and stout heart being the surest weapons against sorcery and its monstrosities. However, small matters like hordes of purely human foes are best swept aside by efficient expedients, am I not right about that?”
Gonji sighed and conceded, “I have taken to carrying a wheel-lock pistol or two, in these confusing times.”
Corbeau’s lips twisted pensively.
Perigor shook his head. “One tiny ingot of death per charge is not exactly the peak of efficiency.”
“You Frenchmen,” Buey broke in, leaning his back against the wall and folding his arms over his breastplate, “what stake do you have in all this? No one asked you to join.”
Gonji’s glance from Buey to the others was imbued with the same suspicious inquiry.
“Money,” Normand Gareau said on a chuckling breath as he shook the dice. “We’re not idiots, you know. Plenty of fat nobles still ply the roads unawares or ill prepared, to be sure. But you’re funding a campaign, and that means you’ll be backed by plenty of gold. And if it’s papal coin that funds your crusade, then blessed be that gold!”
Laughter rang out in the tight confines of the room.
“Blasphemy,” Buey growled, unamused.
“Ah, a simple jest,” Sergeant Orozco countered. “God knows it’s true His Holiness could launch a few crusades against evil kingdoms and not feel the difference for a few crumbs off his dinner loaf.”
The dice clattered on the floor. Orozco saw their tally, winced in response to Gareau’s feline grin, and moved to stoke the dying hearth fire.
“So sorry, but it’s not the pope’s money that backs us,” Gonji apprised them. “Our means…do have an end.”
“So it’s true, then?” Perigor probed. “The long-dormant Knights Templars have emerged and made you champion of their nebulous cause?”
Gonji eyed him steadily. “You’ve heard that, too, then?”
Perigor nodded, eyes flickering with either mirth or dawning fascination. “You have made your mark, Gonji-san. There are some who will go along just to fight at your side. Others, for gold, since you won’t lack for patrons while your infamy makes you fashionable. And there are always other reasons. Your friend, the big Spanish lancer here, has said that you are awaited in Rome, whenever you choose to bestow your presence on His Holiness. Pope Innocent’s personally bestowed indulgence could go a long way toward easing the conscience of a long-fallen Catholic.”
Corbeau tsked and slouched in his chair. “Indulgences are worthless and a vile effrontery to true Christian spirit, Armand,” he said wearily, his tone echoing some contention between them.
Buey made a scornful sound. “Mind your tongue, Huguenot.”
Brett Jarret half turned in his seat and clenched his fist, leaning an arm that was fully three gallons of sculpted sinew against the table’s edge. “I suppose you gilded your mansion in Heaven plenty while you led whimpering old women to the Inquisition’s pyres, Spaniard.”
“I spent no time in the Inquisition’s service,” Buey answered gruffly, his face reddening at the half-truth.
“Gentils, bitte ,” Gonjiadmonished, making a placating gesture.
The Crow swirled his wine and gazed into its golden depths. “There are those of us who undertake this venture for reasons less defensible still, in these troubled times,” he said softly. “Those who tire of the stench of evil which permeates French soil.”
“Hah!” Buey brayed. “Since when do Frenchmen fight for honor?”
Jarret’s stool screaked against the floorboards as he lurched to his feet.
“That’s it!” he bellowed. “You’ve been daring my hand all night. Let’s have at it!”
“Stop it,” Gonji commanded.
“Brett—”
“Oui, by all means, Jarret,” Normand Gareau called out, pushing up and leaning forward from the far end of the table. “But do take your fight out into the street so that everyone can witness our camaraderie, eh?”
The two big men were both given pause by
Gonji sighed and conceded, “I have taken to carrying a wheel-lock pistol or two, in these confusing times.”
Corbeau’s lips twisted pensively.
Perigor shook his head. “One tiny ingot of death per charge is not exactly the peak of efficiency.”
“You Frenchmen,” Buey broke in, leaning his back against the wall and folding his arms over his breastplate, “what stake do you have in all this? No one asked you to join.”
Gonji’s glance from Buey to the others was imbued with the same suspicious inquiry.
“Money,” Normand Gareau said on a chuckling breath as he shook the dice. “We’re not idiots, you know. Plenty of fat nobles still ply the roads unawares or ill prepared, to be sure. But you’re funding a campaign, and that means you’ll be backed by plenty of gold. And if it’s papal coin that funds your crusade, then blessed be that gold!”
Laughter rang out in the tight confines of the room.
“Blasphemy,” Buey growled, unamused.
“Ah, a simple jest,” Sergeant Orozco countered. “God knows it’s true His Holiness could launch a few crusades against evil kingdoms and not feel the difference for a few crumbs off his dinner loaf.”
The dice clattered on the floor. Orozco saw their tally, winced in response to Gareau’s feline grin, and moved to stoke the dying hearth fire.
“So sorry, but it’s not the pope’s money that backs us,” Gonji apprised them. “Our means…do have an end.”
“So it’s true, then?” Perigor probed. “The long-dormant Knights Templars have emerged and made you champion of their nebulous cause?”
Gonji eyed him steadily. “You’ve heard that, too, then?”
Perigor nodded, eyes flickering with either mirth or dawning fascination. “You have made your mark, Gonji-san. There are some who will go along just to fight at your side. Others, for gold, since you won’t lack for patrons while your infamy makes you fashionable. And there are always other reasons. Your friend, the big Spanish lancer here, has said that you are awaited in Rome, whenever you choose to bestow your presence on His Holiness. Pope Innocent’s personally bestowed indulgence could go a long way toward easing the conscience of a long-fallen Catholic.”
Corbeau tsked and slouched in his chair. “Indulgences are worthless and a vile effrontery to true Christian spirit, Armand,” he said wearily, his tone echoing some contention between them.
Buey made a scornful sound. “Mind your tongue, Huguenot.”
Brett Jarret half turned in his seat and clenched his fist, leaning an arm that was fully three gallons of sculpted sinew against the table’s edge. “I suppose you gilded your mansion in Heaven plenty while you led whimpering old women to the Inquisition’s pyres, Spaniard.”
“I spent no time in the Inquisition’s service,” Buey answered gruffly, his face reddening at the half-truth.
“Gentils, bitte ,” Gonjiadmonished, making a placating gesture.
The Crow swirled his wine and gazed into its golden depths. “There are those of us who undertake this venture for reasons less defensible still, in these troubled times,” he said softly. “Those who tire of the stench of evil which permeates French soil.”
“Hah!” Buey brayed. “Since when do Frenchmen fight for honor?”
Jarret’s stool screaked against the floorboards as he lurched to his feet.
“That’s it!” he bellowed. “You’ve been daring my hand all night. Let’s have at it!”
“Stop it,” Gonji commanded.
“Brett—”
“Oui, by all means, Jarret,” Normand Gareau called out, pushing up and leaning forward from the far end of the table. “But do take your fight out into the street so that everyone can witness our camaraderie, eh?”
The two big men were both given pause by
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