Words And Meanings

by Bonnie Rutledge

(copyright 2001)










Chapter Five





The next afternoon, while Lucrece became embroiled in arranging Marie's burial, I slipped into her library. Recognizing it by the binding, I pulled one of Lucrece's favorite volumes of poetry free from the shelves to study later, but first, I sat at her desk with quill and parchment, practicing how to scratch out my new name. 


An hour and two pieces of ink-stained paper in the grate later, I'd managed a recognizable rendition of the word by hand. I had no sooner replaced the quill than Bourbon entered the room. I didn't try to cover up what I was doing. It was one thing for the Frenchman to figure out why I was practicing; it was a far worse aggravation for Bourbon to catch me trying to hide it. Instead, I ignored how Bourbon looked over my shoulder while I picked up the poetry volume, squinting as I tried to piece the letters together and figure out who'd written it.


"You're learning to read and write."


He didn't phrase it as a question. He didn't try to trick me into confessing it. Bourbon simply stated the truth aloud with mild curiosity, sounding slightly less obnoxious for a change.


He reached an arm over my shoulder, pointing toward the paper. "Your new name - you spelled it wrong." He tapped the offending portion with his fingernail. "This should be a 'c,' not an 's.'"


I gave him a dirty look. "Maybe I spell it with an 's,'" I argued as I wracked my brain trying to remember which shape matched a 'c.'


Bourbon gave me one of his smug smiles. The obnoxious know-it-all was back. "That's not how Marie spelled it."


I set down the book and counted to ten silently in Spanish. Resigned, I lifted the quill again and spelled V-a-c-h-o-n while Bourbon watched.


"Not bad," he said.


I ignored him, picking up the poetry volume for some more squinting.


Bourbon pulled up a chair and made himself at home. I wondered if this was supposed to be a reminder that I was the guest, while he was family. I resisted the temptation of kicking him out, and doubled my reading efforts.


Bourbon thumped the book's cover, jerking it so that I lost my concentration. "Does Lucrece know you can't read or write?"


I made a big show of turning the page, though most of the content had remained unconsumed. "She will when you tell her."


He smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. "She won't care. Not now." He sat there, leering knowingly at me for a few moments. "That was a strategic move, changing your name in honor of the dead girl." He nodded to himself. "Changing your name ... changing how people see you ... I can only imagine how I might have benefited in life had I carried a title a little less Huguenot in flavor." He curled his lip, dismissive of anything politic. 


"Why didn't you?" Like I cared. I didn't, except for how it might matter to Lucrece. So I asked.


Bourbon appeared ready to give another arrogant response, something along the lines of 'an unpopular noble family is better than a common one any day,' but he changed his mind. His expression shifted, revealing a streak of deviltry. "I liked being unpopular. I roused more fights that way."


I couldn't suppress a grin over his confession. Bourbon's philosophy obviously hadn't changed much since his mortal days. I kept that observation to myself, letting my eyes drift back to the written page. I had no intention of discussing my personal reasons for changing my name with the likes of Bourbon, and I needed practice reading more than I needed another fight. The book I'd selected contained Spanish songs, which should have been an easy enough place to start. The first few were composed by a poet named Lopez de Estuñiga, and from what I could piece together, they were highly melodramatic. Big surprise. Spanish songs aren't known for subtlety. 


It annoyed me that it took so long to work out each passage, especially when Bourbon remained content to sit quietly and count the minutes that I didn't turn the page.








 

  
       I think that I should die

       And should desire end with my other ills
       

       Such great love would come to an end

       That the whole world would be bereft of love
       

       But when I consider this

       My tardy death becomes a thing so good
       

       That I should by reasoning

       Feel glory in the fire in which I suffer.
  		
 









Yeah. Right. Whatever. Not just a melodramatic Spanish song, but a bad melodramatic Spanish song. Obviously, I had to be in love, or worse, to be reading this crap.


Apparently, Bourbon agreed with me. He lost patience with watching me frown at the page like it'd just tried to stake me, and he pushed out of his chair. Swiping the volume of poetry out of my hands, he announced, "These are words only fit for women," and replaced it on the shelf. 


While I didn't agree with him completely, I didn't totally disagree either. Bourbon looked ready to champion an alternative, and I was open for any suggestion.


Bourbon presented me with two other books: 'The Prince' by Machiavelli, and Homer's 'The Odyssey.' The first held no significance to me, and only the latter was in Spanish.


Bourbon saw the need to explain his choices for my benefit. "You might find the first book more valuable than poetry if you plan to remain here. It's a family bible, of sorts. It's in French, as well. If you can't read French, why bother learning?" he said conceitedly. "As for the second, it's a translation of the Greek story of Odysseus -"


"A hero traveling with his crew after a war," I broke in, setting aside the Machiavelli for a later distraction. "I've heard of it." 


I had, and from Screed, no less. He loved the tale, at least the parts filled with sailors and sirens. Screed was never big on the ending, by which time the crew is lost at sea, and the hero returns home to stay with his wife. Late at night, when he'd had one too many rats to drink, Screed would get testy and complain about how many a man's adventures had been ruined by docking with one woman too long.


Bourbon made a sound suspiciously close to a grunt of approval. "An epic - poetry made for men."


Flipping over the title page, I had to admit that Homer held more interest than Estuñiga. The Frenchman had a good point. Better that I practice on a decent adventure than I drown in chivalric couplets. Myths of battle, intrigue, and seductresses - Bourbon was right. It had the guy stuff nailed.


He pulled open a drawer in the desk and tossed a round object on top of the first page before taking his seat again. It was a glass lens. I picked it up, tilting the polished surface over the page, observing how the letters appeared enlarged. I shot him a wry glance. "Do I look like I need glasses?"


"It would be an affectation for a vampire to don spectacles," he said dismissively. "I also had a late start learning how to read," he explained.


"Post-mortal late? I thought you noble types had tutors."


Bourbon smiled, looking pretty pleased with himself. "I used to throttle my tutors so that I wouldn't have lessons. Sport interested me more as a boy. My parents had other concerns, and no servant would dare contradict me without their blessing, so I did as I pleased. I was seventeen when I discovered my inheritance had been reduced to nothing but my name, and I would have to make my own fortune. That is when I taught myself how to read. My family could no longer afford a tutor." He pointed toward the glass I held between two fingers. "I started using a lens as I learned. When the words were magnified, I had an easier time recognizing them. Sometimes, the type is smudged. Sometimes it is spaced closely so that the letters run together. Early on, using a lens helped. Vampires may have excellent vision, but unless the object we look at has blood and body heat, we detect no more than mortals do. Not much need for predators in the library. Try it."


I looked speculatively through the glass. 'Speak, Memory - Of the cunning hero, the wanderer, blown off course time and again after he plundered Troy's sacred heights.' Scanning the first line of 'The Odyssey' was easier with the tool. I sent another look at Bourbon filled with additional speculation. Were we becoming friends or something?


I wasn't interested in getting to know Bourbon better. He wasn't Screed. If he reminded me of anyone, it was The Inka. The same streak of arrogance polluted them both. What was Bourbon to me? Someone to be ignored, avoided, or aggravated. 


So what was this? I was talking to him. I was listening to him. I kept catching myself empathizing with him, getting along with him when I least expected it. The fact remained that I'd spent a heavy portion of time in his company wanting to punch his lights out, but I hadn't. I hadn't given into the temptation because of Lucrece, because he was her family. 


Is that all it took? Eleven days of patience, of holding back from knocking each other down, because the misery of her displeasure outweighed the pleasure of sorting out our personality conflicts with our fists? Eleven days to transform an enemy into a competitor, to draw a line in the sand between someone I disliked and someone for whom I had a grudging respect.


The possibility grated on me. If I could learn to tolerate Bourbon in such a brief span of time, did that mean I was capable of co-existing with The Inka? 


But, no, that wasn't possible. 


Someone takes your life as a mortal, whenever you look at them after that, you remember. It builds a wall, and even when you say it's forgiven, you never forget.I wasn't going to forget that The Inka had killed me, and I didn't believe that he ever wanted or needed my forgiveness. There was no way I would ever admit to him that I ended up faring better dead by his hand than I would have alive and kicking as a conquistador. 


I'd actively made a decision to become friends with Screed. I saw him. I liked him. I accepted who he was, and that was that. Everything with Bourbon was the exact opposite. I didn't like him. Most of the time I felt a hair's breadth from a knockdown, drag it out brawl with him. We ended up friends anyway. I'm still not sure which one of us that surprised more.


It was weird enough that he helped me learn how to read and write. I could have accomplished that without him hanging around, but it would have been harder. I wouldn't have cut my teeth on Homer, and, for that, I could put up with him. Maybe even try to show him how not to be such a stuck-up prat all the time. 


Something else: Bourbon never dropped a word to Lucrece about my studying, even when a good opportunity presented itself. I'd earned discretion from a man who believed diplomacy was the poison of kings. That was a surprise, rather like silence from Screed, but he was nothing like Screed. Nothing.


So when night fell, I invited Bourbon to come with me into town. Lucrece demurred, saying she had business matters to attend. The concept riled my curiosity, because the only trades I'd seen vampires involved in up until now were thievery, labor and, my favorite, leisure. She hadn't given any sign of an industrious streak before now. After all, there are only so many traditional businesses I could imagine run from a bedroom or bathtub, and that was the scope in which I'd seen her best work. What other talents did she have hidden? My imagination boiled down to dirty fantasies, and I figured I'd have to discover more about Lucrece's business later. A lot more.


Convenience dictated that she shouldn't be tagging along with Bourbon and me, so it was just as well she had other plans that would occupy her attention. I wanted to see Screed, and I didn't want to get into another argument with her about him. It wasn't just the path of least resistance. I didn't want Lucrece to ask me to choose between them, because the thought made my gut clench. I wasn't sure which person I'd pick anymore. They muddled in my head, friend and lover, one filled with the past and the other rich with the present. I didn't want to answer questions about the future. Never have; doubt I ever will.


Besides, the whole point of bringing Bourbon along was to watch the Frenchman surrounded by the 'common folk' he disdained. Maybe he'd tilt his big nose so high in the air, he'd tip over backward. With Lucrece around, well, I'd rather look at her than Bourbon any night. If he fell on his ass while she was around to distract me, I'd miss it.


The tavern bustled, even more than usual. Most of the townsmen circulated amongst themselves, clapping one another on their shoulders, buying each other drinks, exchanging jovial insults. It was an age-old ritual, as if men, to their nature inherent, had to sniff out who belonged in the territory. Not so noticeable usually - I'm a man; I'm guilty of it. The mood in the tavern that night, though, was tangible. I saw those mortal men congregated there, and I could sense from the looks they shot, if not my way but at Bourbon, that we'd already been marked as the adversary.


Bourbon didn't help much. If sneers could cripple, every tenant that blinked wrong at him would have been hobbled. The scorn just made the locals appear itchier for a fight. I was scratching my chin, contemplating just how good of a fight it might be, when I spotted Screed.


The circle of townsmen parted like some biblical body of water, revealing him in the middle. Screed was elbowing the fellow to his left. His brows creased into a frown; he was obviously annoyed about something. The mortals who listened began to nod their heads in agreement. One clapped his hands together and released a shout. 


I stopped scratching my chin. Yeah, I'd been bothered, wondering how Screed had fared since the 'carouche' incident the night before. I shouldn't have worried. Screed didn't give a damn if Lucrece or any of her associates loved or hated him. All he cared about was whether or not anyone in the vicinity wanted him staked. As soon as he'd ducked out of D'Asile, he'd have been whistling a happy tune again, the whole event consigned to the mental whatever.


You assume, because of the whole carouche thing, that Screed is some kind of total outcast. With most vampires, yes, but with mortals, Screed's always found a place. He hooks up with people as he needs them for whatever he's got up his sleeve, and Screed always has something up his sleeve. That's why he's banned from Atlantic City.


Here, now, he's got the number of every barterer interested in trading the strange and unusual in Toronto etched on his brain. He can get you into the black market. He can get you out of the black market. And, if you're not picky about the particulars, he knows somebody who knows somebody who can get you any object you might be looking for under the sun, moon and stars.


I see that got your interest. Wishing maybe you'd talked more, barked less, when he was still in the shape to work out a deal for one of your cure ideas? 


"Right now, he needs a cure more than I do."


Right. You're right. I wish…


"That you had his contacts?"


Screed was my contact. Is my contact. Damn. He's not dead yet. He's…


"Not dead yet. Go on. What happened at the tavern?"


Remember, in retrospect this is all more significant to me than it probably sounds to you, an outsider, hearing it for the first time. To me, though, everything began on that night. 


"What began?"















 





Chapter Six





Screed was as he's always been - the one who knew the right people. The thought had just begun to creep into my head. I'd looked at Lucrece and her friends that way. My whole purpose of going with her and Bourbon back to the castle initially had been the idea that they were somehow the right people, the richer people, the people worth knowing. Last night had established for reasons right or wrong that I didn't want to increase my knowledge of most of the people that Lucrece cultivated. Today had proven that Bourbon had his uses, but the rest of them, the LaCroixs and Thomases and Francescas - I didn't need to see any of them again. Didn't care what happened to them, either.


If I could just have Lucrece, that would be enough. I can't explain why that was so important, why I wanted her so much. I've spoken of wealth and passion, learning about a way of life that I'd never experienced up until those nights, but those excuses are just blinders to the true scene. The reality was that I loved her. I fell, quickly and fatally, and I couldn't tell you why if there was a stake over my heart and the sun over my head.


The world is filled with women. Every one of them has her own way of pricking desire, of tempting men to trespass her borders, to charm and conquer her, to dive into her softness and to take flight in the sweet rapture we find in her arms, to take everything that woman has to offer…and then a man's attention shifts to her sister.


What is it about any particular woman that makes a man want to stay? What does she have that makes a man reluctant to leave her behind? It's not just beauty, brains or personality. Been there, done that, moved on. I don't know what the hell it is. I'm not sure I want to. It's the mystery that makes it fun. Pheromones, electromagnetism, the phase of the moon…


"Maybe it's fate. A matter of soul mates."


There's that popular theory that vampires don't have souls, remember? Damned to hell without spare change. Proof, contradiction, whatever - I don't know why I felt so strongly, but I know that I loved Lucrece, as surely as I knew that I didn't belong with her. I knew that - first instinct, pure instinct - but I would have never admitted it. Saying it would have made it true. Saying it would mean embracing inevitability, accepting a plan that I hadn't asked for, but carrying the liability for it anyway. As much as I realized the love in me, I recognized the death of my beloved freedom; freedom - wasn't that the purpose of my running? Wasn't it the treasure that put the fight in me, that drove my choices and kept me moving?


If she'd been someone else, I wouldn't have stuck around. I wouldn't have hesitated to leave her to her life and never see her again. But with what I felt, I couldn't do that. I was willing to tolerate the shadows of these other people that I either didn't like, or that threatened the life I'd known and enjoyed up until then. 


What was that? Freedom's death, or at the very least, its creaking on rheumatic bones one step away from it. 


When The Inka went after Screed, I didn't falter. He wanted Screed erased, and Screed didn't deserve that; therefore The Inka was the enemy. It was simple and straightforward. But Lucrece had acknowledged that she associated with people of the opinion that Screed was a lesser form of life they should wipe from the face of the earth. She wasn't going to fight them about it. She was willing to try to persuade me they were right. 


If I hadn't felt love for her, I'd have been out of there. No second thoughts. No debate. Even the people I'd cared about when mortal: I'd walked away from them in favor of adventure and fortune. Lucrece was different. She caused second thoughts, guessing again, and again, and again. I'd never felt that way before. It affected my judgment, which ... well, it probably wasn't your idea of great to begin with.


Standing beside Bourbon, catching suspicion by his association, it made me realize how much things had changed since I'd met her. The tavern customers took one look at me and assumed Bourbon and I were cut from the same cloth - rich men slumming for the night - and they resented me for it. 


It also confirmed that Bourbon's company was mainly desirable within the realm of his own imagination. That news wasn't such a big surprise. The way he'd roared into the coachyard the night we'd met, the look of fear in the ostler's eyes - obviously making friends with the locals and treating them with respect hadn't been high entries on Bourbon's list of priorities. The tradesmen and farmers had him made from the moment he walked in the front door and had tabulated every past insult and abuse on a ledger, finding him wanting. That night, they didn't seem very inclined to tuck their heads and keep their dislike private. They felt lucky, and they looked ready for revolt.


These people, these hard-working and heavy-drinking souls that I'd drifted among for over a century, no longer recognized me as a native son. It shocked me. I'd started this affair thinking I'd be playing a role for a time. Playing at it. Never had I actually believed it could touch my identity. 


Sin, crime, all those exciting things that you're not supposed to think about lest your mortal soul hang in jeopardy - I let go of what I wanted to, and I hadn't missed anything. One mandate I held onto for dear life, the only thing that seemed important to respect above all things: it mattered that my sense of who I was remained pure. Who I pretended to be, the names I assumed with the passing of years, these illusions were just words thrown at a raging fire. Inconsequential. What mattered about me could not be said. If any part of me was meant to be inviolable, it had to be my spirit. Suddenly, I no longer had that certainty, and I wasn't even sure I wanted it back. The price loomed as something I didn't want to own up to, just another on a long list.


That night, Screed was the right guy to know. He spotted me as he turned within a circle of locals. "V-Man!" I shipped him a mock salute, and he approached. With his acceptance, the tension in the tavern flowed away as quickly as the ale from the kegs. Because Screed was willing to talk to us, we'd been branded tolerable for the time being. 


Bourbon fumed beside me as Screed drew closer. "That's why you wanted to come here. To see the carouche." He sounded annoyed. Disappointed.


"He's my friend." It was becoming a mantra, repeated over and over until it became an insensate hum. Did the declaration mean anything anymore, or was it just empty words?


"A carouche friend," he spat, as if the words were mutually exclusive. "Wouldn't you rather have a dog?"


I didn't like Bourbon's attitude. Snobbery wouldn't get him anything tonight in the current company except a rebellion. Rebellions are only fun when you aren't the effigy getting torched by the crowd. "I brought you along, didn't I?"


Bourbon sniffed at my dig. Apparently being called a dog was complimentary compared to the alternatives. 


I saw his gaze flicker back to Screed and the pair of heavyset men in his wake. The two townsmen obviously intended to lend an ear to our conversation, still after something, still tempted to pick a fight if they found just provocation. That's when I realized he knew. Bourbon wasn't ignorant of the dynamic happening in the tavern. His arrogance hadn't blinded him. He recognized that Screed's presence had temporarily blocked the crowd from targeting their seditious sentiment toward us, and with odds of twelve to one, it would have been a memorable showdown. I saw the calculation spark in his eyes: inclination minus common sense and caution. In the end, Bourbon appeared resigned to Screed's company along with the other great unwashed. Giving the facade of ambivalence, he crossed his arms in front of his chest and appeared momentarily innocuous. 


That's when I realized what Bourbon said and did didn't necessarily equal what he thought and planned. He was certainly capable of stabbing me in the back. I saw that as clearly as I saw the color of his hair or his big nose. He was also equally capable of fighting by my side when I expected him to be fighting me instead. I don't know which idea bothered me more: the threat of friendship or the promise of betrayal. 


Screed jabbed a grin in Bourbon's direction and pulled a gold flask from his jacket. A small medallion of a bull with emerald eyes decorated one side. I recognized that coat of arms from the items he'd been planning to pilfer the night before: Lucrece's. I supposed a little stolen loot was the least he deserved to console him for the lack of hospitality, so I looked away, letting him bask in his small victory. 


Bourbon was less understanding. He recognized the flask as well as I did, and couldn't resist saying something. "Ah, the carouche, " he dropped testily, pointedly avoiding using Screed's name. "I see you've been touching things that aren't yours again. But then, it must be in your nature. Aren't rats the sort of creatures that steal trinkets to build their nests?"


Screed snorted, unabashed. "H'iffen they do, call me Uncle Croesus. Nooo, rats wot like h'other material," he said and gestured at a patched section of his breeches. "They'll nibble h'a porthole ta yer arse when ya h'aren't lookin', mate, so watch ya fancy pants when ya trawlin' h'in tha' neighbor'ood." 


The two brutes behind him guffawed at that suggestion. Screed's features brightened, and he hefted an arm around each set of meaty shoulders. "Mind me manners, an' Aye'll make tha' h'introductions. These deux gents," he began, giving his huddle of locals a friendly shake, "h'are Pontfort an' Gascogne, best reaver 'n tanner h'in Lyon, respective. Tears h'em down 'n wears h'em h'out h'as tha' professional h'opportunity knocks tha' door - that h'is their callin'. Ponty 'n Gassy, Aye calls h'em, sweet-like. Been keepin' me company throwin' tha' dice, they 'ave. Pair o' chancy blokes wot gave me h'a run fer their money!" 


Screed released the two men and took a deep breath along with another swig from his new gold flask, wiping his mouth on the back of his coat sleeve. "'N these lowlifes…" he continued, assuming an apologetic tone at our introduction, as if the reaver and tanner were impressionable children he was sneaking past a whorehouse. "Fer one, there's Bourbon. 'E lives h'in h'a castle, 'n 'as somethin' wot stuck h'up 'is nose 'n can't get o'er it, but wit' such h'a bosky name, 'e's got ta 'ave h'a party h'in 'im somewheres, so let's not 'old that 'e's h'a rude bastard h'against 'im!" As Bourbon eyed Screed dispassionately, he began to hum a tune. "Wit' h'a love o' the liquor 'e was born ...  H'a gallon o' h'a whiskey ev'ry night ... " The townspeople listening in clapped a rhythm and started to sing along. 


Considering the whole scene had the eerie humiliation factor parallel to being victim of a birthday chant at one of those mortal restaurant chains, Bourbon took it very well. He didn't make a move to punch Screed, though I know his fists had to have been burning at the time. He could have tried to get Screed back, but he didn't. He was cool about it. He didn't flinch. He didn't raise an eyebrow. That's because he'd realized that, intentionally or not, Screed had done him another favor. At the end of that song, you'd have thought the crowd at the tavern had adopted Bourbon. Any rebellion on their minds - he was spared.


For the rest of the night, he was golden. He didn't go out of his way to be polite to any of them, nor was he deliberately antagonistic. He acted normally, like an opinionated snob, but after the sing-a-long, they felt like they had a piece of him. He could call someone's mother a flea-ridden, ignorant cow, and they'd laugh at his flair with words. In his own way, Bourbon worked the situation. They talked, and he listened. The fact that he could listen made Bourbon more dangerous. It also made him more useful to have around.


While I revised my opinion of the Frenchman yet another time, Screed got around to introducing me. "This mate's wot been runnin' h'as h'a crew wit' ol' Screed fer more years than Aye'm gonna mention. 'E goes by 'V-Man,' mais since 'e's been Frenchified, could be M'sieur le Vay soon h'as not."


I shook hands with the reaver and tanner, the only ones paying vague attention. The others were busy trying to buy Bourbon drinks he didn't want. "Actually, the name's Vachon," I corrected. It was my new name. Why not get some mileage out of it?


Screed looked annoyed. "Wot?! Since when?"


"Since now," I said firmly.


"'Vaah-shawn,'" he pronounced, a philosophical tilt to his head. "'Ow do ya spell that?" He snapped his fingers. "Wot wit'? H'a 'c' h'or h'an 's'?"


Damn. I couldn't remember off the top of my head.


"A 'c,'" Bourbon's voice filtered from down the bar, disgustingly self-satisfied.


"That's right," I said, like I hadn't forgotten but had just taken the time to clear my throat. "Vachon. V-A-C-H-" An unwelcome pause. Oh, hell. "O-N. Vachon."


Screed snickered. "Don't care h'iffen ya call yerself me Auntie Boudicca. Aye'm glad yer 'ere. 'Appy sight fer h'a sore purse. Ya can pay me back wot ya owe me wit' h'only moderate h'in'trest."


I gave him a dubious look. "I don't owe you anything, Screed."


His expression became secretive, and he motioned toward Ponty and Gassy, as if to say 'not in front of the children!' He pulled me aside a step, gesturing for me to duck my head closer as he whispered, "Sure ya owe me clinkers! Aye've wot's been h'a mate 'n kept yer room h'at this fine h'establishment fer ten plus moonbeams h'out o' me h'own pocket!" 


"Uh-huh," I nodded. "You just paid the innkeeper without me asking you to. With your own money," I added emphatically. "Right. And Cromwell's Catholic." 


Screed ducked his chin with false meekness and confessed. "Well, 'course Aye wasn' h'idiot enough ta give tha' man me 'ard-won coin." He straightened, pulling the lapels of his jacket away from his chest with pride. "Aye boozled tha' bloke roight 'n proper. Whether h'it's bread h'or du pain, doesn' matter! Ya h'owe me h'a conceptual debt, Señor Vash-wit'-a-C-on!"


"Fine." It was an old game, Screed finding a reason to wrangle for extra funds, and me finding a reason to not palm it over. If as much gold filled our purses as our conversations, we'd be the wealthiest men in Europe. I swiped a handful of sawdust from the floor and threw it into the air between us.


Screed's nose wrinkled, and he released a honking sneeze. "Wot's that for?"


"I just paid you back," I said, wiping my hands clean. "Consider it conceptual money."


He let out a groan. "Come h'on. Show h'a bit more charity ta ya ol' pal Screed. Aye didja h'a favor h'out o' tha' milky kindness o' me 'eart, seein' 'ow yer not so fond o' tha' 'ay h'in tha' stable. 'Ow wuz Aye supposed ta know ya'd tangled toes wit' Lady Sunshine? Aye thought ya'd retourner h'all sweet." With the last phrase, he eyed me curiously.


On automatic reflex, I almost said, 'I will be back,' but I caught myself. I was thinking of Screed and me running as a crew, of the possibility of him hanging at D'Asile and Lucrece allowing herself to like him. Nothing was certain. Nothing could be promised. Whatever happened, though, I knew the particular lumpy mattress at the inn under discussion held no temptation. 


"I'll tell the innkeeper to give the room to some other customer if you don't want it," I said. "I won't be needing it anymore."


Screed glanced over my shoulder at Bourbon's profile, then back at me, asking plainly, "Then wot h'are ya doin' 'ere?"


"Checking in with you. We didn't really get to talk last night before…" I clamped my mouth shut. Uh-uh. Wasn't going to explain about Lucrece. Wasn't going to defend or disavow anything.


"Wot?" Screed prompted.


"Nothing." I shook my head absently. "Anything you might have heard, about carouche or whatever, it's not important."


"Humph! Not ta you h'or me per chaps, but 'tis bloody h'important ta some boh'ies! Chats turn ta stake 'n polish, Aye'm not tha' one ta dawdle long h'enough ta play pincushion."  His gaze darted in Bourbon's direction again.


Following his gaze, I nodded at the Frenchman. "Did he threaten you?" I asked in a low voice. I wanted it to be true. I wanted Bourbon to be my adversary, for as inconsistent as I proved to others time and again, he was far worse. Enemy or friend - let him be my enemy. Give me a reason to fight him, because the temptation to trust him was growing stronger every day. I didn't want to trust him. I suspected Bourbon would be the first to inform me I was a fool for so much as imagining he could be my ally.


Screed gave a laughing snort. "Nah, not Baron Bosky fer that. Too good fer cheatin' h'at cards, that one h'is." He tapped the side of his nose knowingly. "But not too good ta watch h'a mate palm h'an ace, mindja. H'all's tha' same, Aye've 'ad me fill o' tha' fan-cee social h'engorgements, so lose me h'invitations, will ya?"


He had his pride, and I wasn't about to mention invites to the chateau wouldn't be falling out of the woodwork. "If you're sure…?" 


"Sure h'as fleas h'onna puppy's fanny! Not ta say Aye'm not h'in tha' market fer takin' h'advantage o' mates wit' new rich-ee lady h'acquaintanceships… So 'ow s'about h'it? Spot me tha' golden library? Gilt me pages proper?"


"You said you were up a thousand last night. What happened?" An answer hit me before Screed could draw a breath. "Is that why Ponty and company are your new, best friends? How much did they win?"


"Jes' h'a quar'er!" Screed said indignantly. "Not h'a bother h'in tha' usual line o' h'enterprise h'iffen wot Dumarchais 'adn't played tha' 'ide n' seek wi'out settlin' 'is vowels."


I recalled Screed's gambling excitement when we first hit town. "Dumarchais is the revenue officer you mentioned before? Anyone owed coin by a man in the king's service is destined for disappointment. You're lucky he's laying low rather than having you arrested on some trumped up charge to escape his debts." You can hardly blame me for being pessimistic. We're talking a tax collector here. That's the kind of contact that profits from your misfortune of coming to town, not the other way around. At that time, French revenuers were inevitably corrupt. The possibility of Screed's mark defining the exception made great wishful thinking.


Ponty hadn't given up on eavesdropping and nudged his opinion into our conversation. "I don't believe that. Dumarchais has felt the swings of fortune as much as any man who rolls the bones. He's always paid his losses before."


Gassy bobbed his head up and down. "Born and raised here, Dumarchais was. As trustworthy as any Frenchman, even if his mother's half-Portuguese." 


Bourbon had edged into the fringes of our huddle. Hearing Gassy's declaration, he gave an authoritative nod, prodding the tradesmen on to further sentimental patriotism. 


Have Frenchmen ever been humble? Sure, they rioted among themselves, profited and ruined off the labor of their countrymen as well as anybody, but to anyone who visited their provinces, it was France united against the rest of the inferior world. Fraternité first, Fraternité last, rah, rah, rah. With neighbors like Spain, England, Italy and Germany, I suppose pride broader than their borders translated as the only way to keep from being conquered and carved up for good. Marie Antoinette and the guillotine? She never had a chance. She wasn't French.


As Bourbon and Pontfort congratulated each other via smug smiles on the region of their births, Gascogne eyed me suspiciously. "Are you Portuguese?"


I flashed him a dangerous smile. "No." He frowned at my short answer, immediately assigning me a far more disreputable, and no doubt more accurate, identity within his imagination.


"Have you met our Dumarchais?" Ponty asked Bourbon casually. "He was last seen on the south road. He would have passed the turnoff to D'Asile."


"I have little dealings with petty bureaucrats," he said with a shrug, then added loftily, "Though perhaps I should consider it. The bribes would be smaller."


The tradesmen laughed. I observed as Bourbon watched them shrewdly. He knew something about the missing Dumarchais; I'd swear it.
















Read Chapters Seven and Eight


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