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

the spectacle of the fight itself that they offered their support.
    “Looks promising,” commented Baudoin, stepping around the combatants.
    Once inside, we commandeered a table that had been upended by the recent fracas and ordered a pitcher of beer and a bowl of eel stew. We all dug in to both the meal and more conversation. Hue and I alternated as translators, depending upon which of us had his mouth full at any given moment. Considering that someone else was paying for the meal, it was more often me who was prevented from speaking.
    “Not bad at all,” pronounced Baudoin, dipping some bread into the stew. “And the beer is more than satisfactory.”
    “I suppose you’re used to much finer fare than this at the King’s court,” said Sancho.
    “I have had epic meals on tables longer than battlefields, where the servants outnumbered any army I have ever seen,” declared Baudoin. “And I have picked through the leavings of the worst taverns after the diners had collapsed into a drunken stupor.”
    “Quite the range,” I commented. “Which was the more satisfying meal?”
    “The one you get when you need it the most,” he replied.
    “Food always tastes better when you are hungry,” I agreed. “Drink, too.”
    The tavern maid came by, replacing our empty pitcher with a full one while planting a quick kiss on the top of Sancho’s head. She scampered away, smiling over her shoulder.
    “I would have enjoyed that more if I wasn’t wearing my cap,” grumbled the soldier.
    “One of your irregular sweethearts?” I asked.
    “A gentleman does not tell,” he said.
    “Gentlemen always tell,” I said. “Gentlemen brag about their conquests at length.”
    “But a soldier doesn’t need to brag,” Sancho said, winking at Baudoin.
    Hue was watching her wistfully as she glided about the room.
    “Do you fancy her?” Baudoin teased Hue. “I could find out her price.”
    “She’s not that pretty,” said Hue. “It would be a waste of money.”
    “Food tastes better when you’re hungry,” said Baudoin, nudging him. “It has been a while since we’ve eaten properly.”
    “What are they going on about now?” asked Sancho.
    “I think he’s about to ask you where the nearest bordel is,” I muttered.
    “Friend Sancho,” slurred Baudoin, the beer starting to take effect. “In exchange for the location of that house of wondrous women I will send you to in Paris, what say you take us to an equivalent establishment here? I need to find my friend Hue someone prettier than this tavern wench.”
    “What do you think?” Sancho asked me.
    “It’s evening, which is an extension of the afternoon and therefore still in your bailiwick,” I said. “I am responsible only for the mornings.”
    “In that case, where to go, where to go?” he pondered. “The Comminges quarter is too public, but there aren’t any good places in the bourg—wait, yes, there is one, right outside. You know the house up past the Villeneuve Gate? With the red shutters?”
    “That’s a leper house.”
    “Right,” he said.
    “You want to take them to a leper house? That’s carrying the initiative a little too far.”
    “The leper house is in front of the bordel,” he said. “You’ve never gone there? In your performing capacity, of course.”
    “Of course, and no, I haven’t.”
    “Then you ought to come along. Might be a useful connection for your line of work. And you might see a lady you like.”
    “Got one I like already,” I said. “A regular sweetheart.”
    “Lucky you,” he said. “Good thing you’re not a soldier.” Oh, but I am, I thought.
    “Fine, let us go see this house of shame behind the house of woe,” I said.
    Baudoin paid for the meal, and we resumed our tour of the bourg. I casually sidled up to Sancho.
    “We are being followed,” I muttered so that the Parisians could not hear.
    “Damn well better be,” he said.
    “They’re yours?”
    “Think I would be taking these two around alone?”