by Alan Gordon
“You saw the late Senhor Borsella arguing with my most holy master,” said the priest calmly.
“Yes,” I said. “But I saw nothing there that I believed of value to a court.”
“That is what I wished to hear,” said Father Mascaron.
“Nothing of value to a court, certainly,” I said. “Yet not without value. At least, not without value to someone.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked warily.
“Well, as you said, I am a talkative man,” I rattled on. “A most voluble fool, but is being voluble valuable? I know fools who think they must be paid by the word, and who will as a result pad their loquacity with excessive eloquence, who will persist and persevere in pursuing this persiflage until the purses of their patrons are penniless.”
“Are you performing right now?” asked the priest, scowling. “You know that such entertainments are forbidden during Advent.”
“Am I being paid for this stream of amusing banter?” I asked. “Not a sou. For that matter, are you even being entertained? That sour expression suggests not. Therefore, I conclude that my soul is safe enough for the moment, although I am intruding upon your territory with that reasoning.”
“You have certainly strayed from your own territory,” said Father Mascaron. “You were speaking of the value of your knowledge.”
“Well, as to that, some of the time I’m paid to talk,” I said. “And some of the time, as the old adage goes, silence is golden.”
“Golden,” he repeated.
“Or silver,” I said. “Silver is good, too.”
“You are asking me to pay you to be silent,” he said.
“I am doing nothing of the kind,” I said. “I would like to be paid to talk, but Advent turns my world topsy-turvy. Perhaps being paid not to talk is part of the natural order of things.”
“What do you consider this silence to be worth?” he asked.
“There’s a quandary,” I said. “I haven’t tested the market. Yet. What is the going rate in Toulouse?”
“What would the rate be for you to be going?” he returned.
“Oh, I plan to settle here,” I said. “Even without the Feast of Fools, a man with half his wits could make twice the living here as elsewhere. No, good priest, my silence is not for sale just yet.”
“What about your loyalty?” he asked.
“Can you afford the loyalty of a fool?” I asked.
“You need work at the moment,” he said. “Unfoolish work that pays.”
“Work for the Church?” I laughed. “Sounds too much like an honest living, and that, Senhor, is something I have spent my life avoiding.”
“I am not necessarily offering honest work,” he said.
“Senhor Priest, you have just piqued my interest. Go on.”
“Not here, not now,” he said. “Come by the northern entrance to the cathedral at vespers, and we will discuss your employment.”
“Vespers? That’s when the gates are closed,” I said. “I’ll be trapped inside the city. That’s a long night for one conversation.”
“I will make it worth your while,” he said.
“What makes you think I’m the man for this type of work?” I asked him.
“Because you didn’t come forward when the baile called,” he replied, and with that, he turned and walked away.
Neither did you, I thought. And you are the one who is supposed to respect an oath.
I ate a few chestnuts, watching him until he was safely out of sight. He did not turn to see if I was following him. That meant either he was an amateur at the cat-and-mouse, or absolutely confident that he was safe from such games.
Or that he had someone watching his back. Or watching me.
I sighed and walked toward the river, then ducked into a narrow alleyway that led me into the Jewish quarter. I quickly moved into the shelter of a doorway and waited until I was sure no one was following me. Then I waited some more to quell the second-guessing.
By this time, I had small hope of finding my wife or Armand, but I walked down to the riverside and back to the quarter that took its name from the Rue de Comminges. I saw half a dozen taverns, and decided that it would be worth my while to investigate all of them, if only to fulfill my mission for the Guild.
“Did you know that the consulate passed an edict banning prostitution from the city three years ago?” said my wife, appearing at my side and taking a chestnut from my bag.
“I knew you were there,” I said as Portia clambered into my arms.
“I learned this from a pair of prostitutes,” continued Claudia. “They were plying their trade quite openly, despite this edict. They explained to me that since prostitution no longer existed in the city, they must have been figments of my imagination. They asked me if I was interested in supplementing my meager income by becoming an imaginary being like them. I declined.”
“How much of a supplement?” I asked.
“You’re a pig,” she said. “Armand went into that tavern over there. I peeked inside, but it isn’t a place for a woman to enter alone.”
“Was he with anyone?”
“No,” she said. “And there aren’t many others in there. I imagine it fills up once the mills close for the day.”
“Daylight frees the tavern for the true wastrels,” I said.
“Then you won’t appear out of place,” she said. “I will leave you to him. You’ll tell me about your chat with Father Mascaron at dinner.”
“I’ll be missing dinner tonight, I’m afraid. He’s offered me employment.”
“As a fool?” she asked, surprised.
“Something shadier,” I said. “So shady, it must be done after sunset. See if you can find Jordan or Pelardit before you head home and have him keep an eye on the northern side of the cathedral at vespers.”
“Wouldn’t you rather have me?” she asked.
“In many ways,” I said. “But I want to find out how good they are at this.”
“You sound like a Chief Fool,” she said. “Very well. I will see you in the morning.”
I kissed Portia on the nose, Claudia on the mouth, then handed the baby back to her mother. Portia started mewling.
“Hush, dear,” whispered Claudia. “Papa needs to go to a tavern now.”
The tavern was called the Miller’s Wheel, and had a sign showing a waterwheel like those nearby on both sides of the channel running between Ile de Tounis and the city. This waterwheel, however, was scooping up ale, as far as I could tell. An encouraging sign. I went inside.
Armand was seated at a low table, a pitcher of ale in front of him, watching the door. He looked disappointed when he saw me, and looked past me at the door again. I ignored him and went up to the tapster. There were beef ribs roasting behind him in the fireplace. I bought two along with a small pitcher of ale and some bread and carried the mess over to a corner bench where I could watch Armand watching the door.
It was a long wait. I was forced to maintain my cover by purchasing another small pitcher of ale, while Armand lapped me several times in this race. Then a woman I took to be one of the area’s nonexistent prostitutes came into the tavern and whispered something in his ear. He grinned lewdly, slapped some coins down on the table, and walked out with her.
I followed after a moment, not having much hope of success at this point. If everything was what it appeared to be, then I would be treated to the sight of a drunk and a whore copulating in an alley, something that no longer held the thrill that it once did.
On the other hand, if all he was looking for was a few moments of illicit love, he had had ample opportunity before this, given where we were. Unless this lady was a particular favorite, in which case … I decided to stop guessing and just follow them.
She led him to the door of a two-story house, the second level hanging over the first and sagging dangerously. They went inside. I waited for a beat, then burst through the doorway.
“Where is she?” I shouted drunkenly.
&nbs
p; I was in a parlor where a number of bored young women in linen shifts reclined more or less decorously on cushioned chairs. A man with well-oiled curly hair and a red-brocaded doublet rose quickly.
“May I help you, Senhor?” he asked.
“Where’s my wife?” I shouted.
“I fear that there’s been some mistake,” he said, stepping toward me.
I shoved him aside and barged through the halls.
“Sophie, you whore!” I shouted. “Where are you?”
I kicked open one door after another, gathering enough indecent sights to make a highly successful volume of pornographic illustrations, had I any talent for drawing. In the fourth room, I struck gold.
Armand was in there, but not with the lady who enticed him from the tavern. Turning toward the door, sword in hand, was Bonet Borsella.
“Looking for my wife,” I muttered.
“As you can see, she is not here,” said Borsella.
“Sorry for the intrusion,” I muttered, and I pulled the door shut.
I kept shouting and kicking in doors after that one until a pair of large, muscular men caught up to me.
“You are disrupting our master’s business,” said one of them.
“I want my wife,” I moaned, weeping sloppily.
“There are no wives here, my friend,” said the other man, not unsympathetically. “This is where men come who don’t want wives. We must, perforce, escort you from the premises.”
“Does it have to be perforce?” I whined.
It was per quite a lot of force. I was grateful that my rampage hadn’t taken me to the upper floor, as the velocity with which I was thrown out of the building might have carried me into the Garonne from that height. As it was, I soared a good fifteen feet before the earth reclaimed me. Around me, people were laughing as I picked myself up and brushed myself off.
It was nice to hear people laughing at me. It had been a while.
The sun was beginning to set. I hurried to reach my appointment with Father Mascaron.
* * *
The north side of the cathedral was all brick. A pair of round windows called oculi looked out from it, each ringed with red and white bricks, giving the observer the feeling he was being observed in turn. Did God need the Church to watch us? I wondered.
Vespers sounded, and a door opened. A cowled figure beckoned to me, and disappeared inside the darkness of the doorway.
I had not lived this long by walking into darkened doorways at the behest of cowled figures. I stood where I was, my arms folded.
After a minute, Father Mascaron peeked out.
“Aren’t you coming in?” he asked.
“Why don’t you come out?” I replied.
“You don’t trust me?”
“Two nights ago, a man was killed and tumbled into a tanner’s pit,” I said. “I don’t trust anyone after sunset, and damned few in the light.”
“In here, you will find safe haven,” he said, his hands out.
“Maybe,” I said. “But first, step outside and let me search you for weapons.”
He came out into the open. I stepped forward and patted him thoroughly.
“This is the second time I’ve been searched in two days,” he sighed. “As you can see, I am unarmed. Now, let us…”
He stopped as I pulled out my knife.
“As you can see, I am armed,” I said. “We will enter the cathedral together. So closely together, in fact, that anyone waiting for me with a blade on the other side of that door had better be quite sure which man he is cutting.”
“There is no one there,” said Father Mascaron.
“Then there will be no problem if we do it my way,” I said, grabbing him by his cowl and turning him toward the cathedral. We walked inside with my knife pressed firmly against his neck. I kicked the door shut behind us. No assassins lurked in the shadows.
“My office is to the left,” he said, nodding helpfully in that direction.
“After you,” I said.
His office was small, enclosing a scratched oaken desk that barely left enough room to maneuver around it. I stayed right with the priest as we awkwardly negotiated the corners, then stopped him while I checked under the desk for weapons.
“The haven looks safe enough for now,” I said. “Please, sit down.”
“I thank you for your hospitality,” he said, sitting behind the desk. “Of course, all I have to do is raise the alarum and accuse you of burglary, and you’ll be swinging from a gibbet in a day.”
“This blade would be in your heart before you finished drawing breath,” I said. “If I’m going to swing, it will be for something worth swinging for. No more threats, Father. They don’t get us anywhere.”
“Agreed,” he said. “Put your knife away.”
“Employment,” I said, sliding it back into my sleeve.
“And now you’re a fool who doesn’t waste words,” he said. “Good. To the point. I need to find something. A small book, the size of my hand, bound in black leather.”
“Have you looked under everything?” I asked.
“Needless to say, it is not my book to possess,” he said. “But I would possess it.”
“Whose house shall I find it in?” I asked. “And how will I know which book it is?”
“It was secured with a gold clasp,” he said. “The front cover was decorated with four golden crosses on each corner, and in the center was the name, ‘Milon Borsella.’”
“He may have had a dozen such books,” I said. “How should I know which one is yours?”
“He only had one,” said Father Mascaron. “I know that for a fact. He kept it in a locked drawer in a desk in the office he kept at his house.”
“And you tried to find it there yesterday,” I said. “That’s what the fight was about, wasn’t it?”
“I’m ashamed to say so,” he said, looking not all ashamed. “Unfortunately, someone beat me to it.”
“What’s in this book?” I asked.
“Accounts of debts owed,” he said.
“By the Bishop?”
“Yes,” he said.
“But aren’t those debts a matter of public record?” I asked. “Won’t there be other ledgers recording them as well?”
“There are some debts beyond the public ones that Milon kept in that special book,” said Father Mascaron. “Debts beyond what would be approved of the cathedral if they were made public.”
“And which could not be proved without this book.”
“My point exactly,” beamed Father Mascaron.
“Why trust me with this task?” I asked. “There must be some appropriate people who know this city much better than I do.”
“Frankly, I don’t trust the local talent,” said Father Mascaron. “Those who run to sin in this city work for some men who are most particular about controlling their activities. And I would prefer that this book not fall into their hands.”
“Or they may become the ones to collect these special debts,” I said.
“That is my fear,” he acknowledged.
“Have there been any attempts at collection?” I asked.
“Not as yet,” he said.
“If there are, you must alert me,” I said. “They would most likely send an intermediary, but I could trace him back to his source. That might be the most direct way of finding the book.”
“I would prefer that we not let things progress that far,” he said. “Find it for me, and there will be a reward.”
“And my pay for searching?” I asked.
“A penny a day, and a report of your work each morning,” he said. He reached into a purse at his waist. “There’s three pennies to start. Two for tonight, one for tomorrow. Will that suffice?”
“Until Advent is over,” I said. “At which point I resume my foolish ways.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “If it isn’t found by then, we will abandon the effort and await the extortionists.”
He held out his hand. I took it.
I pulled my knife out.
“You first,” I said.
He sighed, and got up.
We walked to the north entrance. He opened the door and looked out cautiously. I gave him a gentle shove and he stumbled outside. No one attacked him. I slipped past him into the darkness as he stepped back into God’s house.
As I reached the next corner, I heard a dog growl at me briefly from an alleyway.
“Make sure I’m not being followed,” I said softly in that direction. “Meet me at the Miller’s Wheel.”
I turned left, and walked down toward the Comminges quarter. The tavern was much livelier now, filled with millers, the boatmen who rowed to the Ile de Tounis with empty barrels and sacks of grain and returned with empty sacks and barrels of flour, and those who sought to part these hardworking men from their hard-earned pay. I did not see Armand nor, to my relief, the burly men who had turned me into a projectile a few hours earlier. I bought a large pitcher of ale, picked up two cups, and sat at a bench at the side of the ruckus, keeping an eye on the door.
Pelardit wandered in about ten minutes later. He caught my eye and gave me the all clear signal. I held up one of the cups and he was at my side in an instant. I poured, and we bumped cups. Gently, so as not to lose a precious drop.
“I am working for Father Mascaron now,” I muttered.
His eyebrows rose so high, I thought they might reappear on the nape of his neck.
“I’ll tell you all about it later,” I said. “You can put me up tonight? I missed the closing of the gates. One disadvantage to living in Saint Cyprien.”
He nodded.
“But first, let us finish the contents of this pitcher,” I said.
He nodded more happily.
One pitcher was not enough. By the time we finished the third, the place had begun to clear. It was only Tuesday, after all, and a working man has to pace his drinking. We staggered back to Pelardit’s place. which was a single room over another tavern in the Daurade parish. He had constructed a system of broad shelves on which he kept dozens of props and costumes, neatly folded and organized. He pulled out a bedroll from one and tossed it to me, then sat down on a pallet in the corner and pulled off his boots.