The poet and the tavernkeeper both knelt by the man he’d stabbed.

“He’s dead,” said Thierry, sounding deeply shaken. He looked up. “You’re going to hang for this.”

“He was…he was attacking me!” the tall man exclaimed. His name was de Mardol. “I feared for my—”

“Where is his sword?” Villar said, standing up.

The dead man’s sword was, unfortunately for the dead man and for the man who’d killed him, still sheathed.

“He’s a serjeant of the provost of Orane, you stupid, murderous fucker,” the poet snarled. “They will hang you for this. You’ll be two more deaths for this abomination of a woman.”

“I did nothing!” Jolis cried, but you could hear her fear.

“Fuck you,” said Silvy again. “They should hang you, too.”

Sounds from the door. Another of the serjeants entering. There had been two to guard him, Thierry knew. One inside, one at the doors. And behind this man, close behind, came two of the night guards.

“There has been a murder,” said Eudes. “We all saw it, and he’s holding a bloodied sword. Arrest him. Get him out of my tavern. And her! Get her out!”

He rarely sounded angry, Thierry thought. But it was rare for a man to die in here.

“I am the Vicomte Fermin de Mardol,” the tall man said, a little shakily, to the three men now approaching. “My family are—”

“Drop the blade and come with us,” said the other serjeant. “Now.” His own sword was out. He was white-faced with fury, seeing a dead colleague on the tavern floor. “It will please me to kill you if you resist. I’m sure there are enough good people here who will help. Sword to the floor. Now.”

De Mardol hesitated, then he sheathed his sword instead of dropping it, but he did comply that far. The serjeant nodded at the city guards and they each seized one of the man’s arms, not gently.

“The Châtelet?” one of the guards asked.

“Oh, yes,” said the serjeant. He looked at Eudes. “May I ask you to have my friend carried there?”

Eudes nodded. He was breathing deeply, Thierry saw, working to control himself. The serjeant and the guards and their prisoner left.

Looking down, Thierry suddenly realized he knew the dead man. Hadn’t recognized him before. He was one of those they’d encountered the night Rollin de Montereau was murdered. For some reason that made this even worse.

He looked at Jolis, who was still standing there. “You love men dying for you, don’t you?” he said.

“I don’t!” she exclaimed, a hand still to her swollen cheek.

“Just bad luck?” he asked bitterly.

She didn’t answer. She never did answer that.