He was hired provisionally as a manservant to the guards of the duke they served in their red-and-blue livery. The enormously powerful duke. Brother to the king. A name even ignorant, unlettered Claquin Guiene from the countryside had heard.

Five years ago that had been. He was capable with a blade now, and was an actual guardsman, not their servant. Had lost most of his country accent, too. It had taken hard years, head down, doing what he was ordered, but he had a decent life now: a bed, food and drink morning and night, his horse in the stable with all the others. Even a plump, soft girl from the northern coast, with her own accent, who was recognized as his by the other guards.

You needed to be discreet, watch the example of your captains, stay out of trouble, but there were ways for a guardsman to make a little money in Orane. He owed his “uncle” a great deal, in truth. He said that in a letter he dictated and sent home. No reply came, so he never knew if they got it. He didn’t send another.

Matters of politics and war were not his concern, he didn’t understand them, but life here was good, Claquin had often thought, even in a vicious winter.

Until tonight. Until this dreadful night.

—

Thierry had no idea what he was supposed to do with a horse, but he could stay on one, it seemed. The horse was indeed gentle and they weren’t moving quickly in the darkness. The horse was also warm, which was good. The provost reined his own big mount and it fell into stride beside Thierry’s.

“And so, why do you need me? What is this?” Villar spoke first. He tended to, if he was honest with himself.

“Hush,” said Robbin de Vaux. “You aren’t in a tavern. Learn to wait.”

“Why?” he asked. He reacted this way when he felt out of his depth.

“Holy Jad,” said the provost. “Do you really want to be sent to the Châtelet?”

He didn’t, really.

“Would you do that? Because I ask questions?”

“The order to take you there,” de Vaux said bluntly, “was given, right after your friend Lambert talked.”

“Not my friend!” Thierry said quickly, but he swore silently again.

“Does it matter?”

Thierry cleared his throat. The cold made that painful. He felt more frost forming on his eyelashes and short beard. He said nothing, for once.