Chapter Text
“You cannot do this!” Jaskier wrung his hands in disbelief. The innkeeper placed his own on his hips.
“Not only can I, I must. And I will. Because, imagine this, bard: this is not a place a lot of people are travelling through. This inn is an inn in a little village, the people are coming here every evening and they'd like to hear somebody else, somebody with new songs, a new voice and a new lute. And if they don't pay for you, you'll have to. Can you?”
Jaskier decided to ignore the last two sentences. “Who says that? The last evenings were still visited well, people pay, they -”
“They are getting less!”, the innkeeper interrupted harshly. “And I will not wait until they go to another inn and leave their money in somebody else's purse!”
Jaskier barked a laugh. “There is no other inn! Yours is the only tavern in this shithole, even if you decide to perform yourself they'd still have to come!” Too late did he realise that this last part might not be a wise remark considering his position. He was right with that.
The innkeeper looked considerably grumpy. “You and your witcher, you will get lost until noon. No pay, no stay. Period.” With that, he left the bard.
Jaskier blinked, a bit confused, then sank on the bench behind him with a groan.
It wasn't that much of a surprise. The people were paying less every day, they knew all of his songs and were sick of most. Jaskier wasn't able to pay their room. They'd have to look for a new place to stay.
Which meant that they'd have to ride. His face scrunched up in agony. Geralt had recovered well during the last days, he should be back to normal in four or five days from now on. But dragging him out of his bed, planting him on his horse and having him ride to the next village? It didn't take too much bad luck for the wounds to break open again, and then those last few days had been in vein.
For the first time in a very long time, the bard had been really scared about his friend. A griffin was a serious opponent. Two griffins were a real challenge, even for an extraordinary witcher like Geralt. But two griffins, striking in the exact moment Geralt was fighting an earth elemental was simply too much. Geralt owed his life to Roach, because she had heard his desperate whistle despite the commotion of battle. The horse was in the stables, unharmed. It had been her to carry the unconscious witcher back into the village, following the same path they had taken to the griffin's nest.
What became of the beasts, Jaskier didn't know for sure. Maybe the elemental had been killed by the griffins, yet if one of them was still alive, nobody knew. What he did know was that Geralt needed rest, rest and Swallow. The latter he still had a supply of, luckily, as for the first – that would be Jaskier's part to take care of, making sure they had a roof to sleep under.
Seemed like he failed with that. They didn't have the few days they needed, they only had a couple of hours.
“I should go wake him,” he murmured and made his way up the stairs.
He took the steps extra slowly, in the manner of a man following the path to his scaffold, hoping with every groaning step and every new lifting of a leg for a messenger to arrive, carrying a dispatch, declaring the sentence null and void.
Another step. Nobody came. Maybe, he mused, I simply pushed my luck once too often. Maybe I asked for Fortune's help for too many times.
Another step.
Maybe I asked for Fortune's help too often, just as I asked for Geralt's help too often, he thought and took the next moaning step. The painful sounds of the wood almost sounded like a cry for help – where is my dispatch?
How should he explain this to Geralt? Just a few days and he'd be fit enough to hunt down a bloody higher vampire or a Royal Griffin. A few damned days!
Groan.
Jaskier knew the healing process of a witcher well by now. It was different, depending on how sever the injuries were – smaller injuries or intoxications usually healed over night or after a few hours of meditating with Swallow. More severe injuries needed their time, though, even as a witcher. The first few days were all about keeping the body alive, always supported by alchemy. Then, after that first phase -
Groan .
Oh, Gods …
The bard buried himself in the musings about the witcher's healing process once more, as if it was anything but a distraction from the upcoming setback.
So, after that first phase, there wouldn't be much happening for a few days. Geralt had told Jaskier several times that this was nothing to be afraid of – but even a witcher's metabolism couldn't stand massive intoxication for an endless amount of time. So, when the witcher was halfway stable, he gave his body some time to get the poison out of the system and recover from the high stress level.
This was the point Geralt had reached right now.
And I' just reached the second to last step.
Tomorrow, maybe even today, Jaskier thought desperately, the last phase would begin. Geralt would drink Swallow once more, and his body would know how to put it to use. During the next three or four days, every wound would've healed, and the witcher would be back to his old self.
But that wouldn't happen. Because Jaskier was on the last step already. And he would have to wake Geralt, rip him from the salutiferous slumber, and then force him to endure a half day of riding to the next village, probably a whole day in Geralt's state. The witcher didn't look too good as it was, even though that was nothing compared to the day Roach had carried him back to the village. Jaskier had seen a lot, lots of injuries, lots of them on the witcher, and a lot of dead bodies.
If he was honest, the bard had seen dead bodies in a better shape than his friend on that day. There had been blood everywhere, so much, that it was hard to make out the source. A glove was completely lost, the griffin's corrosive acid had consumed the leather and had almost crippled the witcher's hand forever, had Jaskier not remembered one of the many First-Aid-advices of Geralt: If you see acid anywhere, if it smokes and smells bad, forget everything else about me, no matter if a rib is sticking out of my knee, first get the armour off of me!
Back then, Jaskier had been joking that it hopefully wasn't the pants that were smoking, because he wasn't quite sure about how to get somebody with a rib through their knee stripped of their pants, but as he saw the smoking glove, he had sprinted to him and ripped it off Geralt's hand.
Suddenly, he had arrived in front of the door, staring at the old wood like it was supposed to bring him salvation.
How were they supposed to make it to the next settlement? Velen was a devastating mixture of wide empty, ugly land and tiny settlements that had one tavern each, sometimes none. But without a tavern, Jaskier was unable to make their living. And with only one – well, quod erat demonstrandum, he thought, one tavern was just not enough for him to keep them above water for long enough. That being said, here, in this village, they had had an extra advantage because people had witnessed the arrival of the witcher themselves. With the next village without that headstart, they'd lose another two days of housing.
“Then I'll have to write new songs,” he murmured, forgot to knock and leant his back against the door. “New songs, a bigger repertory, to make the people listen for a longer period.” The bard slid down the wood until he was hunched down on he floor, and rested his head on his knees. He hated to compose under pressure, but it couldn't be helped.
Well, there was one song he hadn't played yet …
Before the irony of this thought made it to his consciousness, something ripped through the silence. Steps, treading lightly over the stair, that didn't groan once. Geralt would deduce that there's a woman approaching, one that knows this tavern well, Jaskier thought and he was immediately proven right as the innkeeper's daughter appeared on the top end of the stairs. The two of them had befriended each other during the last few days, and for once, Jaskier was too busy to distract himself with such things.
“Jaskier!” she exclaimed and stopped in surprise as she saw the bard sit on the floor like that.
“Rika,” he replied, forcing a smile on his lips that felt like a bad copy, even for himself. “Hello.”
“What is it? Is everything alright?”
“Yes,” Jaskier started, but then sighed and lowered his head. “No. Your father is booting us out, because we can't pay the room anymore.” Like a mirage, the messenger appeared in front of his inner eye, panting, flourishing the dispatch, approaching quickly in a distance. The bard lifted his head. “Rika, can you talk to him? We only need a few more days.”
The young woman sighed as well, casting a quick glance down the stairs to see if somebody was joining them, and then sat down next to Jaskier on the floor. It felt somewhat conspirational, the way they sat there.
“Jaskier, dad won't listen to me in business matters. He has two principles: he won't sell on credit and he won't donate.
“But, but ...” The running messenger struggled and fell, face first, crash-landing as a phantasmagoria made of smoke. “But my friend,” Jaskier burst out.
“Your friend? The witcher?” Rika tried to follow the emotional crooks of his train of thought, but didn't manage. “What about him?”
“Rika, he's still recovering,” Jaskier told her imploringly. “All he needs is a few days, three, maybe four, than he's back to his old self! But if we put him on a horse before that, he might be worse than before by the time we get to the next town!”
“Than play out in the city,” Rika suggested. “On the market place, folks here like your music.”
“I did, I did, but they're sick of it!” Jaskier hid his face between his knees again. “I've been playing here for almost a week now, everybody in the vicinity knows my songs, every single one, every tune, pregnant women have to fear that their newborns won't scream but instead sing Toss a Coin to you Witcher!”
Rika lifted her brows in surprise, barely managing to shake that disturbing image form her mind. Then, she seemed to have an idea.
“Three days? Maybe four?”
“What?”
“Your friend. You said, in four days, at the latest, he's back to his old self?”
“Yes. Yes, damnit! Only four days! That's so -”
“How old?” the innkeeper's daughter interjected.
“Huh? Uh, I think, he might be something about a hundred years ...”
“What? No, I meant – hundred? Seriously?”
“Witchers are ageing differently than – Rika, what did you want to know?” Jaskier didn't feel like funny never-ending debates.
“You said, he'd be back to normal. How much? Can he ride? Fight?”
“You mean, in four days? I think he could well ride up to those damned griffins and light up their griffiny asses. Pardon.”
“Don't worry. Alright, listen. I might know a way for you to stay. But only if your friend is fit enough to fulfil a contract in five days, at the latest.”
Jaskier yanked his head up, his eyes gleaming. Finally, the little messenger boy had arrived, sweating and coughing after the seemingly endless ascend. In his mind, Jaskier treated him to the most lavish tip he had ever received.
“Rika, I love you!” he exclaimed. “Tell me, what do I need to do?”
The girl smiled abashedly.
“Alright, I'm going to marry, in a week. It's all planned out, people are invited and all. Dad is maddeningly happy about it and Mom can't keep her joy to herself as well. The problem is that there is something on the fairground. Dad isn't sure, but he thinks it might be a vampire. One of the workers claims to have talked to the thing, he says it could look like a human but has immense claws and exceptionally sharp teeth. It hasn't killed anybody by now, as far as I know, but it scared people off the place and threatened to kill everybody who enters it again.”
Jaskier swallowed. It were moments like these he wished he had listened to Geralt's lessons a bit better, but he did pick up some things. Among them was one important rule of thumb: talking monsters were either very good, because you could bargain with them, or very bad, because they were clever. Which might mean that you thought to have successfully bargained and as soon as you turned your back on them to stride back to your house with a joyful whistle on your lips, there appeared to be a laughing vampire biting your neck.
Talking about vampires, he reminded himself. This is where it's at.
“Geralt's supposed to kill the vampire once he's right as rain again?” he summarized. “And as long as I promise that to your father, he will let us stay until then?”
“And he'll even pay you. He's so fond of that marriage. But you have to be really, really sure that your friend will make it. Dad hates people that are bad for business, and he hates people that try to take advantage of him. If you take the payment and the housing and don't clear the fairground, you're both.”
Jaskier nodded determinedly, placing his hand tenderly against the door that separated them from his eagerly healing friend.
“He's a witcher, Rika. Geralt of Rivia will be ready to slay a vampire in five days at the latest. Tell me, where can I find your father?”