“I’m wondering,” he blurted out, “whether to say farewell to you in the name of the Creator, right here, right now, so we can go our separate ways. For I truly don’t see how you can help me. I fear you cannot.”

Scharley looked at him over his mug.

“Help?” he repeated. “With what? We can easily find out. Just shout: ‘Scharley, help!’ and help will come.”

Reynevan shrugged and turned around, intending to leave. He bumped into somebody. And that somebody struck his horse so hard, the horse squealed and kicked, throwing him to the ground.

“Watch where you’re walking, dimwit. Where are you going with that nag? This is a city, not your shitty village!”

The person who had thumped him and dressed him down was one of three young men, sumptuously, fashionably and elegantly attired. They were almost identical—dressed in similar fanciful fezzes atop hair curled using irons, and padded jerkins with such thick quilting that their sleeves resembled huge caterpillars. They were also wearing fashionable tight Parisian hose called mi-parti, with legs in contrasting colours. They were all carrying turned canes with knobs.

“Jesus Christ and all the saints,” said the dandy, whirling his cane around. “What churlishness in this Silesia, what a vulgar wilderness! When will anyone teach them manners?”

“It will be necessary,” said a second, with an identical Gallic accent, “to undertake that task ourselves. And bring them into Europe.”

“Correct,” echoed the third fop, in red and blue mi-parti. “To begin with, we’ll tan the hide of that peasant in the European style. Come on, gentlemen, your canes! And may none of us shirk!”

“I say!” yelled the owner of the beer stall. “There’ll be no brawling here, sirs, or I’ll summon the guard!”

“Shut your trap, you Silesian oaf, or you’ll get a hiding, too.”

Reynevan tried to get to his feet, to no avail. A cane thudded on his shoulder, another fell on his back with a dry thump and a third slapped him on the buttocks. He decided there was no point waiting for further punishment.

“Help!” he yelled. “Scharley! Help!”

Scharley, who had been observing the incident with moderate interest, put down his mug and ambled over.

“That’s enough merriment.”

The dandies looked around—and roared with laughter in unison. Indeed, Reynevan had to admit that in his scant, motley attire, the penitent didn’t look especially dignified.

“Christ the Lord,” snorted the first dandy, clearly devout. “What hilarious characters one can meet at the end of the world!”

“It’s a local jester,” concluded the second. “You can tell by his ridiculous costume.”

“Handsome is as handsome does,” replied Scharley coldly. “Get out of here, gentlemen. Double quick.”

“Whaat?”

“M’lords,” repeated Scharley, “if you’d kindly move away. I mean, move a long way from here. It doesn’t have to be Paris—the other end of the city will do.”

“Whaaaat?”