the Braa. What's it got to do with Niedamir?"
"Don't ask me," replied the guard, spitting out his straw. "I'm only here to check the passes, if you want, you can ask our commanding officer."
"Where is he?"
"Over there, making the most of the sun behind the toll collector's booth," replied the guard, looking not at Geralt but at the naked thighs of the Zerricanians which lay nonchalantly across their saddles.
A guard was sitting on a pile of dry straw behind the hut of the toll collector. He was drawing in the sand, with the end of his halberd, a picture of a woman; a rather detailed view from an unusual perspective. Next to him there was a thin man, half dozing, delicately strumming chords on a lute. An eccentric plum coloured hat decorated with a silver buckle and a long egret feather drooped over his eyes. Geralt recognized the hat and the feather so famous in Buina and Iaruga and known in all the manors, castles, guesthouses, inns and brothels. Especially in the brothels.
"Jaskier!"
"Witcher Geralt!" merry blue eyes appeared from under the hat. "What a surprise! Is it really you? You wouldn't happen to have a pass, by chance?
"What's all this business about passes? What's going on here, Jaskier? I'm travelling with the knight Borch of the Three Jackdaws and his escort and we want to cross the river."
"I'm also stuck here." Jaskier rose and lifted his hat before bowing to the Zerricanians with a courtly flourish. "They won't let me pass either, me, Jaskier, the most celebrated of minstrels and poets for a thousand miles around. It was the lieutenant who refused; and he's also an artist, as you can see."
"I can't let anyone cross without a pass," stated the lieutenant with a disconsolate air before adding the finishing touches to his sand picture with the tip of his weapon.
"We'll take a detour along the bank. It will take longer to get to Hengfors, but we don't have much choice," said the witcher.
"To Hengfors?" the bard looked surprised, "You mean you're not here to see Niedamir? You're not hunting the dragon?"
"What dragon?" asked Three Jackdaws, looking intrigued.
"You don't know? You really don't know? In that case, I shall tell you all about it, my lords. As I am obliged to wait here in the hope that somebody with a pass accepts my company, we have lots of time. Sit down."
"Wait," interrupted Three Jackdaws, "It's nearly midday and I'm thirsty, plague on it! We can't discuss such matters with dry throats. Tea and Vea, hurry back to town and buy a keg."
"I like the way you think, lord..."
"Borch, also called Three Jackdaws."
"Jaskier, nicknamed The Unrivalled... by certain young ladies."
"Get on with it, Jaskier," interrupted the witcher, impatient. "We haven't got all day."
The bard seized the neck of his lute and violently strummed some chords.
"What would you prefer? In verse or in prose?"
"Normally."
"As you like." Jaskier did not lay down his lute. "Listen well, noble sirs, the events took place one week ago, not far from a free city named Holopole. Ah yes, in the small hours of the morning, dawn tinting red the veil of mist in the meadows..."
"It was supposed to be normally," the witcher pointed out.
"That is normally, isn't it? Okay, okay, I understand. Briefly, without metaphors. Near the town of Holopole, a dragon alit."
"Oh really?" exclaimed the witcher, "That seems incredible - nobody has seen a dragon in these parts for years. Isn't it just a dracolizard? Some of them can be quite big..."
"Don't insult me, witcher, I know what it is. I've seen it. By chance I just came to Holopole for the market and I saw it with my own eyes. My ballad was already prepared, but you didn't want..."
"Carry on. Is it big?"
"It's as long as three horses, to the withers no bigger than a horse, but much fatter. Gray as sand."
"Green, then."
"Yes. It swooped down without warning on a herd of sheep. The shepherds ran away and it killed a dozen animals and ate four of them before taking flight."
"It
"Don't ask me," replied the guard, spitting out his straw. "I'm only here to check the passes, if you want, you can ask our commanding officer."
"Where is he?"
"Over there, making the most of the sun behind the toll collector's booth," replied the guard, looking not at Geralt but at the naked thighs of the Zerricanians which lay nonchalantly across their saddles.
A guard was sitting on a pile of dry straw behind the hut of the toll collector. He was drawing in the sand, with the end of his halberd, a picture of a woman; a rather detailed view from an unusual perspective. Next to him there was a thin man, half dozing, delicately strumming chords on a lute. An eccentric plum coloured hat decorated with a silver buckle and a long egret feather drooped over his eyes. Geralt recognized the hat and the feather so famous in Buina and Iaruga and known in all the manors, castles, guesthouses, inns and brothels. Especially in the brothels.
"Jaskier!"
"Witcher Geralt!" merry blue eyes appeared from under the hat. "What a surprise! Is it really you? You wouldn't happen to have a pass, by chance?
"What's all this business about passes? What's going on here, Jaskier? I'm travelling with the knight Borch of the Three Jackdaws and his escort and we want to cross the river."
"I'm also stuck here." Jaskier rose and lifted his hat before bowing to the Zerricanians with a courtly flourish. "They won't let me pass either, me, Jaskier, the most celebrated of minstrels and poets for a thousand miles around. It was the lieutenant who refused; and he's also an artist, as you can see."
"I can't let anyone cross without a pass," stated the lieutenant with a disconsolate air before adding the finishing touches to his sand picture with the tip of his weapon.
"We'll take a detour along the bank. It will take longer to get to Hengfors, but we don't have much choice," said the witcher.
"To Hengfors?" the bard looked surprised, "You mean you're not here to see Niedamir? You're not hunting the dragon?"
"What dragon?" asked Three Jackdaws, looking intrigued.
"You don't know? You really don't know? In that case, I shall tell you all about it, my lords. As I am obliged to wait here in the hope that somebody with a pass accepts my company, we have lots of time. Sit down."
"Wait," interrupted Three Jackdaws, "It's nearly midday and I'm thirsty, plague on it! We can't discuss such matters with dry throats. Tea and Vea, hurry back to town and buy a keg."
"I like the way you think, lord..."
"Borch, also called Three Jackdaws."
"Jaskier, nicknamed The Unrivalled... by certain young ladies."
"Get on with it, Jaskier," interrupted the witcher, impatient. "We haven't got all day."
The bard seized the neck of his lute and violently strummed some chords.
"What would you prefer? In verse or in prose?"
"Normally."
"As you like." Jaskier did not lay down his lute. "Listen well, noble sirs, the events took place one week ago, not far from a free city named Holopole. Ah yes, in the small hours of the morning, dawn tinting red the veil of mist in the meadows..."
"It was supposed to be normally," the witcher pointed out.
"That is normally, isn't it? Okay, okay, I understand. Briefly, without metaphors. Near the town of Holopole, a dragon alit."
"Oh really?" exclaimed the witcher, "That seems incredible - nobody has seen a dragon in these parts for years. Isn't it just a dracolizard? Some of them can be quite big..."
"Don't insult me, witcher, I know what it is. I've seen it. By chance I just came to Holopole for the market and I saw it with my own eyes. My ballad was already prepared, but you didn't want..."
"Carry on. Is it big?"
"It's as long as three horses, to the withers no bigger than a horse, but much fatter. Gray as sand."
"Green, then."
"Yes. It swooped down without warning on a herd of sheep. The shepherds ran away and it killed a dozen animals and ate four of them before taking flight."
"It
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