A tense silence, then real applause. As much for his recklessness, Thierry suspected, as for the verse. They’d realize it was improvised. And they’d also know what a provocation it was. Lessieur, he saw, looked genuinely frightened. Had moved down the bar a few steps, to the other side of the man and the woman, to achieve some distance from Thierry and those words.

The applause subsided. An expectant ripple of talk and whispers followed. Thierry glanced briefly back at Le Futrier, who also looked afraid now, his eyes boring into Thierry’s.

“Fuck you!” said one of the guardsmen. Not loudly, but everyone heard. “Someone wants to speak with you, so you’re coming with us, you with the big mouth on you.”

“How dare you! I believe,” said Thierry Villar, “that I have a very ordinary-sized mouth. No one has ever offered me such an insult in all my days!”

Laughter. Nervous laughter. Lessieur was halfway along the bar now, Thierry noted.

“Trust me,” said the same guardsman, “you’ll deal with worse soon enough.”

“I’m sure you’d enjoy that,” said Thierry. “But I just visited the handsome palace of the Duke de Barratin. It would be a presumption to turn around and go right back.”

Naming their employer again. If those in The Fife heard it, most of Orane would know tonight.

“You going to make us bring you, or you going to come calmly?”

“I’m afraid I’m not going to come at all. I think it more likely you have a journey ahead of you now.”

Reckless again, but he had recognized the man who had come in alone.

And, by Jad’s very great mercy to one of his poor children, that man—Medor, Robbin de Vaux’s principal serjeant—took two steps back towards the door, opened it, and gestured outside.

Five armed men came through and took up positions beside him and across from him, on the other side of the duke’s guards. People crowded quickly back from the door, even more so than they already had. Medor wasn’t wearing the provost’s livery. These serjeants were.

“I think,” Medor said in a deep, clear voice, “that instead of your proposal to the poet, we’ll need you to come with us, to explain what you are doing here, threatening a citizen of Orane. Given the times, I’m afraid we have no choice. He mentioned the Châtelet in his verse just now. Prophetic words.”

Thierry blessed him silently. Did the same for the provost.

“You know you can’t take us,” the leader of the guards said.

“Really?” Medor asked. “Tell me why.”

“Because you know who we are.”

“A matter of indifference, or a reason to take you. Not sure which, yet. Why we need to talk. Are you, ah, what was the phrase you used…going to make us bring you, or are you going to come calmly?”