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

operation with unholy fascination.”
    “I would watch as well,” he said, trying to look over his shoulder at my handiwork. “But I have no clear view of the—Ow! Please tell me you got it this time.”
    I held it in front of his nose.
    “I thought you said it was a splinter, not a plank,” he grumbled.
    “You squawk so much about a splinter, yet you once took a crossbow bolt through your leg with equanimity.”
    “I thought I was going to die then. This time, I thought you were going to kill me.”
    “Still might,” I said, wiping off the blood. “There. Get your motley back on, Fool, and let’s discuss this calmly.”
    He pulled it on quickly, then looked at me and grinned. “You’re like this table,” he said. “Rougher than you look.”
    “But, like the table, sturdy,” I replied.
    “We proved that well enough,” he said, slapping me playfully on the rump.
    “Do that again, and I will respond in kind,” I warned him. “And you wouldn’t like that in your present condition.”
    “Right,” he agreed, hastily backing away. “So, what were we talking about before the distraction?”
    “Me going to the bordel.”
    “Right. And I was against it, so you used your powers of seduction to change my mind.”
    “Crafty of me, wasn’t it?”
    “You caught me in a weak moment. My defenses were down.”
    “It was all too easy. You see why I fear for your virtue going back to a place like that?”
    “But do you see why I fear for yours? Why, with skills like those that you have just demonstrated so ably, you would be recruited in an instant.”
    “What, and leave jesting? Never.”
    “The money’s better,” he said.
    “How much better?” I asked.
    “Depends on how many years you keep at it,” he said. “Longevity is an issue in both professions,” I said. “Especially given your penchant for getting us into life-threatening situations.”
    “Me?”
    “You. Although poor La Rossa might not agree with us at the moment.”
    “True enough,” he conceded. “All right, see what you can find out. I’ll start poking around the Count of Foix’s faithlessness
    “Seems like a place to start. How much do we know about him, besides that he’s one of Raimon’s inner circle?”
    “Not enough,” he said. “But I think Balthazar had one or two mentions of him in his notes. Helga, stop listening at the door and come back inside.”
    The door opened, and the two girls came in, hand in hand.
    “How did you know?” asked Helga.
    “The base of the door doesn’t fit tight,” said Theo, pointing. “I saw the shadow.”
    “Have to remember that,” said Helga.
    “How long were you there?” I asked her suspiciously.
    “We came back a minute ago. You were talking about the Count of Foix.” Her face was devoid of guile, but I saw her eyes dart toward the table, then at my husband, and the faintest trace of a smile lurked at the corners of her mouth.
    “May I come with you to the bordel?” she asked.
    “Why?”
    “I want to see how you play it,” she said.
    “I was thinking of wounded wife,” I said.
    “I am the one with the wound,” said Theo plaintively.
    “Shut up, husband,” I said consolingly.
    “Wounded wife would work better with children in tow,” said Helga. “Makes it all the more pathetic.” She let her eyes grow wide and suddenly looked ten and frightened.
    “Take her,” pleaded Theo. “Take them both. I can get some reading done in quiet.”
    “Fine,” I said, taking Portia from her. “Come, girls, let’s go visit a whorehouse.”
    “Hooray!” said Helga.
    “Where is it, exactly?” I asked Theo.
    “It’s the one behind the leper house outside the Villenueve Gate, right?” said Helga.
    “How do you know about that?” asked Theo in surprise. “I know all kinds of things I shouldn’t know,” said Helga. “Isn’t that what an apprentice fool is supposed to be learning?”
    “I suppose,” he said, sighing. “Have a good time.”
    We left him and