There was a thin line of faint light under the heavy oak door of The Needle, the nearest tavern to where the dead men lay. The street still had many clothing shops and tailors; the name suited, Thierry thought. Curfew meant they were not allowed to unlock the door, but really, what night watchman or serjeant would be out enforcing that in this cold?

He did the four-three-two-one-four knock and a moment later the door was opened slightly, enough for him to turn sideways and go in. It was closed behind him, quickly.

This was a tavern he hadn’t been in for some time: a small but important matter of a poem mocking the proprietor a year ago. He had suggested the tavern’s name matched the tavernkeeper’s sexual apparatus.

Said tavernkeeper now stood staring at him. Coldly.

“Come to apologize?” Branco Merlant asked. He had not, it seemed, forgotten the earlier matter. Unsurprising, really. A burly Esperañan, in Orane for many years. Had probably changed his name at some point, Thierry thought. Still had an accent, a strong voice. Strong man, too. Carried a long knife.

Villar thought about it. “It was a good poem. It was funny. I write that way about many people, you know that. But I’m sorry if I offended you. I can’t undo a poem—too many people know it by now—but I undertake never to recite it in here.”

Branco sniffed and glared. Then shrugged. A well-known poet frequenting a tavern was actually good for business and they both knew it. Also, a year was a long time. Lives were short, everyone knew that, too.

“What are you doing outside?” he asked.

“I was headed out on some…affair. But it is too damned cold, Branco. I saw your light. I could use wine and the fire.”

“Have money?” An expected question. A fair one.

“I have money.” He did, a little. Should have gotten some from the provost, Villar realized. He added, “I have questions, too. Why in Jad’s name are all those serjeants out and about?”

“Aha! That why your affair had to be called off?” A voice from by the fire. There were half a dozen people in The Needle, nursing drinks in the middle of the night.

“A girl or a theft, Villar?” someone else called.

Thierry grinned, didn’t bother answering. Not a good question to answer.

He looked back at Branco Merlant, who sniffed again and said, “Someone’s been killed. Someone important, it seems.”

“No idea who?”

A hesitation. “A rumour it’s the Duke de Montereau.”

“What?”

It wasn’t difficult to sound shocked. He was still shocked, in truth.

“Couple of people came in and went out, said as much.”

“Who would dare to do that? Who would want to do that?”

Branco Merlant, tavernkeeper, allowed himself a small smile. “Not many, for the first question. Quite a few husbands, for the second, word is.”