The leader and the remaining guard were taken into custody by the serjeants, their swords removed from them, and the daggers they carried. The death of a man had served notice that the provost’s men were serious and unintimidated. Whether that was wise was yet to be determined.

Events were moving swiftly, Thierry thought. Death sped things up.

Medor looked across the room at him. “You, too, Thierry Villar. You’re coming for questioning.”

“What?” Thierry exclaimed. “What did I do?”

But he knew what Medor was after. He was realizing, moment by moment, how clever this man was.

“They wanted to take you with them by force. We’ll need to hear your story. Come. I’m not inclined to linger here.”

“Not even for another poem?” Thierry managed.

No response. Stony face.

The other serjeants hustled the Barratin guardsmen out the door. Medor waited for him. Thierry crossed the room.

“He did nothing wrong!” cried Fermin Lessieur. Which was, Thierry thought, unexpectedly brave. People could surprise you. The head of the serjeants ignored the poet. Thierry turned and gave him a nod of thanks.

At the door, Medor turned back to Le Futrier behind the bar. He gestured to the dead man. “Take him to the home of the Duke de Barratin,” he said.

“No,” said Le Futrier, bluntly. “Sorry, serjeant, but no. This is your doing, you deal with him.”

“Then send to the duke’s people and have him picked up.”

“Again, no, I am not intervening here. And don’t leave him in my tavern, either. Bad for business.”

Medor hesitated. Then nodded. “Very well. Move him to your stable. Have a boy keep watch on the body. Can you do that much? I’ll have a cart sent.”

Le Futrier looked at him. Another capable man, Thierry thought. “Thank you,” he said. “I can.”

Medor gestured to Thierry. They went out. Full darkness now. Stars, blue moon.

“You may have saved my life,” he said quietly to the serjeant.

“Possible,” said Medor.

“The Châtelet?” he asked, after a moment.

“No. He’s still at home.”

“A short detour first? I want to pick up something. For de Vaux.”

“He’s the provost to you, Villar.”

“Of course,” said Thierry. But he watched Medor collect a torch from one of the serjeants. He spoke instructions. Likely concerning the dead man. It looked as if a dozen men had come for Thierry. Jad bless them all, he thought again.