[Fools' Guild 08] - The Parisian Prodigal by Alan Gordon

overhead.
    “Have you been to Paris?” asked Baudoin.
    “More than once, but not in years,” I said.
    “I think I would have remembered you,” he said.
    “There are many fools there,” I said. “I don’t know that I would have stood out. And I never performed at the court, so you wouldn’t have seen me there, would you?”
    “I suppose not,” he replied.
    There was no hesitation in that response, so the idea of being a regular at the French court did not strike him as anything out of the ordinary. Or he had that part of the lie ready.
    “What fools were popular in Paris when you left?” I asked.
    “There was one called Horace,” he said. “Very funny fellow.”
    Hue nodded in agreement, a smile on his face for the first time since I had met him.
    “I have heard of him,” I said. “Never saw him perform.”
    “Wonderful juggler, and quite a flirtatious fellow,” he said. “The ladies adore him. Do you juggle?”
    I took three rolls and did a quick routine. One-handed.
    “A fool who does not juggle is like a soldier without a sword,” I said. “It is one of the fundamental skills of our trade.”
    “Is it a trade?” asked Baudoin. “I would have thought you would describe it as an art.”
    “Art doesn’t pay,” I said. “I’ll stick to trade, thank you very much.”
    Sancho ambled into the courtyard, squinting in the sunlight like a man who had just gotten up. He saw us and gave us a wave.
    “Good morning, good soldier,” called Baudoin in langue d’oe.
    “Well, good morning to you, senhor, and well done,” returned Sancho. “Although I think it is afternoon now. Unless that was meant to be a sarcastic joke at my expense, in which case, well done again. Sarcasm is very much the coin of the realm around here.”
    Baudoin looked blankly at most of this while Hue murmured the translation in his ear, then nodded.
    “This fellow is a wise one,” he observed in langue d’oïl. “What did he say?” asked Sancho.
    “That you have wisdom,” I said.
    “Most perceptive,” said Sancho. “I am to show you the city today. You fancy churches or the houses of the rich?” Baudoin made a sour face at the mention of churches. “Right, I should have expected that,” said Sancho. “Let’s go look at some towers.”
    I tagged along, just in case there were any pertinent comments in Baudoin’s native tongue. Sancho took him to some of the wealthier neighborhoods in the old city first, where the buildings were so crammed together that the wealthy were squeezed upward in brick towers that competed mostly in height rather than in beauty. Sancho had limited commentary outside of naming who the owners were, and Baudoin had few questions.
    At one point, as we walked through the old wealth near Montardy Square, I saw Hue nudge Baudoin, and the other man nod slightly. We were passing by a house that stood out among the surrounding affluence. Not because it surpassed them—just the opposite, in fact. It must have been grand once upon a time, but the time had long since vanished. Brick rose two stories from the street, with a third floor that had partially collapsed, making a home for a flock of rooks that flew in and out, screeching. The front gate was old with rust, and the padlock securing it looked like it would shatter at the insertion of a key, if key there still existed. Grass had taken root in the cracked and broken stones of the courtyard visible from the street, and the wooden shutters had rotted away, stripped of whatever colors had once protected them from weather’s onslaughts.
    Baudoin whispered something to Hue, who tapped Sancho on the shoulder.
    “Why does this horrible eyesore stand amidst such beauty?” asked Hue.
    “Don’t know,” said Sancho. “I suppose whoever owned it left no heir. Or maybe he went off on Crusade and hasn’t come back yet. Not my business, so I pay it no mind. Now, if you want to see some real fancy houses, we have to go into the bourg.”
    “What is