When Spring Died

Chapter Twelve

Étienne wasn't in the habit of frequenting the taverns of Marseille. Although they were typically cleaner and less rowdy than those in surrounding cities and provinces, there was something about witnessing such human slovenliness in the form of alcoholism that made him turn up his nose in disgust. But he wanted a drink before the court proceedings that afternoon. Something strong that wouldn't be found in the refined wine cellars of the palace.

Now he sat by himself in a secluded corner of The Winking Stag, the only tavern he could put up with, nursing a glass of vodka. Stolen vodka, the kind only made in Ryssland. Oh, it was no secret that goods were stolen and imported from every nation only to be sold through the lawless markets of the Canaille. It was an unspoken fact of life, and no one tried to stop it. Étienne knew for certain Ryssland profited from sneaking their vodka into the mercantile routes. Simultaneously, there was always a portion of crops or fractions of livestock missing from Frantsiya, smuggled to the Canaille by commoners and nobles alike to be bought and traded for. But so long as pockets were lined, no one said a word.

He didn't much like vodka, not so much because its taste was repugnant as its origins reviled him. Drinking something from Ryssland felt like a twisted form of treason. He tried not to think about it as he took a small sip from his glass. It burned his throat and eyes, stinging all the way down, but the loosening of his mind made it worthwhile.

In Vesna's name, it was so loud. For so early in the day, there were plenty of people, from worn-out farmers, to pompous merchants, to a few straggling nobles like himself.
Étienne supposed it must be the after-effects of the Vernal Fête, the promise of another beautiful, blessed year that everyone felt the need to celebrate early in the day. He fought the urge to laugh at the irony.

The tavern door slammed open and a quartet of soldiers barged in, their voices loud and raucous above everyone else's. Étienne frowned. The casual noise of the tavern he could put up with. But soldiers? With their propensity to cause trouble and their love of drinking to pass the time since they had no war to fight, he could only wonder how long it would be before they caused some sort of drunken fight. He kept his head down and hunched lower in his seat, a wave of embarrassment at even being in such a place sweeping over him.

The soldiers took up a table in the corner opposite Étienne's, their jokes bawdy and crude, their laughter unrefined and far too loud.

Étienne attempted to tune them out. How different this was from the peace and solitude of the palace library. After court, he promised himself that's where he would go, content to sequester himself away in a realm of books and ideas and longing.

A sudden roar of laughter from one soldier, a beefy, red-faced man whose blue coat barely fit him shattered Étienne's daydream.

"Merde, I've never understood what puts nobles in a frenzy like that. It's a damned dance."

A second freckle-faced soldier joined him in his disdain. "Oh, they probably think it's an injustice to the grand duke."

Étienne's attention pricked a little more at the mention of himself. They weren't talking about...surely not. But he knew otherwise. They spoke of the dance he'd been late for. It never failed to surprise him how quickly gossip spread outside the palace.

"No doubt he fanned the flames of sympathy in his favor. Who wouldn't sympathize with him after his lady fair chooses another dance partner," a third chimed in, wiping his runny nose on his coat cuff. "You'd know best, wouldn't you Captain?"

The fourth soldier, the captain, had his back to Étienne. He ran a hand through dark, windswept curls. "Sure, sure. He's the most esteemed of his pedigree."