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

that?” asked Hue.
    “That’s the north part of town built past the old walls,” said Sancho. “New money, new families with the new money, and bigger towers for all of them. I’ve picked out one for myself if God ever sees fit to let the dice roll in my favor about a thousand times in a row.”
    “That would truly be a miracle,” I said. “One that would have the baile taking both you and your dice to jail.”
    “Oh, I expect the Dicemakers’ Guild would be on me long before the baile,” laughed Sancho. “They guard their own.”
    “There is a Dicemakers’ Guild?” asked Hue in amazement. “Well, you wouldn’t want dice made by just anyone, would you?” asked Sancho. “For all my complaints about the dice around here, I can’t say for sure that they have ever rolled untrue. The dice are my vice and my punishment, so I accept how they come up as God’s will.”
    “If that is your only vice, then that is not such a great stain on your character,” commented Baudoin once Hue had translated Sancho’s remarks.
    “Oh, would that were the only one,” sighed Sancho when he had Baudoin’s response.
    “Ah, now I am beginning to be fascinated,” said Baudoin. “What are the others? Wine? Women? Cockfighting?”
    “Can’t say I’ve ever gone in for cockfighting,” said Sancho. “And I prefer beer to wine. But women, there you have me. I’ve got years to go before I can leave service and settle down, you see. And we’re on the march half the year, escorting the count through his holdings, which means I really have no time for a regular sweetheart. So, I spread my love about.”
    “And the women of the Toulousain are grateful for it,” I added.
    “I do my best,” said Sancho modestly.
    “The best possible motto for a soldier,” I said. “Speaking of which—Sancho, tell them the story of why you became a foot soldier.”
    “Because I didn’t have a horse,” said Sancho.
    There was a momentary delay as Hue translated. Then Baudoin broke into laughter and slapped him on the back.
    “I like you, friend Sancho,” he said. “My brother is a fortunate soul to have men like you about him. I had thought at first that he chose you as another means of insulting me, as he did this fool here, but I see now that he could not have made a better choice.”
    “My thanks, I think,” said Sancho.
    “None from me,” I said.
    “Now, show us to an establishment that serves some of that Toulousan beer that you like so much,” said Baudoin. “What do you think?” Sancho asked me.
    “It’s afternoon, so the decision is all yours,” I replied.
    “In that case, where should we take them?”
    “In the bourg? I would go for the Tanners’ Pit.”
    “That sounds disgusting,” said Hue, wrinkling his nose. “They get their beer from a brewery that’s upriver a ways,” I said in langue d’oi’l. “The water is much cleaner than what’s used by the breweries inside the walls, so the beer is better.”
    “You have convinced me,” said Baudoin. “Take us to this blessed spot.”
    I preferred the brew at the Yellow Dwarf to anything in miles, but that was the jesters’ special place. I didn’t want to share it with outsiders.
    Sancho took us the long way, through the gaudy clump of houses near the abbey of Saint Sernin. This had the added benefit of skirting the cluster of actual tanners’ pits that stank up the area north of Saint Pierre des Cuisines. We came to the group of taverns and inns that crowded around the Bazacle Gate at the north end of the bourg by the river.
    It was late afternoon, which meant that the tanners, never shy about cutting their work short, were well into the drinking portion of their day. As we came up to the doorway of the tavern, two of them came flying out, their hands on each other’s necks, and began rolling about in the mud as several of their fellows followed from inside and began cheering them on. No one favored either party as far as I could tell—it was for