Free [Fools' Guild 08] - The Parisian Prodigal by Alan Gordon

of the flower-sellers sold us these at a discount.”
    She showed me some slightly wilted geraniums sitting on the table.
    We went upstairs, and I peeked into the girls’ room. Both were asleep. When I came into ours, Claudia was sprawled on the bed. I sat by her feet and pulled off her boots.
    “Thank you, lackey,” she said.
    I placed her feet in my lap. Good solid jester feet, suitable for acrobatics and kicking husbands in the posterior. I started massaging them.
    “That feels wonderful,” she sighed. “You’re a good husband.”
    “I try my best,” I said.

Chapter 4
    R ed . The color red overwhelmed us.
    Red drapes hung by the window, which gave a good view of the leper house. Not that we were looking at the leper house.
    Red damask canopies surrounded the bed, pulled asunder to frame the sleepers.
    The red gown, removed in haste, lay in a puddle of silk near the bed. A red coverlet partially concealed the bed’s occupants, one of whom was snoring away. The other was not.
    Red hair, spilled in wanton profusion across the red pillows.
    A red spray of roses in a vase on a stand by the bed.
    A red spray of blood on the wall.
    Red glistened on a white body, the remnants of a stream trickling down a savaged breast that must once have been as perfect as its unstained companion, both exposed to view. The stream ended in a shallow pool in the slight hollow of her stomach. More coated the underside of the coverlet. The dagger—Baudoin’s dagger—was nestled in the folds.
    “Hell,” muttered Sancho, surveying the scene.
    “I agree,” I said.
    Hue stood in the doorway behind us, his jaw in that all-too-familiar gape.
    “You pulled the cover back?” I asked him.
    “Yes,” he whispered. “I wanted to—I wanted to see if she—“
    “Was the dagger still in her?”
    “No,” he managed to gasp, then he made a choking noise, clapped his hands to his mouth, and fled downstairs.
    I held up the coverlet, then pointed out the holes to Sancho.
    “He stabbed her twice through the covers,” I said. “The blood on the wall must have come when he pulled it out the first time.”
    “And he sleeps on!” roared Sancho. He rushed the bed and grabbed Baudoin by the shoulders.
    “Bastard!” he shouted.
    Baudoin snapped awake in confusion as the soldier threw him against the wall. The Parisian reacted quickly, grabbing for his scabbard from the pile of his clothes on the floor, but Sancho’s sword was already out, its point stopping just short of Baudoin’s Adam’s apple, which bobbed rapidly up and down.
    “Give me your sword,” directed Sancho, trying hard to control his breathing.
    “What did he say?” Baudoin asked me in panic.
    “He said—,” I began.
    “I said, ‘Give me your goddamned sword!’” shouted Sancho in langue d’oïl.
    “What is this all about?” squealed the Parisian as he handed it over.
    “What is this all about?” echoed Sancho. “What is this all about?”
    He grabbed the Parisian’s chin and angled his head toward the bed. Baudoin took in the gore with deepening shock.
    “How did this—?” He gasped.
    “How did this happen?” said Sancho, driving the man’s head against the wall. “Is that what you were about to ask me? How did your dagger end up piercing one of the most beautiful women this city has ever seen?”
    “My dagger?” gasped Baudoin.
    Sancho grabbed it from the bed. “Your dagger,” he said. “The match of this same sword which you have surrendered to me. La Rossa’s blood still on the blade. Your dagger.”
    “I never did this!” protested Baudoin.
    “I should kill you right here,” said Sancho. “But I’m not sure my initiative would be appreciated. Pierre, go get my men from wherever they’re hiding, and tell one of them to get a squad here. Then track down that useless Hue, and when he’s finished heaving his guts out, bring him back.”
    “Right,” I said, slipping into the hallway.
    “And close the door,” he said.
    I did.
    It was