[ Geralt stands in the doorway for a moment, still fully dressed — wearing a studded leather jerkin, even, with a sword strapped to his back — and his bright gaze, unsurprised and analytical, flicks from the healer to Sleipnir. ]

There won't be one.

[ He pauses, twisting over his shoulder: there are servants behind him, trying surreptitiously to peer into the room and catch a glimpse of their lord. Unceremoniously and without asking, Geralt shuts the door. ]

Rather talk to you about it in private.

[ He's still behind the healer's back, so he shoots a meaningful glance for Sleipnir's benefit at him: in private and alone.

The healer looks up in indignation as Geralt invites himself close to the bedside. ]

Need to examine the wounds.

[ "I beg your pardon," the healer snaps, "my lord's health is not work for a mercenary."

Geralt casts him an exasperated look, and then, going over his head, looks to Sleipnir. ]

I can tell if you'll need an antivenom, and what kind, faster than he can.

[ He gestures bluntly to the healer. ]

He can just leave one of them alone, for now. Won't take long.