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“Why so glum?” Eskel asked as he joined Geralt in the lunch line.
“Got my new assignment for workshop.” Geralt flipped his obsidian dagger, a previous workshop assignment, out of the sheath on his belt and stabbed it through the tentacle of a blood-clinger that had been creeping up the side of the tray rack. It squealed in surprise, a noise that cut off abruptly as Geralt sliced down with the dagger, cutting through the thing's center mass, and it fell to the floor, dead.
Normally, spotting and eliminating one of the maleficaria, creatures that fed on magical energy and were constantly trying to take a bite out of unwary students, would have lifted Geralt’s mood considerably. Witchers were meant to protect people, even if there was no chance of getting a word of thanks in exchange. Today, however, Geralt’s heart just wasn’t in it. He grabbed a tray off the currently un-infested rack and pushed it along the line, grabbing generous servings of the least suspicious-looking food.
“This assignment, it something we can use?” Eskel asked, pushing his own tray behind Geralt’s. He picked up the serving spoon for the mashed potatoes, lifted it to his nose and sniffed, then made a face and dropped the spoon back into the serving tray. “Potatoes are contaminated.”
“Hm.” Geralt gingerly shoved the mashed potatoes already on his plate to the side using a roll, then risked reaching his hand back towards the tray to grab a second roll before quickly moving along.
“I’ll take that as a no, then,” Eskel said.
Coën had already claimed a table, a good one that wasn’t under any of the air vents from which mals tended to drop down on the unwary. Eskel cast a perimeter protection spell before he and Geralt sat down, and Coën nodded his thanks. Coën might not be one of the Wolves, but all the witcher students in the Scholomance stuck together. Solidarity was important when every other student in the school treated you like dirt at all times except when you happened to be between them and an attacking mal.
Letho dropped into the seat next to Geralt, with Auckes and Serrit trailing behind him. He jabbed Geralt with an elbow. “Have you told them?”
“No,” Geralt gritted out. Letho was in the same workshop section as Geralt, and he’d about laughed himself sick when he’d seen Geralt’s new assignment. At least someone was enjoying the situation.
“Come on, now you have to tell me,” Eskel said. And he was right. The witcher students in their year had a graduation alliance, which meant they were counting on each other to survive the bloodbath that was graduation day, a run through a gauntlet of hungry maleficaria that stood between them and the world outside the Scholomance. Geralt owed it to the rest of them to say what he was (or in this case wasn’t) bringing to the alliance.
From his rucksack, Geralt fished out the crumpled piece of paper that had materialized at his work station at the start of class this morning, announcing his new assignment for the term. He handed it to Eskel.
As Eskel scanned it, his eyebrows rose, and he turned to Geralt with a look of dismay.
“I should have known it would be something like this after my last assignment,” Geralt grumbled as he pushed a pile of green beans around his plate. The Scholomance was not particularly invested in helping its students, and you never got something for nothing in here. Last term Geralt had been assigned an enchanted silver sword that leeched power from mals: perfectly aligned with Geralt’s affinity and fantastically useful besides. If he got through graduation, the sword would also be extremely valuable in the outside world.
So of course this new assignment was not only absolutely useless, but incredibly difficult to make.
Coën plucked the paper out of Eskel’s hand and held it up to read. He barked out a laugh, but at least had the manners to clap a hand over his mouth to stop it. “Sorry,” he said, once his shoulders had stopped shaking. “But really, a lute?”
“What are we looting?”
Geralt hadn’t noticed the bell ring for the next lunch shift, but it must have, because Lambert and Aiden were squeezing themselves in at the far end of the table.
“Geralt got assigned a magical lute for workshop.” Coën held up the paper with the assignment.
Lambert snatched it out of his hands. “‘By the methods here set down, craft a blessed lute that bringeth fortune and felicity to those of whom its songs spake.’ What is this bullshit?” Lambert asked. “What are we supposed to do with a goddamn lute?”
“Pretty boy will just have to learn to play it,” Letho said. “That’ll be a sight. Forget silver swords, this will definitely be our best weapon at graduation.”
Geralt didn’t dignify that with a response. He shoved half a roll into his mouth instead.
“Just because it’s useless to us doesn’t mean it’s not valuable to someone else,” Eskel said. “Could maybe trade it.”
“Gotta make it first.” Geralt snatched the assignment back from Lambert and read through the list of materials: wood of an ancient spruce, animal gut (preferably from a sentient beast), thin-sliced ivory, jade… Acquiring everything he needed would take weeks, and probably some expensive trading with other artificer track kids.
“Oo, I’ve got an idea!” Aiden jumped up from his seat and set off across the cafeteria at a brisk walk.
Geralt watched him go with a heavy feeling gnawing at his gut. Aiden, unlike most other witchers, had actually managed to make friends with some of the normal students. That made him an asset when it came to trading. But he was still a Cat witcher, impulsive and unpredictable. And the way Geralt’s day was going, having to save Aiden from getting jumped by a bunch of offended fellow students would be just about right.
“Should I be worried about this idea?” Geralt asked, glaring at Lambert.
“Nah. I’m sure it’ll be good.” Lambert took a bite of his apple, chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed. “Or at least interesting.”
“Isn’t that the Redanian enclave table?” Coën asked softly.
Geralt turned to look. Sure enough, Aiden had stopped next to a table packed with kids from the Redanian enclave, one of the most important and powerful magical communities on the whole Continent. Most of the kids at the table were eying Aiden warily, which was normal. Enclaves might hire witchers to deal with particularly nasty mals or undo curses that were dangerous to break, but they didn’t exactly see witchers as equals.
And in here, there was little reason for an enclaver to interact with a witcher at all. Enclave kids looked out for each other, so they rarely needed or wanted to trade with witcher kids for protection. Still, it paid for the witchers to be nice to them, since someday they’d be making decisions about contracts for their enclaves. If you impressed an enclave kid with your mal-hunting skills, they might be more likely to hire you once you were all out of the Scholomance. But no enclave kids made friends with witchers. What could possibly be in it for them?
Aiden was talking to a boy with shaggy brown hair and a garishly colored outfit with puffy sleeves who looked only vaguely familiar. Aiden pointed, and the kid looked over to Geralt and waved. His eyes were a clear, pale blue, the blue of the early morning sky high in the mountains around Kaer Morhen, the sky Geralt hadn’t seen in so long. Geralt couldn’t stop looking.
Aiden said something else too lost in the general mealtime cacophony for even witcher hearing to decipher. The kid nodded, then stood up, taking his tray. He followed Aiden back to the witcher table as the rest of them gaped.
“Told ya. Interesting,” Lambert said, then scooted in towards Serrit to make room at the table for Aiden and the newcomer.
“Everyone, this is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove,” Aiden said with a grand gesture.
“Please, call me Jaskier,” the kid said, offering a brilliant smile that encompassed the whole table. His eyes landed on Geralt, and the smile widened. “At your service.”
“Jaskier, this is everyone,” Aiden said. “Jaskier’s in my morning language lab. We started a Nilfgaardian study group.”
“Uh,” said Eskel, and gave Aiden a narrow look. Geralt shared his incredulity. Enclave kids didn’t need to form study groups, especially not with a social pariah like a witcher. They had all the help they needed in any class for the asking. No student would pass up a chance to get on an enclave kid’s good side, in case it might lead to a graduation alliance offer, or even a coveted spot in the enclave. “A study group?”
“Yep,” Aiden said, popping the p at the end of the world. “Geralt, I told Jaskier about your workshop project, and he’s very interested.”
“Yes, I am!” Jaskier put his arms on the table and leaned in, apparently neither intimidated nor disgusted by sitting in the midst of a bunch of witchers. “I’m incantations track, specializing in song spells. I’ve been trying to get my hands on a proper instrument since my freshman year. Best I’ve been able to get is a mildly charmed penny whistle, which is useless for spell singing. A lute would be--well, let’s just say it’d be a big improvement. Is that the assignment?”
Jaskier reached across the table and lifted the now-quite-crumpled paper from Geralt’s hands. “Melitele’s ass cheeks, that is quite a materials list. Definitely the makings of a top notch instrument. I won’t bother asking if you think you can actually pull it off. The school wouldn’t have given you an assignment you can’t do. Besides, I’ve heard you’re one of the best in the artificer track. Pris told me about that sword last term.” He brought the paper closer to his face and squinted at it. “I could probably help acquire a few of these, if that would speed up the process. Well, that is…” Jaskier looked up from the paper, meeting Geralt’s yellow eyes with none of the flinching that normally accompanied that event, and in fact no sign of concern at all. “That is, if you’re willing to trade it to me. You are, aren’t you Geralt?”
Geralt only blinked at Jaskier, brain still struggling to process that deluge of words. He hadn’t realized any of the other students talked about him, or even knew enough about him to realize he’d been creating some of the most complex and powerful artifacts coming out of the workshop in the past few semesters. But this too-soft, too-friendly enclave boy knew his name, and was already talking like they’d struck a deal.
Getting no answer, Jaskier turned to Aiden. “He is, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” Aiden said. His eyes were positively sparkling with amusement as he looked between Geralt and Jaskier. “Though there’s the matter of compensation.”
Ah, this was a place where Geralt, and all the other witchers, were on firm footing. Negotiation was such an important part of a witcher’s work that they learned it years before they arrived at the Scholomance. And the allied witchers of Geralt’s year were a well-oiled machine by now.
“Thing’s gonna be a bitch to make,” Lambert said, shaking his head. “We’re talking lots of hours outside of class.”
Serrit took the assignment sheet out of Jaskier’s hand and looked at it with a mournful face. “I wouldn’t want to be the one digging in the supply cabinets for all that. Practically a suicide mission, hunting down that lot.”
“Plus all the mana to power the incantations built into it,” Letho put in. He took the paper from Serrit, sighed, then passed it back to Geralt. “That much mana don’t come cheap.”
Jaskier waved a hand dismissively. “I can provide the mana. That’s what the enclave power share is for. As for compensation…” Jaskier pointed at the assignment sheet. “That said the lute will bring ‘fortune and felicity to those of whom its songs spake,’” Jaskier quoted.
Geralt looked down at the paper to see that was indeed the phrasing, and had to grudgingly admit that was a pretty impressive verbatim repetition for Jaskier’s having only briefly seen the assignment. So he wasn’t just a pretty face.
“What if I compose a kind of paean to witchers?” Jaskier asked. “Maybe something that encourages payment of a contract in full and in a timely manner. I understand from Aiden that that’s a common problem witchers run into.”
“Have to be a hell of a song to make any difference,” Geralt grumbled.
“Oh, it will be,” Jaskier said with a wink.
Geralt felt his cheeks heating for some inexplicable reason, and he quickly looked down at his tray.
“A song that hasn’t been written yet isn’t much of a trade,” Aiden said. “What about something more tangible. Geralt, what would you want?”
Geralt considered it. A kid from the Redanian enclave could access almost anything. New boots to replace the ones Geralt had outgrown last fall. An extra share of food every day to supplement meals that weren’t designed for witcher appetites. A seat in the enclave’s section of the library, one of the overstuffed chairs with an attached writing desk. Jaskier was clearly ready to give anything within his power to get his hands on this lute which, to be fair, would be a hugely powerful asset to him and no use at all to Geralt. Looking into those wide blue eyes, though, Geralt didn’t want any of those dozens of little material things that would make his existence a bit less unpleasant. He wanted… something else.
“A favor,” Geralt muttered.
“Beg your pardon?” Jaskier asked, leaning forward on his elbows.
“A favor,” Geralt said, more decisively this time. “You’d owe me one. To be determined at a future date.”
Coën gave a low whistle. Letho looked impressed at his audacity. Eskel stared at Geralt, eyes wide with concern. And yes, it was a lot to ask: essentially a blank cheque, the right to demand something the favor-ower might not want to give. You’d have to be desperate or foolhardy to agree to such a price. And if Jaskier said no, Geralt would be fucked. It wasn't likely that he could find someone else this interested in an enchanted lute. Who even knew how to play the lute nowadays? Geralt shouldn’t have asked for a favor. He should have bargained for something more modest. There was no way this pampered enclave kid would agree to give Geralt literally anything he wanted.
“Done!” Jaskier said cheerfully. “I supply the mana plus, let’s say, at least half of the materials. Upon delivery, I’ll owe you one flattering song about witchers plus whatever favor you desire. Agreed?” He stuck out a hand across the table towards Geralt.
Geralt took Jaskier’s hand and shook it, feeling just as bewildered as the others looked.
“Good, that’s settled!” Jaskier said, sounding for all the world like someone who felt he’d gotten the better end of the bargain. Gods, perhaps he was an imbecile.
Geralt had expected Jaskier to retreat to the safety of his own table once they’d concluded their business, but instead he picked up his sandwich. He took a bite, turned to Eskel, and said with his mouth full, “You’re in my history tutorial, aren’t you? Have you done the essay on pre-Conjunction civilizations?”
“Uh, not yet?” Eskel said. “But I was thinking I’d write about the dwarves.”
“Oh, interesting!”
Geralt stared as Jaskier carried on a conversation with the table full of witchers just as if they were any other students. He folded the assignment sheet with the details of the lute and slid it carefully into his rucksack between two notebooks so it wouldn’t get lost. This Redanian kid was clearly insane, and Geralt was going to have to keep an eye on him. He watched Jaskier gesticulating wildly as he argued with Lambert about an alchemy assignment in between bites of his sandwich, and felt his cheeks grow hot again. What the hell was the school getting him into this time?