Might just be country reserve. Or not. Thierry was a little too well dressed for the road, courtesy of the steward at Aurage. He wondered, briefly, if that had been deliberate. Have the Jacquards deal with him, prevent any story being told? No blame to them?

He was too tired to follow that thought through, but it was there.

He walked up to the bar. The inn’s main room was smaller than most he knew in Orane. They’d have beds for guests upstairs. A bed was what he needed. Right now. There were four men in the room. Not as formidable as the one behind the bar, but none looked like someone you’d like to encounter in the dark. One of them seemed drunk already, at midday. He eyed Thierry. You could call his expression hungry.

The innkeeper came over. “Wine? A meal?”

Thierry said, “I’m not sure what I need. A room if you have one.”

“Can do that. For how long.”

“Two nights?”

“Can do that, too.” He contrived a friendlier grimace. “Which way are you going?”

“Not sure of that, either,” Thierry said. And then he pushed on. “I’ve just been released from the dungeon at Aurage. I need time to recover, and sort through many things.”

He had the other man’s attention.

“And why was that? You tried to rob the fucker?”

Blunt word. “He’d never have released me if it was that. No, he locked me up as a favour for Bascot de Thunier.”

“Oh?” said the very large innkeeper. “Another fucker. You have important enemies. What did you do?”

Thierry managed a weak smile. “I insulted de Thunier’s poetry. Apparently that’s enough, around here.”

He had decided, especially after seeing the men in the room, that if he was to survive, he needed to be direct. Mostly. They had released him from a dungeon into danger.

“Poetry?” the big man said. He seemed taken aback. It was almost amusing.

“De Thunier writes it, thinks he’s gifted. I’m Thierry Villar of Orane, and I write and speak my poems in taverns throughout the city. I know what’s good work and what isn’t.”

“And you told a lord that?” An element of respect now, possibly.

“After too many nights of hearing his, and having him demand approval.”

The innkeeper whistled. “And you were with de Thunier because…?”

“Because he was a poet, and I was told he was someone I could stay with while it wasn’t safe for me in Orane.”

Thick black eyebrows were raised. “Why that? What’d you do in Orane, Thierry Villar?”