie face.
"Fuck. Uh. Princess."
The bard scrambled to haul himself up. His words were thick, garbled by the swelling in his mouth and the fresh agony stiff through his jaw. "Why now! We've got to hide. You can't stay here. Um. Shit. Owe. Come here." He was up to his knees, when she surprised him.
"Who are you? How did you find me?" Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, last of her line, the Lion Cub of Cintra brandished a silver knife and snarled. "If you come near me, I'll, I'll." She glanced behind her and shook her head in clear frustration. She started shivering belying her bark.
"Uh, Princess. You must come with me, we're in danger, I think Nilfgaard's after you." Jaskier started, but she picked up a horse shoe, hanging by the door and whipped it at him. It struck him in the thigh as he gained his feet.
"Don't pretend you know me, you're a liar. I've not seen you before in my life!" Her lips trembled, and her beautiful eyes became shiny with fear, but Jaskier must have been more unsteady than he thought, because it seemed the entire barn shook.
"Lady Ciri, it's I, Jaskier. I performed last for your birthday, I um, I promise, I want to help." He winced and grabbed his head in one hand, as several of the horses whinnied in terror. He heard a few crashes behind him. The twang of his lute case bouncing off the brick. He made himself advance with a trepidation he was going to experience what Pavetta's daughter was capable of, but extended a hand to grip her knuckles.
He went to a knee, and kissed the back of her hand, where her ring should have been. She slashed and caught the blade on the leathers he wore. "Princess!"
Her eyes were dilated and her head whipped back. He bowed his head, and forced his jaw to work. "Her current is pulling me closer, and charging the hot humid night. The red sky at dawn is giving a warning, you fool better get out of sight. I'm weak my love, and I am wanting…"
The air stilled and he risked a look up with her, and she was frozen staring at him in disbelief. "I know, I've looked better, I can't fault you for not knowing me."
Jaskier tried to give her his signature charming smirk, but he flinched. Something grated in face. "We've got to leave together now. There's at least one spy looking for you here, sooner we can get out of town the better." The words were beyond painful to get out, and make clear enough for her to understand.
"It is you." Ciri huffed, and stared at the knife in her hand. "I'm sorry, I think, I don't know if I can trust you."
Jaskier rose, wobbled on his feet clumsily. "Oh, wow. I'm," her strong arms encircled his waist, "supposed to be helping you."
"You can't follow me." She shoved him back onto the bail. And grabbed a lead. "Tie yourself up or something."
Whatever Ciri was going to reply was cut off by a strong grip on his shoulder as he was torn away from her. Jaskier clutched at the man dragging him. Nausea enveloped Jaskier as the sudden movement made him loose sense of the floor. "Run girl!" He begged.
The man made to throw him against the stall half wall, but Jaskier did not let go and pulled the man with him, and suffered twice the impact through his back. The man levered a punch to Jaskier's gut, and he did crumple then, retching across the straw.
"Ciri, are you alright?" The worried tone barely cut through the waves crashing in his ears. Jaskier overbalanced and fell face first into the floor.
"I almost did it again. Lost control again. I'm sorry I just should have ran. But I know him from before. Grandma invited him a few times. Mousesack knew him too."
Jaskier huddled there, pathetic, but tried to rise. The knuckles on his fists turned white. He had to get up. Ciri was not safe. Someone was here. She had to believe him.
"He knows about Nilfgaard, said there's a spy, a spy here." She spoke faster now.
"Hmmm. We'll have to make do with what we have then. Need to get out of town. Nothing to do for it now, I wasn't the only one who heard the commotion." The low tone of affection usually so reserved, the deep gravelly voice always so brusque.
"What about him? He knows I'm here. He'll say something. I'm scared Geralt."
"I'm here, Ciri, I'll keep you safe."
The strong grip returned to his shoulder and held him back against the boards. "Fuck." Jaskier could not tell who uttered it first. He laughed, low and heartily. He needed to argue his own defense, as the man considered him a threat, and did not know who he had thrown down. Unless he did, and it did not matter. If he had ever mattered.
He could barely make out the witcher's face. But the grip on his shoulder loosened, then tightened almost too firmly.
"No. That laugh. No." Geralt's voice was soft.
"Do you know him, Geralt? He sang so wonderfully for my birthday. If Grandma invited him he must be famous. I don't know what to do."
"Jaskier!"
The blood rushed from his head, and the shallow breaths he could not take overwhelmed him, and the Bard's eyes rolled back in his head.