"What's wrong, bard?"
Yennefer approaches her friend, who is slumped in an armchair by the fireplace, staring at what appears to be a letter. "You look more confused than a king without clothes."
"Why on the continent would a king without clothes be confused, witch?" Jaskier asks, gazing up from the parchment. "I can imagine plenty of scenarios about kings without clothes that are not at all confusing. Actually, I've been in a couple of clothless king situations myself—"
"Don't wander off topic, Jask! And give me that letter." Yennefer snatches the piece of parchment from Jaskier's hand. With its neat handwriting, lots of numbers and a seal of dark red wax, it looks awfully official. She begins to read. Then she breaks into a laugh.
Jaskier glares at her darkly.
"What's so funny, witch? Care to explain the joke? Because, honestly, it totally eludes me."
"You have to— to— to pay—" Yennefer fights to control her fit of mirth enough to be able to finish the sentence, "to pay taxes for the last 25 years? Have you never ever payed taxes all those many years of your barding around?"
"Why would I? With my bountiful and brilliant songs I've been providing entertainment for the masses for more than two decades, a humble servant of society. Why by Melitele's tits would I have to pay taxes?"
"Because everybody has to. Unless they're billionaires, of course. But you, Jaskier, don't look like one. You're still wearing the same red leather coat as when we met in Oxenfurt in that tavern years ago."
"Naturally, it's a great coat! And if I have to pay that ridiculous amount of tax money, I'll probably have to wear it till the end of my days, with no coin to replace it even if I wanted to. They'll have to bury me in it for want of money for a coffin!"
"It's an incredible sum indeed," Yennefer says, furrowing her brow. "You can't have made that much with your songs, bard, can you?"
"How would I know? I'm not a bookkeeper. I spend what I earn and don't think twice about it. There sure was the one or other party, some presents for Vespula so she wouldn't break my lute in one of her jealousy fits - well, not that she didn't have reason to be jealous, I must admit, but it's not like I was her only lover either -, I also had to live, and who works hard, shouldn't sleep hard, or starve, or go without drink. Well, without Est-Est, to be more precise, but I can assure you that every drop of it is worth its price, the bouquet alone—"
"So, you've squandered it all?" Yennefer looks at her friend, incredulous.
"Squander, really, witch? That sounds so— so disparaging. I've put it to good use. I might have given away some of it, too. Those elves in Oxenfurt were really suffering with not an oren to their name and everybody out to cut off their ears and spill their blood."
"And, of course, the elves didn't give you a receipt for your donations, right?"
"Naturally, they didn't! Who in their right mind would think of taxes when running for their lives?" Jaskier rolls his eyes at his friend. Then he sighs theatrically and slumps even more. "Damn it, witch, what am I going to do now?"
"Run for your life? I've heard you're pretty good at that. You've escaped from quite a few furious husbands, fathers, brothers, the gallows. Rumour has it, even from a couple of wives—"
"But, fuck, I don't want to run! This here, the Chameleon, is what I've always dreamt of! You can do something, witch, can't you? After all, we were married once!"
"For less than five minutes!" Yennefer laughs. "As if I'd ever marry you of all people. Maybe if I went deaf from old age, it would be a possibility that I wouldn't totally rule out—"
"Rude! Do you really have to tell me my songs are shit when I'm at my wits end anyway? And there I thought for a couple of years that you weren't a heartless, power-hungry she-demon with clunky shoes full of snakes or something."
"Wit can never be done with the likes of you, Julian Alfred Pankratz, of that much I am certain." Yennefer winks at her friend.
"But it is! Over and done. I'm finished. I can as well jump from the roof to - no, not high enough, it's only one story. I can jump from - a bridge. Fuck, I know how to swim. See, witch, I can't even think of a way how to off myself to escape from the tax collectors' noose." Jaskier moans dramatically.
"Well, if things are so incredibly dire." Yennefer smiles at Jaskier, still unduly amused about the bard's antics. "As much as I hate to admit it, you've been a good friend those last years, bard, albeit an annoying one."
Jaskier huffs.
"If you swear never to write a song about me ever again, I'll take care of your tax problem," she then promises to Jaskier's great relief. "Let's see, who's responsible for this letter. Ah, the honourable Mr Levy Gauger himself. I believe I have heard of the old grump that's the head of the royal revenue authorities. Now he will hear of me."
The sorceress's purple eyes sparkle with mischief.
Jaskier breathes a heartfelt sigh and relaxes visibly. If Yennefer takes care of the issue, the problem will go away within the blink of an eye, he is certain of it. Or maybe within a fortnight. It does not matter. He knows he will be safe and able to keep his beloved Chameleon.
Smiling at her brightly, he invites her for a glass of Est-Est, his favourite vintage. Naturally, the sorceress does not say no.
And she keeps her word. A few weeks later, another letter arrives at the Chameleon, declaring the bard's enormous tax dept void. How Yennefer managed to do it? Who knows? She does not tell anybody about it. But rumour has it that the usually so bad-tempered honourable Mr Gauger, head of the fiscal authority, and his no less moody, sullen and barren wife have been having dreamy smiles plastered on their faces for weeks and that, finally, at the age of fifty-two, the wife is pregnant. Magic?
Well, no matter whether coincidence or not, Jaskier keeps his promise to Yennefer, too. So, very unfortunately, there are no songs about the beautiful purple-eyed witch except for Sweet it could be about any woman, any woman at all.
Only the witch and the bard know it is not.
