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Geralt shouldered his swords, stepping out into the pouring rain. The streets of Novigrad stunk badly enough ordinarily, but the days of constant rain had only made it worse.
Beggers lined the streets, holding out palms, cups, and hats. He ignored them, and held Roach a bit closer. He’d promised her a good night’s rest, in a decent stable, and intended to pay up.
But the mare seemed to have a mind of her own, pulling against her reins and snorting, reaching her muzzle toward a particularly dirty and hunched beggar. Geralt sighed and stepped closer, crouching down to see what she’d been so interested in.
The beggar’s clothes had once been beautiful, a rich purple silk, but now they were ruined, stained with mud and dirt. Geralt reached out, pushing him back to inspect the man’s face.
Dandelion.
“Shit,” Geralt said.
The bard’s eyes widened and he grabbed for Geralt’s shirt, moving his mouth as though he was speaking, but no words come out.
“What happened to you?” Geralt demanded, gently grasping his friend’s trembling hands and pulling him off his shirt.
Dandelion again tried to speak, but then shook his head, pointing at this throat. “You lost your voice?” Geralt pulled him to his feet, tossing him onto Roach’s back. Then he stopped, looking back at the place Dandelion had been sitting. “Where’s your lute?”
He looked up at the bard, frowning. “Dandelion-”
The bard only shook his head, then rubbed his fingers together as though he was holding money. “You sold it?” Geralt asked in disbelief. The lute was Dandelion’s most prized possession, for him to have given it up-
He shook his head, patting Dandelion’s leg as the bard clung to Roach’s mane. He’d deal with the missing lute later, his friend needed help first. “Let’s find an inn.”
The innkeeper wasn’t entirely thrilled that Geralt was bringing a filthy beggar into his establishment, but when Geralt promised his first destination was a bath, he seemed to relent.
Dandelion barely reacted as Geralt drug him to the tub, dropping him beside it and pulling at the laces of his absurd shirt. “What happened?” he asked, tossing aside the filthy shirt and pouring water over Dandelion, wanting to get the worst of the grime off before putting him in the tub.
The minstrel pointed at his throat again.
“I can read your lips,” he said, pulling off Dandelion’s boots and placing them beside the tub. They were the only part of the outfit that seemed salvageable. “To an extent,” he added hastily. He’d picked up the skill early on, learning that with some people, their accents were so thick it was simpler just to watch their lips.
“Sick,” Dandelion mouthed.
“No shit,” Geralt growled, dragging the bard into the tub.
He said something else, but Geralt shook his head, not recognizing the word. “What?”
Dandelion looked around, then frowned, miming writing.
“Later,” Geralt promised. “I’ll find you paper later. You can write.” He poured water over the bard’s hair, scrubbing at the grime that was caked into him. “Other than your voice, any symptoms?”
“Not now.”
“Were there any?”
He pointed at his forehead and mouthed, “Fever.”
Geralt placed at hand on Dandelion’s face. “Not anymore,” he promised. “Why were you in a ditch?”
“No money.”
Geralt froze. Of course, he’d been stupid. Without his voice- what was Dandelion? He looked away, his throat tightening. “How long?”
Dandelion shrugged, looking away and sinking into the tub, until the water went all the way to his chin. Geralt sat on the floor beside him, his hand resting on the minstrel’s shoulder. “You won’t live in that ditch anymore,” he promised.
Again, the bard only only shrugged.
There seemed to be no helping him, Dandelion just wanted to wallow in his own misery, and Geralt found he couldn’t blame him. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked.
Dandelion shook his head. Then he stopped, looked up, and mouthed, “Food?”
“As much as you can eat,” Geralt promised. Then I'll find your lute, he thought, ruffling the bard's wet hair.