Villar continued, finished. He added, “I will guess you already know most of what I learned.” The rumour of the tall man had been in two of the inns he’d visited in the night. He said, almost against his will, “Do you have a name for him?”

They did.

“Corbez Barthelmy. A soldier from wars north and southwest. Tonsured, it appears, but we think it is a deception.”

“And?”

And. That and was the terrible problem. The provost poured himself a glass of wine. Offered it again. Again the other declined. “I was drinking bad wine through the night for you, my lord,” he said.

“This isn’t bad wine,” de Vaux said. He almost smiled.

“Even so. If it doesn’t offend, I think I am better off sober now. I will drink to celebrate if I have discharged my debt to you.”

Again the provost didn’t smile. Still didn’t answer the one-word question, either. Then, after thought, he did.

“He has been reported to be of a party I’d rather he not belong to, honestly.”

Villar had been red-cheeked and red-eared with cold when he came in. He grew paler now. The poet had, de Vaux realized, been thinking along the same lines, even without what the provost knew. So he would understand, and fear.

Sounds from outside: serjeants making the floor creak. He heard the voice of his youngest son from down the hallway, towards the stairs to the family quarters.

“Perhaps,” said Thierry Villar quietly, “you will not tell me about that party? Who he is aligned with?”

Robbin de Vaux shook his head. “Have to, Villar. There is another thing I need done, and you are the only person I can think of who can do it without arousing suspicion.”

“Suspicion?” said the poet, still in a small voice.

Not a time to feel guilt or regret, the provost told himself again. He had a task.

“I need you,” he said, keeping his voice level, calm, authoritative, “to go to the city palace of the Duke de Barratin. This afternoon. Time matters in this.”

A silence. Then, “I had really, really hoped you would not say anything like that, my lord. Do you wish me dead?”

“You are of no use to me dead,” said de Vaux briskly.

Thierry Villar shook his head. “But I am no danger to that man if I’m dead. And I become a warning to you, my lord.”

Disturbingly correct. Both things.

“I wouldn’t take the warning,” the provost said.

“Oh!” said Villar. “That makes everything all right, then!”

Clever. Amusing. Useful.

De Vaux said, “You haven’t even asked why you are the only person I can send.”

“Not the first thing on my mind, my lord. But do tell me.”

“His Grace, the Duke de Barratin, has a house guest,” said Robbin de Vaux. “A poet, as it happens. A work has evidently been commissioned.”