*a tavern in the less reputable regions of Paris*
Jean de Chartres felt the evening's heat curl around him. He didn't like unexpected weather, this murky warmth early in the year. His profession, however, forced him to deal with unexpected changes. The weather was irrelevant. He drew in a lungful of smoky air, watching the people on the street scurry across worn cobblestones to inns, houses, slums, and churches. There would be no sleep tonight for him, no blanket wreathed around his strong shoulders. Sighing, Jean leaned against the tavern's doorframe, feeling the wood press on his shoulders like the guilt of being a professional liar did.
"What are you doing out there, boy, looking for the perfect woman? We have a game starting, and we need someone to lose!" cried a donkey-like voice from behind. De Chartres turned a brown neck to see Raoul Petit, a Parisian drunk, grinning yellowly. His thick, red hand was draped across the empty bench. The man was full of unnatural folds and creases that gave him the look of a poorly sewn cloak left crumpled on the ground.
"Just kissing my money goodbye," the gypsy responded, smearing a fake smile across his broad cheekbones. A gypsy who lost money well was welcome anywhere, even this hole. And lose money he did, money wheedled from old dancers and trinket-makers, candle-waxed fortune-tellers and skinny pickpockets.
The real spies, he reflected, did not work here. They did not have dark skin. They did not bribe prostitutes only to hear rumors, nor did they dream in foreign tongues. Neither did they wander from birth to death. No, the spies who truly earned the title were the ones in helmets, hidden behind armor and reputations. Those were the ones that were paid in real money, as much as their hounded clients could afford. As if what soldiers received from the King wasn't enough...but Jean was not prepared to criticize those who regularly risked their white necks to give him information. The Romani man remained here only to meet these soldier contacts; no real information could be gleaned from the trash that consorted here normally. Tonight, he would meet with a new one, whom he didn't altogether trust. To be reasonable, he thought quietly, he didn't trust a single one of them. But this one even less. The leak was a high-ranking one, the type with a large number of men under his command and a good amount of ladder yet to climb. Hopefully, Jean de Chartres thought, this might be the most useful contact he'd gotten in sixteen years, when, unfortunately, his best man had thoughtfully informed the Minister of the location of the Court of Miracles. This, of course, sent every dark-haired creature in sight reeling down to the godforsaken catacombs, left to shiver among the skeletons and rats. Since then, Jean de Chartres had never made contact with an officer of any meaningful rank. So, in a twisted way, the situation was hopeful.
All spies are severely pessimistic.
Jean joined Raoul Petit and a misshapen gang of criminals and cuckolded husbands in a game of dice. The dice were weighted, and the money wasn't good, but it kept his mind occupied for awhile. The evening's heat did not relent throughout the game, but instead seemed to grow, until the tavern was an ale-scented hell unto itself.
Slowly, the stars ground forth from the horizon and rested creakily above Paris. Jean was stealthily losing his money when a gust of heat breathed down his neck.
I'll join for a round," a deep voice rumbled. Jean turned slowly, pivoting around just enough to see the figure breathing behind him.
"Perhaps you'll have better luck than I," he lilted, casting forth his dice. The code words had been exchanged. Jean de Chartres still felt excited when he met a contact, of all things.
The soldier joined in. He was a squat man, with a high forehead and curious eyes that never looked in one place at once. Unlike his gypsy contact, he didn't lose. Within half an hour, the game was finished and the other players dispersed to soak themselves in ale. The two sat quietly for a few moments, not daring eye contact. Jean reached out a golden hand and set the dice on the bench, then slowly settled back to gaze at a crackled mug. The soldier sat calmly observing him, his left eye ever staring at the table.
"We should move off," Jean thrummed, carefully arranging the dice in a precise pattern.
"Should I go first, then?" came the rumbled response. Jean nodded briefly, glancing up at his companion. The soldier rose, and furtively moved across the tavern to a set-apart table. Table. More of a plank of wood resting on some unseen support. Jean allowed five minutes to pass, feeling each second tick away in his head. He emptied his mug and slowly ran a calm hand through damp hair. Then he rose, feeling his clothing wrap around him with moisture. A sharp breeze sliced across his arm as he passed the door, and he looked out in alarm. Nothing but the dim street presented itself to him. The heat returned immediately, pressing in like an anxious crowd. Jean shook his head a little and joined his contact at the table.
"What would your preferred payment be?" he inquired, looking straight at the man now.
"It should depend on the information. I tell you where the Minister is planning to search you out next, you'd owe me quite a lot more. If I only tell you that the bridge will be patrolled more often, less."
"How much is more? Did she inform you of our problems?" Jean hissed. This one was a bargainer, he could feel it in the back of his hands. The soldier had been found by a friend of Jean's, a woman well acquainted with many more 'open-minded' soldiers. She said she had found one that might talk...and one that could be very tricky, if they weren't careful.
"I'll tell you when I give you information," came the answer, and the soldier looked up with a determined expression.
An unpleasant sensation traced up Jean's rib cage.
"No more than a hundred guilders at a time. Payment by gambling is the usual way I do it...I lose to you everything you're owed. Not in one round, of course, but you understand. You seem to be intelligent enough."
"Reasonable."
"In case this tavern isn't reachable, use the alley behind the chandler's. And if we can't meet there, speak to our mutual friend." The soldier nodded and leaned back a little. "So, what am I supposed to call you? I know Clare's name, but what about yours?"
Jean looked up sharply, as if he had been spooked by the wind again. "Call me Jean, nothing else. And you?"
"Claude, and nothing else," the soldier smiled. "It's a lucky chance that the Minister so rarely uses his Christian name, or it would be very confusing."
"Well," Jean murmured, glancing around the tavern. It appeared nobody had taken interest in their party. Jean wondered sometimes if the regular patrons here were quite aware of his trade. He would change taverns every month or so, but there were only so many taverns in Paris. Surely a barmaid or two could peg him as a gypsy spy without too much difficulty. It was a quandary which he hoped he would never have to investigate. Jean's hands were not free of blood; more than one meddling soul had forced itself onto his knife. Unlike some, he did not kill with pleasure. Sometimes, his thoughts whispered, nightmares would coil around his mind at night, fluttering faces of sentries and vagrants one unfortunate young man past him. No, Jean de Chartres didn't like killing people in the least.
"Well," he repeated. "unless you have something to say immediately, I should depart." The soldier was a silent hulk beside him, so Jean stood once more. The spy allowed himself one last memorizing look the the face of his contact, then set his dues on the table and wound his way to the door. The night closeted itself around him.
The air was slightly cooler outside, but no winds greeted him again. The street was its usual motherful darkness. One elbow on the handle of a knife, Jean made his way down the unkind cobbles, leaving the heat of the tavern behind. He yet had contacts to meet this night, more sweaty-faced soldiers with open palms. An alley presented itself, and Jean floated down it. For an indulgent moment, he let his thoughts slip away from his destinations. The spy never rested. Somehow, he could never stop either. It was a strange addiction, a need to work no matter how shattered his bbody was, or how fatigued his mind. It wasn't a love for his people. He felt no great passion for his fellows, no wild Romani blood tying him to his heritage. It was something that he told himself often. He almost enjoyed feeling rootless and frenetic, a maelstrom of activity swirling wherever it might catch. It had caught in Paris, in the Court of Miracles, working under Clopin Trouillefou and the others who truly governed the ungovernable people below the streets.
The thought gave him enough energy to continue walking down the street. He was ever efficient.
An impact exploded on his neck, forcing a strangled gasp from him. He recalled no movement, but found himself sprawled out, with a flower of blood erupting on his hand, where it had rubbed his nose. Agony racketed up and down his spine, as if it had been pulled out of its place. From his throat he heard a loose cry moan, an animal sound that smashed onto the sides of nearby buildings. He reached up a limb to fight off whatever had hit him, but instead found a hulk of matter preventing it. he was violently kicked in the ribs, and with a hiss he coiled up, belly facing the sky. A smothering weight placed itself on his windpipe, pressing downwards with the force of Hercules. The cobbles crushed into him from underneath, joining the malicious fun of the knee now placed on his throat. Jean weakly lifted his bloody hand and raked it across the lump of flesh and bone preventing him from breathing, a weak sign of surrender.
"Put him in the wagon," a hollow voice said, the one belonging to Jean's attacker. A festival of footsteps buzzed around him, matching the spiraling colors erupting from his eyes. He clenched his fists, trying without luck to struggle.
"Damn, he's bleeding."
"He's still awake."
"Keep him awake. Our orders weren't to give him a nice sleep. I don't want the bastard taking a nap on me."
The knee was lifted, and Jean de Chartres yanked in a breath as if air were gold. His ribs slowly spread back out, like a flower blossoming. As the weight vanished, something radiating a metal chill pointed itself at his forehead.
"Get up," a man said. A glint from a lit window briefly illuminated the dull metal of a helmet.
"Come on, move, or your eyes will wind up five paces apart," the spear bearer hissed. Jean slowly, shakily pulled himself up. The spear followed his motion. He became aware of another weapon at his back. The attacker, commanding officer, most likely, pulled his wrists backward, and rope burned his skin. Jean was being tied. He pulled in another painful breath, letting blood from his nose drain down his face through his mustache to coat the edges of his lips. His ever-occupied mind didn't respond to this sudden capture, but merely hummed in stun. He was captured. A mistake. The contact, probably, he thought dumbly, the contact was fake and they most likely trapped Clare too, poor woman. Into thinking the contact was good. Poor woman. Now these soldiers would torture him somewhere, and he could tell them everything; from the location of the Court to the names of every spy to everything he knew about any Parisian.
Not the Court, he thought, finally hearing the sound of words in his head.
It had moved a few days ago...and he, thankfully, hadn't heard where to. He prefered not to return there after his night runs,just for this reason.
Ever efficient, even when doomed. He felt little relief. Blood curled down into his mouth, and then delicately flowed down his neck and throat. Well, then, all that the law would do to him was put him through the worst pain he had ever experienced, disassemble any base of knowledge the gypsies had ever had, find numerous people who would certainly know where the Court was...people could be accurately, and more importantly, conveniently called criminals. Then be hanged.
The stars grated on heavily. Mars blinked its red eye, seeming sympathetic.
*the title means "flash of light".
Comments should be sent to the author Covielle. All materials copyright (c) maintainer, 1998.