[Fools' Guild 08] - The Parisian Prodigal Read Online Free

have it at last! You, senhor, are a puppet.”
    “I wonder who holds your strings,” commented the count in fluent langue d’oïl. “Who are you, truly?”
    “I am Baudoin,” said the man angrily. “Your brother.”
    “Now, as to that,” said the count. “The number of bastards propagated by my illustrious sire could make up a legion. There may be a few in this room, for all I know. I care not whose parentage you claim. It will bring you nothing in this house.”
    “I am no bastard,” said Baudoin haughtily. “I am your father’s son. And your mother’s as well.”
    The count stood, his face turning a deep crimson. “Peire Roger, come here!” he shouted.
    “Yes, Dominus,” answered the viguier, stepping to his side.
    “Take whoever currently occupies our deepest dungeon and move him to the most luxurious accommodations that we have,” said the count. “Then take this arrogant filth and shove him into that dungeon. And while he ponders his sins, I want you to have an even deeper one dug. When it is done, alert me, and I will personally throw him in to rot.”
    “As you command, Dominus,” said the viguier calmly. “What?” whispered Baudoin to his man. “What is he saying?”
    But Hue stood there, gaping in bewilderment.
    “And since you haven’t had enough assistance from this fine translator, I will have him join you to explain,” finished the count.
    “But Dominus, I protest!” squeaked Hue, finding his voice at last. “We protest! We come in honor. We have all the necessary bona fides. Look, I can show you—“
    He reached into a leather pouch at his waist, then paused as another pair of halberds stopped just shy of his sleeve.
    “Why are they still here?” shouted the count.
    The viguier snapped his fingers, and the two were dragged off. The count collapsed back into his seat.
    “If you kill him, could I have his cloak?” asked Foix.
    “On you, it would be useful only as a napkin,” said Sabran.
    “Shut up, the pair of you,” said the count. “It’s been a long day, and it isn’t even noon yet. I need some sleep.”
    “We should talk about this,” said Bernard quietly.
    “There’s nothing to discuss,” said the count.
    “Raimon,” said Bernard.
    “It’s done,” snapped the count. “Do not question me on this subject.”
    One of the guards who had transported the two Parisians to the dungeons returned with Hue’s pouch and handed it to the viguier, who shuffled through the documents inside it, then cleared his throat.
    “Dominus,” he said. “May I suggest that you take your cousin’s counsel?”
    The count turned to him, concern creeping into his face. The viguier was his oldest counselor, one of the few remaining from his father’s reign. He was a tall, gaunt man with skin like parchment that had been written on extensively and scraped clean again several times. His expression at the moment was calculatedly blank.
    “Peire Roger and Bernard stay,” said the count. “Everyone else leave.”
    The room cleared quickly. Foix and Sabran were somewhat peeved, the former no doubt because the noon meal was approaching. I stood my ground, playing a little marching song on my lute as they left. The doors closed. The viguier and Bernard looked at me with annoyance.
    “The fool, Dominus?” began the viguier.
    “He stays,” said the count.
    “But you told everyone else to leave,” said Bernard irritably.
    “I am not everyone,” I said. “I am no one, in fact. Barely even here.”
    “The fool stays,” said the count. “I might need to be amused on short notice depending on what you are about to tell me.”
    “I have the Parisian’s bona fides,” said the viguier, handing them to the count. “They appear to be genuine.”
    The count riffled through them, his cousin leaning over his shoulder.
    “Sworn to by the Bishop of Paris himself,” observed Bernard. “Impressive. And one from the court.”
    “Forgeries,” pronounced the count. “Why, I know two