Read Online The Lark's Lament: A Fools' Guild Mystery by Alan Gordon - Free Book Online Page B

joined him.
    “The Hôtel de Barral is in the Ville Prévôtale,” he said as we emerged from the courtyard and headed west. “That’s the part of the city the nobles reserved for themselves in the partitioning. They have their own wharves and one fortified château after another. The Barrals have their place near the prison, appropriately enough.”
    “And they are free to receive visitors?”
    “They are free to do what they want and go where they want,” he said. “Just so long as guards from the Viguerie are with them at all times. If Roncelin takes one step toward his old abbey, they will gently escort him back to the château and remind him of his limitations.”
    “What’s the wife like?”
    “Her name’s Eudiarde. She’s from Aragon, related to the current king in some way. They threw her in as a sop to Alfonse, just so he thought he had some sway here, and they thought she was pretty enough to make a monk forswear his vows, as if that’s ever a problem.”
    “So they make a happy couple?”
    “About as far from it as I have ever seen,” he said. “And I’ve seen plenty of unhappy marriages. Present company emphatically excluded, of course. How do you two do so well?”
    “We get to throw dangerous objects at each other daily,” I said. “It builds trust.”
    He snorted, and we walked along. This part of the city was up high, giving us a good view of the harbor, which was busy. Ahead was the sea, dotted with fishing boats returning with their catch. It was a pleasant sight, and Pantalan was humming, which might normally have fit in with the day, but it was a sad melody.
    “What is that tune?” I asked. “I’ve never heard it.”
    “I’m not sure,” he said. “It popped into my head this morning. I can’t remember all of it, and I don’t know the words, but I can’t shake it. Does that ever happen to you?”
    A sudden memory of a man lying on the ground, my dagger in his throat.
    “All the time,” I said, and I started humming something happier to clear my mind. Pantalan joined in with the counterpoint; then we started singing in earnest, bouncing the song off the walls, sending it around corners and up to Heaven, just in case God needed some cheering up.
    The Hôtel de Barral was a three-story stone building, with an entrance gate set in a stone arch facing a large wharf. Beyond it, the Saint-Jean fort squatted at the entrance to the harbor, the great chain dangling from its windlass, its length resting peaceably at the harbor floor. The lowest level of the château doubled as a warehouse for whatever was coming in or going out, but there was no activity at the moment. There were large windows on the second story, smaller ones at the top, but all of them were shuttered tight. A pair of bored-looking guards stood in the shade of the entrance, their attentions directed toward the château rather than at the street.
    “Greetings, Arnaut, Matieu,” said Pantalan, startling them.
    “What’s going on?” said the guard nearer to us. “And who’s the other one?”
    “Entertainment is going on,” replied Pantalan. “A colleague has come for a visit, so I thought I would introduce him to the Viscount, just so he could brag to his family about it. This is Tan Pierre.”
    “Not much to brag about,” said the guard. “Welcome to Marseille, Fool, and good luck entertaining His Solemnity. It’s like a tomb in there.”
    “Nothing like a pair of fools to rouse the dead,” said Pantalan cheerfully. “May we pass?”
    “Sure, why not?” said the guard. “Wish we could watch the show.”
    “We’ll be at the Green Pilgrim tonight,” said Pantalan. “It will be worth the visit just to see this fellow’s wife. Prettiest thing in whiteface you’ve ever laid eyes on.”
    “But married,” I said hastily.
    “More’s the pity,” said Pantalan.
    “Green Pilgrim it is,” said the guard, and we went inside.
    An underworked seneschal eyed us dubiously but nevertheless led us up a