Thief By Knight

CHAPTER THREE

As the reins dug into his hands and the mare let out another piercing scream, Grantaire decided six hundred gold was too little for the hell he was enduring. The mare tossed her head, trying to grab the bit in her mouth. The wretched beast had fought him every step of the way since they'd left Savin. Now she'd stopped in the middle of the road for no apparent reason, her hooves planted firmly before her, and refused to move. Grantaire kicked her.
"Come on, you stupid beast. Get moving." The animal was ruining his reputation (such as it was). He'd hired himself out as a guide. It was hard to guide anyone when your horse wouldn't go anywhere.
"If I might offer a suggestion?" Sir Enjolras slid off his mount, a white behemoth named Ganelon that never seemed to give the knight any trouble.
"Go ahead. I'm listening."
"Animals, like people, respond better to kindness than brutality."
"What's your point?"
Sir Enjolras frowned, apparently troubled by Grantaire's reaction. "Grantaire, have you read the journals of Saint Etienne?"
"Hah!" Felix, still seated on his placid gelding, laughed. "Him read the writing of the saints? You must be joking, Enjolras. The ruffian probably can't even read."
Grantaire glared at the priest. He wasn't a child, and he didn't appreciate people talking about him as if he weren't there.
"I can read, priest. I'm not a fool."
"Really?"
"Brother Felix!" The knight spat out the priest's name with the frustration of an angry parent. "If you can not be more charitable, then I would appreciate your silence."
The priest nodded and lowered his head. Grantaire could see his cheeks turning red with suppressed anger. Once again, he wondered about the relationship between his two companions. Why would a priest take orders from a knight who ought to have no authority over him? It was an interesting puzzle.
"I apologize for Felix. He has much to learn. As for Saint Etienne, there appears in his second journal a curious entry about a dog. He was traveling to Reims one day when he came across the creature on the road. It was half-wild, starving and scarred from many beatings. As Etienne approached, the creature blocked his way, snarling at him. He was frightened at first. The dog was enormous and clearly quite vicious. But as he looked at the creature, his eyes took in the many bruises and cuts, the half-torn ear, and, most of all, the look of fear in the dog's eyes. This animal had known no kindness from men, and therefore it had learned to hate them. Etienne was filled with compassion. Instead of striking out at the dog, or running from it, he approached it with kindness. Taking a bit of bread from his pack, he lured the animal to him. Nervously, the dog stopped growling. It came forward, slowly and fearfully, and took the offering. As it ate, Etienne calmed the animal with a gentle hand and soothing words. They were companions ever after."
Grantaire stared at Sir Enjolras, who beamed back at him. It was a ridiculous story. He had never known a dog to eat bread, no matter how hungry it was. But he remembered the six hundred gold and kept the opinion to himself. He, at least, knew better than to bite the hand that fed him.
"That's a nice story."
"Indeed, it is. And you understand its significance." Sir Enjolras nodded meaningfully at the mare, who was still quivering in frustration.
"You want me to feed bread to the mare?"
Because Grantaire was watching carefully, he expected to see at least a flicker of irritation in the knight's blue eyes. But Sir Enjolras remained impassive. He was either a complete master of his expressions, or the most patient man Grantaire had ever met.
"No, Grantaire. I do not believe she would eat bread. I was merely trying to suggest that you should not kick her, or pull so hard at her reins. She will cooperate better if you soothe her with words of kindness."
He had to bite his lip to keep from saying something nasty. The knight expected him to talk to the horse. It was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. Grantaire didn't mind other animals. He'd even had a dog once when he was a boy. But he hated horses. They were big, dumb brutes with nasty teeth and deadly hooves. He didn't like grooming them, he detested riding them, and there was no way in hell he was going to talk to them.
He looked Sir Enjolras in the eye and firmly reminded himself that six hundred gold could only buy so much. "I do not talk to horses."
Enjolras stepped up to the mare and gently stroked her muzzle. He frowned at Grantaire.
"I am not suggesting she would understand the words, Grantaire. She is only an animal. But she will appreciate the sentiment behind what you say. Why don't you get down and comfort her for a moment? She needs to know that you do not hate her."
"But I do hate her."
The knight's steely expression told Grantaire he had no chance of winning this argument. He slid from the saddle. With a heavy sigh, he stepped close to the horse and dared a quick pat on her forehead. She snorted and bared her teeth. Grantaire jerked his hand away.
"She was going to bite me."
"She was merely uncertain of your intentions, Grantaire. Go ahead -- pet her. She will not harm you."
Resigned to his fate, Grantaire ran his hand along the mare's soft muzzle for a few minutes. All the while, horse and man eyed each other warily. Grantaire had no illusions about earning the animal's acceptance; not while she kept rolling her eyes at him. It was as if they both endured this brief contact only for Sir Enjolras's sake.
"See how you've calmed her," said the knight when the mare finally quit tossing her head.
"I can't tell you what that means to me. Now, can we get moving?" Grantaire climbed back into the saddle without waiting for an answer and rode off, leaving the other two to follow him.
Much to Grantaire's surprise, the mare was much calmer after that. Her gait was still a little choppy, making him bounce up and down in the saddle like a sack of feed until his rear was sore. But, for a few hours at least, she kept moving and didn't try to bite him. Grantaire started to relax. After so much time in Savin, he had forgotten what it was like to be out on the open road. He enjoyed the gentle breeze that carried with it the scent of pine as well as the early winter chill. Bright red cardinals and chattering jays darted among the branches of the trees growing close to the road. Once, he spotted a young doe watching them with wide, brown eyes.
The peaceful spell didn't last. The mare suddenly stopped in her tracks and screamed in fear. Grantaire looked around. He didn't see any danger. What was the damn animal upset about this time? Mindful of Sir Enjolras riding close behind him, he leaned over and patted her sweaty neck.
"What's wrong now, you stupid beast?"
Then he smelled it. Smoke. Grantaire looked up ahead, past the sharp bend in the road where the trees were crowding close. He spotted the signs at once, the thick, gray cloud drifting up over the trees, spreading long tendrils towards the sun as if beckoning a welcome to its flames.
"Fire!" Grantaire shouted. It had been weeks since the last rain; the trees would be as dry as kindling.
Sir Enjolras was beside him at once, his gaze following Grantaire's pointing finger to the danger. Without a word, he jumped down from the saddle. He turned to help Felix struggle down from his gelding.
"Felix, stay here with the horses. Move further down the road if you must; the smoke will make them nervous. Grantaire and I will investigate."
Grantaire didn't argue. The smoke wasn't bad -- yet. But if someone didn't do something soon, the fire could quickly spread out of control.
They jogged down the road. Grantaire was surprised that Sir Enjolras easily kept up with him. He was fast, for someone so big. When they rounded the bend, the source of the flames lay in the road before them -- two merchant's wagons, one of them lying on its side, both broken and smoldering. Bodies littered the ground, as if some giant hand had taken them and tossed them across the road like a fortune teller's bones. Several men and two women stood among the fallen, trying vainly to beat out the flames that were destroying their wagon.
One of the women, a tiny, creature who was attempting to quench the growing flames with a tattered cloak, stopped when she saw them approaching. She backed away from the wagon, still holding the cloak, which was beginning to smolder. She regarded them uncertainly for a moment. Her eyes drifted to the sword hanging so prominently by the side of Sir Enjolras. She screamed.
"Please!" Enjolras said calmly, even while the men surrounded them with daggers drawn. "We are here to help. We saw the smoke."
The men looked at each other uncertainly. "Who are you?" asked a tall, bearded fellow who stood protectively before the tiny woman.
Grantaire sighed as Enjolras gave their names. They didn't have time for this. He noticed the woman still held the ragged cloak, and the ends were burning nicely now. Without a word, he stepped forward, grabbed the cloak, and stamped out the flames. Everyone stared at him in surprise.
"Can we save the talk until after we put out the fire?" He pointed to the overturned wagon -- the flames were spreading dangerously close to the dry grass.
The bearded fellow nodded. "We have to save the wagons. They're all we have left."
Grantaire looked at the wagons. If they got the flames out soon, they might be salvageable. But he doubted it. Besides, it was more important to keep the grass from catching fire.
"The wagons are a lost cause," he said. "We should keep it from spreading. We have a couple of shovels." He went to the horse's packs and dug them out, thinking how lucky they were they'd needed them to bury Fletcher and his thugs. Dying was the first useful thing they'd done.
When Grantaire approached the merchants with the shovels, they only glared at him. Several went back to their former efforts, completely ignoring his suggestion.
"Those wagons are all we have," the bearded one said again. "All the bandits left us. We can't just abandon them! If you don't want to help, then be on your way."
He started to turn around, dismissing them. Enjolras stopped him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"We do want to help you, sir," he said, giving the guy more respect than he deserved. "But there is only so much we can do. Please, spare someone to help Grantaire. We must protect the forest. The rest of us can concentrate on saving at least one of the wagons."
The guy hesitated a moment. He shrugged his shoulders. "Charles!" he called. "Come help this one."
A scrawny kid who couldn't have been more than fifteen ran over to them. The older man jerked his head at Grantaire.
"He'll tell you what to do. The rest of us will save the wagons." He glared at Grantaire briefly, as if he had doomed them all by taking Charles away from them. He squared his shoulders and lumbered over to the wagons where the others were already working hard to beat out the flames.
Grantaire handed Charles a shovel. "Somebody needs to keep the fire away from the woods," he insisted, daring the kid to contradict him. Charles nodded meekly and followed him to the edge of the hungry flames.
Hefting the shovel, Grantaire dug up a patch of the dry soil and dumped it on the fire. The flames hissed and puffed acrid smoke. Grantaire drew his cloak around his face and wiped tears from his stinging eyes. Already, the flames were inching back to reclaim the ground he'd stolen from them.
Beside him, Charles tied a kerchief over his face and scooped up more dirt. He dumped it, then paused to wipe sweat from his brow. At this rate, it was going to take them all day to put out the fire. Why couldn't the merchants have spared some more help? They were wasting their time with the damn wagons. He could hear Sir Enjolras giving orders, shouting to be heard above the crackling fire. If the knight was so ready to take command of this mess, he should have insisted they abandon the wagons. What kind of nobleman let a bunch of merchants push him around?
Grantaire sighed. There was no use expecting Sir Enjolras to act like other noblemen. Or anyone else in their right mind. It was up to this poor thief and one skinny adolescent to save the forest. Determined, he bent himself to the task. He took shallow breaths, trying not to choke on the foul air, and gave himself over to the rhythm of steady shoveling. The retreating fire and the steady fall of dirt became his world. Grantaire forgot about Charles. He was alone, the smoke that swirled around him his only company. His thoughts drifted along the streets of Savin. He thought about the people he hadn't said good-bye to, and found himself wishing he'd looked up Father Bayard for one more game of drams before he left.

Someone screamed. Grantaire jumped, his mental image of Savin vanishing as if it, too, were only so much smoke. He'd been shoveling for how long? Hours, it seemed. His arms felt heavy, and the shovel hot in his blistered hands. Grantaire turned around. One of the merchants fell to the ground, writhing. Flames covered his back. He screamed, a long, wailing sound like a dying animal.
His companions hovered around him, afraid to get to close. Sir Enjolras pushed his way past them. He took off his cloak and threw it on top of the burning man. Though his hands must have felt the heat even through his leather gloves, he grabbed the man and rolled him over, throwing his body on top. The man flailed at him trying to push him off. The flames died. Smoke curled up from beneath the knight's cloak. The merchants watched in stunned silence, heedless now of the burning wagons. The one that had overturned was nothing but smoldering soot. The other one blazed unchecked. It didn't seem to matter now.
Enjolras stood and lifted his charred cloak from of the injured man. The flames were gone. The burned man wasn't moving. Grantaire dropped his shovel and ran over.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
The knight looked up at him. Soot covered his face like a second skin, but he seemed unhurt.
"I am fine." He glanced over to Grantaire's abandoned post. The flames were well contained now; Grantaire wasn't needed there any more.
The merchants crowded around them, peering with concern at their fallen comrade. The sickening smell of burned flesh filled the air like so much cooked meat. One of the women turned away, retching. No one spared a glance at the wagons.
"Oh, Jacques," said one of the women, nearly in tears. "Is he dead?"
Sir Enjolras knelt down beside the man he'd saved. His expression was grim. He took off his gloves. With red and blistered hands, he peeled the ruined cloth away from the man's body.
Grantaire was horrified. He wasn't going to heal the man here, with everyone watching? What were these people going to think?
Enjolras was already deep in prayer. There was nothing Grantaire could do but wait. The merchants exchanged puzzled glances, but none of them said a word. They waited for a long time, while the ashen wagons beside them smoldered and hissed. Grantaire was beginning to think this one would die, like the thief in the alley. Sir Enjolras, apparently, couldn't save everyone.
The merchant was lucky. Before everyone's astonished eyes, the man's blackened flesh began to heal. Blisters that seeped fluid began to shrink, then disappeared. The skin slowly turned from black, to a mottled brown, and finally to a perfect, hairless pink. Grantaire heard the people around him gasp. Some of them stepped back in fear. The burned man sat up, blinking, as astonished as the rest of them. The woman who'd been crying let out a scream.
The man was staring at his newly healed hands, as if he had never seen them before. He looked up at Sir Enjolras, his brows furrowed in confusion.
"How can this be? I'm alive. But, the pain. There was so much pain."
"I healed you," Sir Enjolras explained calmly. It was maddening; he acted as if he'd done nothing more remarkable than help the man to his feet after a nasty fall. He stood, swaying a little from fatigue. The merchants stared at him in amazement.
"He'll be all right now," he explained. He looked at Grantaire, his expression puzzled. Grantaire could only shake his head. The foolish knight didn't understand. Didn't he realize the kind of effect his incredible powers would have on people?
Grantaire decided he'd better have a talk with the knight before this got out of hand. Shouldering the merchants aside, he stepped to Sir Enjolras and grabbed him by the arm.
"We need to talk," he muttered. To the watching merchants he turned and smiled. "We'll be right back. We left our companion behind with the horses."
The merchants didn't say a word as he dragged the knight away. They were still too surprised. Or afraid -- Grantaire wasn't sure which. Sir Enjolras, taking Grantaire at his word, headed down the road toward the spot where Felix waited.
"Hold it," he said to the knight, who stopped in his tracks and looked questioningly at Grantaire.
"Is something wrong?"
Grantaire couldn't believe the man could be so dense. "Yes, something's wrong! Did you have to do that right in front of those people? They're going to think you're some kind of saint or something. By the time we get to San Sebastien, we'll have every villager between here and there following you around like sheep."
The knight frowned as he considered Grantaire's words. "It had not occurred to me. I only knew I must heal him. After all, if I had not agreed to the attempt to save the wagons, he would not have been injured. I should have listened to you, Grantaire."
Grantaire wished he would stop changing the subject. "Just tell me -- how many people have seen you do this?"
"Until now, only you and Felix. The thief in the alley that night was the first person I attempted to heal. The power is new to me."
Grantaire was surprised to hear that. The ability to work miraculous cures seemed so much a part of Sir Enjolras's identity, he couldn't imagine the knight ever having been without it.
"So, you're telling me you just woke up that morning and suddenly you could heal people. What, did God send you a message or something?"
"No. He simply provides the knowledge I need. Just as I knew it was my place to provide Cambrai with a king."
Grantaire wanted to laugh. The knight had just told him that God had picked him to be king. It was insane. Sir Enjolras was insane. Grantaire desperately wanted to believe that. But he didn't. He had no idea why, but somehow he knew Sir Enjolras was telling the truth -- not just the truth as he saw it, but the truth as it really was. Grantaire didn't want to believe it. But it was hard not to believe in miracles when they stood up in front of you and kicked you in the teeth.
"All right." He avoided looking at Enjolras so he couldn't be distracted from what needed to be said. "You can't just let people die. I understand that."
Grantaire pushed his hair from his eyes and sighed in frustration. He didn't really understand anything. Except that Enjolras could be attracting a world of danger.
"Just promise me one thing -- don't tell them you're going to San Sebastien. Don't tell anyone."
Enjolras frowned. "Why should I hide my destination from these good people? They mean us no harm."
"Maybe they don't. But they might mention it to someone who wants the throne more than you do. Maybe enough to kill for it."
Enjolras looked troubled. Grantaire wasn't sure whether he was upset by the prospect of violence or by the need for dishonesty. Whatever the problem was, he wasn't sure how to handle it. Until now, Grantaire had never met someone whose good intentions outweighed his sense of self-preservation.
"Enjolras, I think we need to focus on your goal here. You need to reach San Sebastien in one month -- alive, I might add, so you can become the first king of Cambrai."
Enjolras nodded.
"Why?"
"I beg your pardon?" Enjolras seemed put off by the question. Grantaire wondered if anyone had ever dared to question the man's motives.
"Why do you want to be king?"
"I had a vision, Grantaire. It is destiny, and destiny must be fulfilled."
Grantaire didn't like it. He had never believed in fate or destiny. Was it fate that had killed his young mother, and left Grantaire to fend for himself in a stinking alley? Men made their own destiny in the world. Most of what happened, good and bad, was just dumb luck. God had nothing to do with it.
There was no sense in arguing with someone like Enjolras. The only thing that mattered right now was that his crazy beliefs could be used to prove Grantaire's point.
"Fine," he conceded. "It's your destiny. Well, there are a lot of people out there who think it's their destiny, too. But they're not as nice as you. For this kind of power, a lot of people would be willing to kill anyone who gets in their way. If you run around telling people you're heading to San Sebastien, you'll be making a big fat target of yourself. Not to mention me and Felix."
"I would not want to jeopardize your safety," said Enjolras, just as Grantaire hoped he would. "Very well, I will remain silent about our destination."

"Good. Let's go get Felix." Grantaire turned to leave, but Enjolras wasn't finished.
"One moment, Grantaire. I'd like to ask you a question, if I may."
"What is it?"
"Why do you want to own a tavern?"
He should have been expecting this. People couldn't resist prying into other people's lives, and it seemed even a miracle worker like Sir Enjolras was no different. Grantaire didn't like it. His dreams were personal, and he didn't like sharing them. The tavern meant a lot to him, even more than money and independence. It was a way to make up for a past he'd rather forget. It was a way for him to become the son his mother would have wanted.
Grantaire had never told these things to anyone. He liked Enjolras, even if he was crazy. But that didn't mean he was willing to confide in him.
"I want the tavern for the money," he lied. "What else would I want an tavern for?"
Enjolras nodded slowly. Grantaire had the strange feeling the knight didn't believe his explanation for a minute, but accepted it to be polite.
"That is the usual reason," he said. "Come, let's not keep Felix waiting. He must be worried by now."
They found the priest sleeping beside the road. Grantaire kicked him awake before Sir Enjolras could stop him.
"Guess he was really worried about us."
The priest struggled to his feet, scowling at Grantaire. "I am old and tired, as you will be some day. And that's Sir Enjolras to you."
"Felix, please. I do not mind if Grantaire does not use my title. In fact, I would prefer that he call me Enjolras, as you do. We are companions now."
Grantaire might have been pleased by the trust Enjolras implied, but he was still too irritated. He walked over to the little mare, snatching up the reins as he dodged her attempt to bite him.
"Enjolras just performed another miracle in front of a bunch of merchants," he told Felix. "We'd better get out of here fast."
Felix stared at him as if he'd sprouted wings. "What are you talking about?"
"We were helping some merchants on the road ahead," Enjolras explained. "Their wagons were on fire; attacked by bandits. One of them was injured and I healed him, just as I healed you."
It could have been Grantaire's imagination, but he thought the explanation sounded a little defensive. Felix, he was pleased to see, looked horrified.
"Enjolras, do you really think that was wise? News of this will spread faster than any fire. The people will proclaim you a hero, or a saint. There are others who want the crown, Enjolras. Some of them might be willing to dispose of the competition."
Grantaire was surprised to hear his own words echoed by the priest. Maybe Felix was smarter than he looked.
Enjolras looked at each of them, frowning. He was clearly upset by their words. Grantaire almost felt sorry for him. "I understand what you are saying. Grantaire has already mentioned the need for secrecy. But God gave me this power for a reason. I will not hide it. I will not hide from Him."
Felix looked away at this, lowering his head as if in shame. Grantaire was curious, but Enjolras was apparently done talking. He mounted his horse with an easy grace that Grantaire would never achieve and regarded them steadily.
"I cannot abandon those people either. They will need help if they are to reach the safety of the nearest town. We must escort them."
"What?" Grantaire couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Enjolras, they're not our responsibility. If they wanted protection, they should have hired some in the first place. They can make it to the nearest town on their own."
Enjolras glared down at him. "I will not leave them at the mercy of bandits."
"Bandits? Bandits like to take things from people, Enjolras. These idiots don't have anything left to steal."
"He has a point, Enjolras," Felix said. He started to say more, but he pursed his lips and lowered his head meekly when Enjolras glared at him.
"I intend to escort these good people to the nearest town. If you assist me in this, I will release you both from your obligations." His blue eyes turned to Grantaire. "With full payment, of course."
Grantaire knew when he was being mocked. He didn't know why Felix had signed on for this ridiculous adventure, and he didn't really care. He had never agreed to play guide to a religious fanatic, the most dangerous kind of fool. He didn't want to nurse-maid a bunch of down and out merchants who should have known better than to travel the roads with so few numbers and so little protection.
"You've got a deal." He looked the knight squarely in the eye, refusing to feel guilty. "The nearest town is San Genevieve. We'll take the lot of them there, if they can stop worshiping you long enough to get back on the road. They can find their own way from there."

***

Seven members of the merchants' families had been killed by the bandits. One boy had just turned fourteen. Grantaire, who'd left many an empty pocket behind in his time, had never been able to stomach this kind of needless slaughter. There were plenty of ways for a good thief to make a living that didn't spread pain and suffering. After they had buried the bodies, Father Felix led them all in a prayer for the departed. Grantaire looked at the tears in the eyes of wife and daughter, and for the first time felt some kind of kinship with these people.
But his sympathy had limits. Enjolras's journey to San Sebastien wasn't a pleasure trip, and Grantaire didn't see the need to delay it any longer than necessary. When the brief funeral ended and some of the merchants insisted on poking through the wreckage of the wagons to see if any of their belongs could be salvaged, Grantaire tried to argue against it.
"We don't have time for this." He directed his comment to Enjolras but spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. He didn't care who he offended. These merchants needed to listen to reason. He pointed to the still smoldering pile of blackened wood that used to be the nearest wagon.
"It will take hours to go through that mess, and you'll probably burn yourselves while you're at it. And for what? You said yourself the bandits took everything of value. What's left that could possibly be worth digging for?"
For a moment, everyone stared at him. Grantaire read dismay in some faces, like the frail old man who leaned on a gnarled staff. Others frowned at him, betraying anger and resentment. But no one spoke. Timidly, they looked to one another, hoping someone would have the nerve to speak up for them.
Finally, someone did. She was a tiny woman, not quite five feet tall. Her pale, snub-nosed face and her faded, brown walking dress were smeared with soot. Curls of straw colored hair poked out from beneath her bonnet. A soiled kerchief was knotted around her neck. She pushed her way past her companions to stand in front of Grantaire, her hands resting squarely on her hips and her chin tilted up at him in defiance.
"Our things may not be worth much to men like you. Or them bandits."
She poked a finger at him, and Grantaire flinched. Her voice was a raspy shriek more suitable to someone twice her size, and he suspected she was accustomed to intimidating people with it. He frowned down at her, resenting the way she so casually grouped him with the bandits. She didn't give him a chance to complain.
"But they mean an awful lot to us," she went on. "My little girl left her doll in that wagon. Maybe it burned up, and maybe it didn't. We won't be leaving until we know for sure."
"Claire's right." A tall, bearded man stepped up beside the little woman and rested a big hand on her shoulder.
"We plan to look for our things. You don't have to help. But don't be trying to stop us either."
"Of course we'll help you." Grantaire turned around to see Felix standing behind him. The priest scowled at him.
"That is, Sir Enjolras and I will help. I'm afraid our guide has more in common with the blackguards who robbed you than he does with civilized folk. It's useless asking for compassion from his kind."
Grantaire balled his hands into fists and glared at Felix. Compassion? He had plenty of compassion, but he saved it for people who had really suffered. These merchants had been frightened, even injured. It was never much fun to watch somebody else run off with everything you owned. They knew nothing of the kind of misery Grantaire had seen. That kind of suffering belonged to people who could only dream of owning things that might be worth stealing.
There was no use explaining that to these people. The merchants watched him with eyes narrowed in suspicion, and Felix looked down at him in smug disdain. Enjolras studied him with lips pursed, thoughtful. Was he only now realizing what kind of guide he had hired?
Grantaire sneered at Felix. "Go ahead, priest. Help them look for their toys. What do I care?"
"Nothing. Except for yourself."
"Felix!" Enjolras stepped in between them. "I order you both to stop this bickering at once."
"Order us?" Grantaire shook his head. After all his talk of companionship, Sir Enjolras was treating them like paid servants. Maybe he wasn't so different from the other noblemen after all.
"Very well, my lord." He gave Enjolras a low bow, mocking him. "If you don't mind, I'm going to get some rest. Do let me know when your humble guide is needed."
Without waiting for an answer, Grantaire stomped off into the woods. Dry twigs snapped under his feet, and a startled pheasant took wing, squawking in protest. If he'd been thinking clearly, the bird might have become tonight's dinner; it was close enough for him to take her with a well-thrown knife. But Grantaire wasn't thinking clearly. He hadn't been thinking clearly ever since he'd met Sir Enjolras.
Grantaire threw himself down on the damp grass, leaning back against a fat tree stump. Though well out of hearing distance, he'd positioned himself to watch the merchants. He didn't really expect Enjolras to leave without him -- the man was too damned honorable for that. But experience had made him habitually mistrustful. He wasn't about to rely on the good intentions of others unless it was absolutely necessary.
The merchants didn't waste much time. While some of them were gathering wood and supplies to build a camp, the others poked through the wagons, tossing aside scraps of ashen wood in their search for something worth keeping. Enjolras rolled up his sleeves and labored right along side them. Felix stood back, not lifting a finger. The only thing moving was his mouth. It seemed the priest approved of any plan as long as the labor involved didn't come from him. The merchants didn't seem to mind that he wasn't helping; he was a priest, after all. They didn't expect him to get his hands dirty.
Several times, he caught Enjolras looking his way. He was probably waiting for Grantaire to give in and help them. Instead, Grantaire reached into his tunic pocket for a stoppered vial of Brys's best brew. He uncorked it, pausing a moment to inhale the heady aroma before taking a long swallow of the smooth whiskey. He sighed in satisfaction and put the vial back. Already he could feel the inner fire spreading through his limbs. He leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes.
"What are you doing?"
Grantaire had heard the footsteps crashing through the underbrush. He hadn't been asleep, not really. Just drowsy and content, the whiskey warm within him. He'd been thinking about Savin, imagining himself running Talley's Corner. Sydney was waiting tables, and Perry was mopping the floor. It was a pleasant dream. He ignored the approaching footsteps, not wanting to leave it.
The voice surprised him. It wasn't Enjolras, or Felix. It sounded a lot like Perry. Curious, he opened one eye.
A small boy stood before him, back lit by a camp fire that blazed like a small sun in the darkness. He was a bit shorter than Perry, and his hair was dark.
"Who are you?"
"My name's Claude. You're Grantaire. Sir Enjolras said so."
He smiled. "Well, if Sir Enjolras said so, then I guess it must be true. What do you want, kid?"
Claude shrugged. "Just wanted to say hello. My mother's busy with the cooking fire. I don't get to talk to too many strangers."
"Why don't you go talk to Sir Enjolras?"
"He's boring."
Grantaire laughed. Enjolras had worked miracles in front of these people. Yet, to a child's eyes, he was dull company. Grantaire sat up and rubbed at his eyes.
"So, what makes you think I'm not boring?"
"Don't know." Claude sat down, his legs crossed. He studied Grantaire, curious and unafraid. "The priest, Father Felix, he don't seem to like you too much."
"Maybe he has a good reason."
"My father doesn't like priests. Says they're too pushy."
"Some aren't so bad," he said, thinking of Father Bayard. Grantaire leaned closer to Claude and whispered, "Father Felix is very pushy. I'd stay away from him if I were you."
Claude nodded. "I figured I would. Sir Enjolras says you're from Savin. What's it like? I've never been there."
"No, I'm not from Savin. I just met Sir Enjolras there. It's a town like any other; more hills to climb than most. You'll like it."
Claude studied Grantaire with a puzzled frown that made him look old and serious. "Where are you from?"
Grantaire didn't like the direction this conversation was heading. Even Perry had learned not to ask him too many personal questions. His past was his own business.
"It doesn't matter where I'm from. Sir Enjolras hired me as a guide. I'm taking the lot of you to San Genevieve, and after that we'll never see each other again. That's all you need to know about me." Grantaire flashed his most dangerous glare at Claude. Knife-wielding thieves had backed down from it before, but the eight-year-old was not impressed.
"You're not very friendly. How come Sir Enjolras hired you?"
"He trusts me. I saved his life."
Claude's eyes widened. "Really? How?"
Grantaire had a gift for telling stories. He had used it to keep his mother entertained, when she'd been bedridden for so long. He couldn't resist telling about the fight in the alley, and the later ambush, to his suitably impressed audience. Claude was really impressed when he learned Grantaire had killed twelve men to save a doomed Enjolras.
Dinner was ready by the time he'd finished. The aroma of rabbit stew well seasoned with wild sage and thyme drifted over to them, a heady distraction from story telling. Grantaire spied a tall, dark-haired woman looking in their direction.
"I think your mother's looking for you."
Claude looked back and sighed with the kind of frustration only the very young can manage. He stood and looked down at Grantaire.
"My mom doesn't like me to talk to strangers. Except Sir Enjolras. Thanks for the story," he said, and scampered off to join his mother.
Telling Claude stories became a habit over the next two days. Grantaire had to wonder if he was making a mistake. He had resolved to keep his distance from the merchants, so he could dump them in San Genevieve without a shred of regret. But he found it impossible to distance himself from an eight-year-old shadow by the name of Claude. The kid followed his every move, and when they stopped to rest he would follow Grantaire to his chosen resting place and badger him for more stories.
They stopped to rest often. The merchants weren't used to traveling so far without benefit of horses and wagons. They got tired quickly, and Enjolras always gave in to their frequent pleas for rest. At this rate, it was going to take them a whole week to reach San Genevieve. Their supplies were running low, so Enjolras took their longer breaks as opportunities to hunt for game. Grantaire decided to go fishing; he thought it was something he could do alone.
He was wrong. He'd no sooner opened his pack to dig for twine and fish hooks than he found Claude looming over his shoulder. The kid's eyes were wide with curiosity, as if Grantaire might pull something magical from the leather pouch.
"What are you doing?"
There was no use trying to hide it. "I'm going fishing."
"I know how to do that. My father taught me. Can I come?"
Grantaire sighed. He just couldn't say no to the kid. But there was still hope. Claude's mother hadn't said a single word to Grantaire. He was convinced that she didn't trust him, even though she hadn't attempted to keep Claude away from him. Maybe, with a little encouragement, she would think of that.
"I don't know. You'd better ask your mother."
Claude scampered off without another word. While he was gone, Grantaire had ample time to untangle the line and hooks he would need. He was beginning to think Claude wasn't coming back. He was disappointed when the kid finally came running up to him. He beamed at Grantaire and held up both hands. One clutched a shiny fish hook, and the other held a wad of charred and tangled twine.
"Mom said I could use these. She said she'd clean the fish for us."
Grantaire wondered if the woman was trying to reward him for getting Claude out of her hair for a while. He decided he'd take her up on the offer. It was the least she could do.
Claude followed him down to the stream and happily let Grantaire choose their fishing spot. He chose a comfortable looking bank to lie against and warned Claude the fish wouldn't come if they heard them talking. After Claude dug up some worms for bait, there was nothing left to do but lie there and wait. The day was warm, and a bright sunlight filtered through the trees, where the leaves were just beginning their transformation into a canopy of gold and crimson. The stream rippled hypnotically along the rocks, and a gentle breeze carried the pungent scent of a patch of thyme growing along the stream-bank. Grantaire soon found himself dozing off.
"Working hard, I see." The nasally voice behind Grantaire jolted him awake. Opening his eyes with some reluctance, Grantaire sat up and squinted at the priest.
"What are you doing here?" Grantaire kept his voice low. Claude was already looking at them with some concern, probably afraid they would frighten away the fish.
Felix glanced at the kid, then turned back to Grantaire with a scowl. The priest had his arms folded over his soft middle in an attitude of righteous indignation.
"Enjolras and some of the others are hunting for food. You could be out helping them instead of lazing around here."
Grantaire stood and grabbed Felix from the arm. His fishing line fell into the stream and sank with barely a ripple. Ignoring it, he yanked Felix deeper into the woods, far away from the stream. He didn't want to argue with a priest in front of Claude.
"What's the meaning of this?" Felix sputtered when Grantaire finally released him. The priest stepped back and puffed out his chest, trying to look dignified. But Grantaire could tell he was afraid. The priest's small eyes darted around, as if looking for a way to escape.
"The boy and I are trying to catch some fish. What exactly are you doing here?" Grantaire mimicked the priest's self-righteous tone. Felix had carried no bucket with him to fetch water. He wasn't doing anything useful.
"I wanted to talk to you about the boy. I think you should tell him to keep his distance. You're a bad influence."
"What's wrong, Felix? Are you afraid I'll teach Claude to steal from ill-tempered priests? I wouldn't do that to him, you know. It's not worth the trouble."
Felix was shaking with anger now. "I warned Enjolras about you. I told him he should have left you in the gutter where he found you. But he won't listen. He knows you're a worthless degenerate, but he takes pity on you for it."
Grantaire was furious. He didn't need anyone's pity. He took a step closer to Felix and fixed him with a menacing glare.. He was amused by the suddenly wary look on the fat priest's face as he backed away.
"Grantaire, help me! I caught one."
Claude's shrill cry for help, muffled by the thick trees that separated them, brought Grantaire back to reality. He didn't need to be fighting with a priest; there was nothing to be gained by it. With a final glare at Felix, he ran to help the kid.
By the time they'd gotten the fish, a fair-sized salmon to land, Felix was gone. No doubt he'd run off in terror to tell Enjolras the thief had tried to kill him. Grantaire didn't care. He was oddly please by the look of pride on Claude's face as he held up his wet and wriggling prize, its scales flashing pink and silver in the sun. Dismissing angry priests and mystical knights, Grantaire and Claude went back to their fishing.
Claude captured five more fish by the time Grantaire, who'd come up empty, decided to call it quits. Enjolras wouldn't let the merchants rest forever; they needed to get back. Grantaire helped pull the last fish from Claude's hook, then turned to claim the others they'd piled along the bank.
He heard Claude's gasp of surprise before he saw them. Two screechers hunched over their fish, their long, bat-wings spread possessively over the glistening pile. Grantaire was astonished. Screechers seldom ventured out in daylight, and he had never seen them so clearly before. They were much like bats, except for their size. These were easily two feet long, not including the long tails that thrashed in the air behind them. Their glaring, almond-shaped eyes shone like amber, with flecks of green floating in their depths. The clawed hands that gripped the fish were disturbingly human. The creatures hissed, revealing rows of sharp teeth.
Pushing Claude behind him with one hand, Grantaire drew a knife with the other. The creatures shrieked, a painful sound more piercing than any whistle. Grantaire threw the knife. The screechers sprang aloft, wings flapping. Grantaire's blade sailed harmlessly into the dirt. Grantaire and Claude could only watch in dismay as the screechers took off, each one holding a fat salmon.
"Hey!" Claude protested. "Those were my fish."
Grantaire noticed the kid was trembling. He didn't blame him. Those claws looked capable of cutting up more than fish. Grantaire accepted Claude's bravado without comment. He'd been around Perry enough to know how fragile a thing was an eight-year-old's pride.
"It's a good thing you caught so many. We could afford to lose two."
Claude looked at the pile of fish. His frown was sincere, and he'd stopped shaking. "They took the biggest ones."
Grantaire chuckled and slapped him on the shoulder. "They're not stupid, I guess. Come on, let's get back to camp and give your mother these fish. Here. You can carry them."
"Really?" Claude stared up at Grantaire with wide eyes.
Grantaire chuckled. "Sure. You caught 'em."
Proudly, Claude scooped the silvery pile into the net and hefted them in his skinny arms. He held them gently, like a father with a newborn baby. "Wait till my mother sees all these fish!"
When they made it back to the camp, Claude ran off to show his mother what he had caught, dodging among his fellow travelers who were busy stoking up the fire. Grantaire smiled. He remembered what it was like to have a doting mother to be proud of every little accomplishment. The fish might be little more than a mouthful compared the game Enjolras and some of the others had brought in, but to her they would be a feast fit for a king.
Grantaire looked around. The merchants were busy cooking or spreading out bedrolls. The few who spared a glance his way quickly moved away. Their message was clear. He wasn't welcome here. It was only for Enjolras's sake that a vagabond thief was tolerated at all.
Well, he wasn't going to let it bother him. Grantaire didn't want the merchants' company any more than they wanted his. They were a job and nothing more. He found a comfortable spot as far away from the others as he could get yet close enough to the fire to benefit from its light and settled down on his blanket. Carefully, he smoothed out the scratchy wool, making sure no wet grass was poking through any holes. He opened up his leather case and took out his maps. His map of this area neglected the stream at which he and Claude had fished. A gross oversight on the original map maker's part; sources of water were one of the most important features on any map. Grantaire picked up his quill and began sketching it in. He drew carefully, double checking his measurements and making sure his hand didn't smudge the thick, black ink. He barely even looked up when one of the merchant's wives dropped off a steaming plate of stew and hurried off without saying a word.
He was still poring over his maps when the sounds of conversation and clattering dishes reached him. The others had finished eating and were now cleaning up. He looked at his bowl of stew, cold and forgotten. His stomach rumbled. With a shrug, he grabbed it and wolfed it down. It was tender and spicy, but it would have tasted better when it was hot. He put the bowl down only to have it snatched up by one of the women, who frowned at him in disapproval before taking it off to be washed.
With dinner cleaned up, the merchants gathered back around the fire. Wives leaned against their husbands' shoulders, and children snuggled into laps. The chill night air had little to do with their closeness. The fire kept them warm enough. They huddled together now to ease the pain of mourning, hands clasped, trying to hold on to the loved ones who were still left to them. Grantaire wondered how much wider their circle had been before the bandits came.
When everyone got comfortable and the children stopped squirming, all eyes turned to Jacques. He took off his hat and stood. He bowed to Enjolras and Felix, who sat beside him.
"It has long been our habit to tell stories of an evening. Sets the little ones' minds at ease and, well, after all we've been through I think we'll all sleep better for some happy tales. If our new friends don't object..."
"Of course not," said Enjolras. "Felix and I would like to hear your stories." Enjolras looked in Grantaire's direction, an unspoken invitation for him to join the gathering. Grantaire liked stories. But he was an outsider here, and not a very welcome one. There was no sense trying to act like he belonged. Ignoring Enjolras, he grabbed his bedroll and spread it onto the grass.
"Well," said Jacques, "it being my turn, I guess I'll get things started." Someone passed him a tin cup, and he took a long drink.
"This is a story most of you have heard before."
"Oh no," came a voice from the other side of the fire. "Not the one about your grand-parents again."
Some of the adults chuckled. Jacques shook his head. "No, Vincent, I'll save that for folk that appreciate a good love story. What I had in mind tonight was something a little more heroic. I think Sir Enjolras here inspired me."
Grantaire sighed. A tale inspired by Enjolras would have morals squirming through it like worms in a carcass. He'd choked down a year's worth of piety in the past few days. Maybe he should go to sleep. He lay down on his bedroll and stared up at the stars.
"I'm telling you a tale from our past," Jacques intoned, his voice spell-binding as he slipped into the role of story-teller. "It began many years ago, before the first barons came to Cambrai. A young woman named Giselle came to the town of Deluce. Her bare feet stepped on ground that would soon by brushed by snow. She clutched her arms against her chest, trembling in the chill air. Her worn shift was her only possession. She'd lost her mother the day she was born. She had no family. She had never known a home."
Grantaire closed his eyes, but Jacques' words wove an image of Giselle in his mind's eye. Grantaire had met so many like her. He could picture the eyes in her too-thin face, darting around her with a constant wariness. The Giselles of the world had seen too much abuse for the fear to ever leave them; they wore it like a cloak in place of the clothing they lacked. But it didn't keep them warm.
"Giselle came to Deluce in the middle of October, on her eighteenth birthday. She had little enough cause to celebrate. The girl had no food, no money, and no place to sleep. Giselle's birthday morning began with a prayer, the same one she spoke every year on her birthday. Thank you God, for letting me live another year. Please, let the next year bring me a little happiness."
Grantaire rolled over, trying to shut out the words. Why was Jacques telling this story? Grantaire had known so many people who had prayed for the same thing. None of them had ever gotten what they'd asked for.
"Giselle's day's were a struggle. She had no time to think of anything besides finding food and some shelter from the cold. But at night, she would dream of having a home and a family. It seemed impossible, but she never lost hope that her dreams would come true. Somewhere, somehow she would find a way to make a home for herself.
"At first, it seemed like Deluce would be a good place to start. Giselle found a job in a tavern, sweeping the floors and helping out in the kitchen. The tavern's owner paid her in two meals a day, plus some old blankets and a place to sleep in the barn. It was more comfort than she'd ever known, and Giselle would have been happy to stay there for a long, long time.
"Things didn't work out that way. Giselle's youth and beauty made the serving women jealous. They stole from the tavern owner, and hid the coins among Giselle's blankets. The girl swore she was innocent. But she was a stranger alone. No one believed her.
"The serving maids wanted to run for the constables, to have Giselle thrown in jail. Fortunately, the tavern owner had too kind a heart to send a young girl to a place that would surely be the death of her. He gave Giselle enough food and water to see her to the next town, telling her to leave Deluce and never look back.
"It was thirty miles to the nearest town, a long way for a girl to walk alone. Giselle knew what kind of men roamed the highways, and she feared what might happen to her if she walked along the road. So she walked among the trees, trying to keep the road in sight so she wouldn't get lost. It was hard going for a young girl. More than once she tripped over the roots of a tree, falling hard to the cold ground and blinking back tears. Giselle began to wonder if she would ever make it to the next town.
"Just when she was ready to give in, Giselle stumbled over something very different from a tree root. It was a young man. He was lying on his back, his eyes closed. He was bleeding from a cut on his head, and Giselle could see that his leg was broken. She was afraid of stranger, but this poor soul was too badly hurt to threaten her. Giselle used the last of her water to clean his wound. She tore the hem of her skirt to make a bandage, and she had just finished wrapping his head when the man opened his eyes.
"The man had been lying there for days, alone and in pain. Giselle seemed like an angel to him. He told her his name was Andrei. He was the youngest son of a wealthy earl. He'd been thrown from his horse when the animal had panicked, frightened by a snake. He would have died there if it hadn't been for Giselle, whose fear had made her wander so far from the road.
"Giselle found Andrei's horse and helped him to get home, where his family's physicians took care of him. Andrei's family was grateful to Giselle, and they insisted that she stay with them. Over the next few months, Andrei's health improved, but his image of Giselle didn't change -- she was still an angel to him. His happiness was complete when she agreed to be his wife. As for Giselle, she had half of her wish -- she had a family. Two years later, Andrei joined the other young noblemen who would explore the eastern land and found the kingdom of Cambrai. It was then that Giselle had the second half of her wish, when she claimed her new home as the first baroness of Cheval."
Grantaire sat up and opened his eyes. What kind of fairy tale was this? That couldn't be how things had really happened. He looked at Enjolras, expecting him to be embarrassed, or even to contradict some of Jacques' story.
Jacques bowed stiffly and sat down beside Enjolras. "Begging your pardon, my lord. A trader from your father's lands told me that story, and I never forgot it. I hope I got it right."
Enjolras smiled. "Yes, Jacques, you got it right. And you told it very well."
Grantaire leaned forward, trying to read Enjolras's expression. He was completely sincere. It was true, then. Enjolras's ancestor had married a homeless peasant. Giselle's children had gone on to rule Cheval. And now one of them would be king. Grantaire shook his head. Considering the things he could do, it was fitting that Enjolras's family tree had taken root in a miracle.
"Sir Enjolras, would you speak for us now?"
"No, Jacques. I'm afraid I'm not much of a story teller." Enjolras looked in Grantaire's direction again. Grantaire shook his head. The merchants were doing just fine on their own -- they didn't need him.
Jacques scratched at his beard. "Well, it wasn't exactly a story I was hoping for, my lord. It's just, well, I was hoping maybe you could tell us something about the new king. You know, the one the Archbishop will pick. I thought maybe, you being a baron's son and all, you might know who it was."
"I'm afraid only the Archbishop knows that."
"Well now, that's what we can't understand," said Jacques. "If His Holiness knows who the king is, why didn't he just say so already? We need a king now."
"That's right," said Claire. "I don't want to hurt your feelings, seeing who your father is, but it's because of the barons that bandits can get away with attacking people like us. All they have to do is cross into the right barony, and they're safe. They know the baron's won't work together to hunt them down. And then there's the taxes. Why, we have to pay a new tax every time we travel from one barony to another. And that's not including the taxes we pay when we sell our goods. I'm telling you -- it's hard for an honest merchant to make a living these days."
Grantaire shook his head. It wasn't just honest merchants that were having a hard time. He had shared many an alley with men who had been forced off their land for failing to pay taxes to some nobleman or other. What Claire and the others didn't seem to understand was that having a king wouldn't necessarily change that. It was the way of the world -- the poor commoners were always at the mercy of rich noblemen. What difference did it make whether a man starved under a baron or a king? The hunger pains were just as sharp. Cambrai didn't need just any king. She needed someone like Enjolras.
"I sympathize," said Enjolras. "And believe me, Claire, my father is not the only baron who would agree with you. That is why most of the barons are willing to support a new king. But the Archbishop, in some ways, is no different from the rest of us. He, too must wait upon God's will. He was shown the king's face in a vision. But he can not name that man as our king until he appears before him. That is why all the contenders for the throne have been asked to travel to the chapel in San Sebastien. It was the barons who insisted on the time limit -- they were willing to wait no longer than High Harvestime for the choosing of their ruler."
Jacques frowned. "What happens if the man doesn't show up? He might not be able to get to San Sebastien."
"That's right." Claire crossed her arms before her and glared at Enjolras. "Maybe God didn't tell the king what to do. Seems to me it would have been better for God to tell the Archbishop his name. Then he could have sent a messenger."
Grantaire could have told Claire not to worry. God had apparently told Enjolras everything he needed to know. He just hoped that Enjolras wasn't going to reveal that.
Enjolras leaned towards the belligerent woman and patted her hand. "Do not fear. The ways of God are often beyond our understanding, but we may have faith that He will provide for us. The king will be in San Sebastien in time. That I can promise you."
Grantaire had to admire the way Enjolras handled that. He had managed to reassure Claire based on what he knew without lying, yet without admitting that he would be the king. Until now, Grantaire would never have believed the knight capable of such subtlety.
Claire and the others seemed content with Enjolras's promise. They asked a few more questions about who the king might be, but Enjolras pretended ignorance and they eventually lost interest. Some of them lay down to sleep, while others gathered around to hear about Rene's cousin's wife Eloise, who had run off to Belle Isle with a horse trader.

Grantaire didn't much care about Eloise and the horse trader. He was thinking about going to sleep himself when he heard the crunching protest of dry leaves being stepped on. He looked up to see Claude's mother standing in front of him.
He guessed she'd come to thank him for taking her son fishing. He offered her a comforting smile as she stepped up before him, one hand tugging at her dark braids as if she suddenly wanted to undo them.
"You're Grantaire?" she said, the words halfway between a statement and a question. Her voice was strong and husky; not what he had expected.
"Yes." He smiled again. "You're Claude's mother."
She nodded brusquely. "Yes."
Grantaire waited for the woman to offer her name. She looked away from him as if embarrassed. Her hands left her braids and clung to the sides of her gray, woolen cloak.
"I don't know how to say this. I know Claude likes you very much." She dragged her gaze back to him. Her eyes were dark and intelligent, much like Claude's.
"But I want you to stay away from him."
Grantaire couldn't believe what he was hearing. The woman stared at him, her jaw firm. She was serious.
"Stay away from him? Why? Have I done something wrong? If you're worried about the screechers, he was in no danger. Those vermin are everywhere these days."
She shook her head. "Father Felix spoke to me. He told me you're a thief. Is that true?"
There was no room for doubt in her question. She had already made up her mind, and nothing Grantaire said would make any difference. Grantaire wanted to hate her. But he had run into this before, more times than he cared to count. It was part of the reason he'd lived in so many places even after his mother had died. He couldn't blame her -- not really. When he was Claude's age, his mother wouldn't have wanted him hanging around with the kind of man he'd become.
But it still hurt. Grantaire looked away from her, not wanting her to see it. He'd only known Claude for a few days -- the boy meant more to him than he should.
"It's true."
She was silent. Grantaire guessed she'd expected an angry denial. But sometimes there was no point in hiding the truth. These people were merchants. Maybe not wealthy ones, but compared to Grantaire they were rich beyond belief. Respect they gave only to their own kind, or to people like Enjolras. Grantaire did not belong in their world.
"I'll stay away from Claude. If that's what you want."
"It is."
Grantaire looked up, but she was already walking away. He wondered where Claude was, and what she had told him. It hurt that the kid might think badly of him. Grantaire searched the faces gathered around the fire, but he didn't see Claude anywhere. He did spot Felix, already curled in his bed-roll.
He stared at the priest, hating him. Grantaire had known a few priests in his time. Not all of them were too proud to associate with a common thief. Father Bayard had been something like a friend. Some of them understood the life a man lived wasn't necessarily the one he'd chosen for himself.

Not Felix. There wasn't a speck of understanding or compassion on his lily-white soul. He had already decided who was good and who was damned, and his judgment was final.
Grantaire saw a tall figure emerge from the group and head towards him. It was Enjolras. He probably thought Grantaire was due for a lecture.
He said nothing as the knight walked up to him. He just glared at him, irritated at being disturbed. He didn't feel like talking. If Enjolras wanted a conversation, he was going to have to start it.
"Felix told me," he said. He sat down across from Grantaire, his legs folded beneath him. Grantaire frowned suspiciously. Enjolras was getting comfortable, which meant he was in the mood for a long talk.
Grantaire wasn't. "So Felix told you. What of it?"
Enjolras regarded him impassively. His face was no more expressive than a stone, as if the knight had no thought, no human emotion. Only his eyes told another story. Grantaire refused to look at them, afraid he would find condemnation there.
"Felix had no right to say such things. I must apologize on his behalf, as he will not."
Grantaire looked up, surprised. Enjolras's eyes betrayed only regret, and perhaps some compassion. "I thought you would agree with him. That I'm a bad influence on an innocent child."
Enjolras regarded him sadly. "I do not agree. What troubles me is that you seem to share Felix's opinion."
"What are you talking about? You've lost your mind."
"Have I? Then why did you not defend yourself to Aubina? She might have listened to reason. She is a concerned mother, not an ogre. But you said nothing. Instead you stayed here to sulk. Doesn't it matter to you that no one will respect you now; that Claude will not respect you?"
Grantaire wanted to wrap his hands around the knight's throat and force some expression onto that perfect face. He stood, for once towering over Enjolras who sat there, unconcerned with any threat Grantaire might offer.
"Respect?" Grantaire spat the word like a foul insult. "What do I care about respect? It doesn't belong to people like me. It never has. It belongs to people like you. People who've never done anything in their whole damn lives that anyone could even disapprove of."
He was pacing now, the anger too much to contain without some motion. He stopped, shaking a fist at Enjolras. The knight did not react, and that only made Grantaire even more furious.
"Don't come here and preach to me about respect. You don't know anything about me. I was ten years old when I had to learn how to make it on my own. I didn't have time to worry about respect. You can't eat respect. It doesn't keep you warm when you're sleeping in the gutter. It can't save you from men who are bigger and stronger than you, who will slit your throat for the single bronze coin you've got in your pocket."
Grantaire started pacing again. He was saying too much. Enjolras didn't need to know these things about him.
"Tell me about it, then. Tell me what it was like, so I can understand."
Grantaire looked at Enjolras; he stared right into those blue eyes it was so damned impossible to lie to. No one had ever dared to ask him such a question. There were limits even to friendship; limits to how much a man should see of another man's soul.
Yet he was tempted. He stood there, looking at Enjolras, and wondered what kind of a friend this man would be. A friend who would never lie, never judge. A friend who would always be there. Grantaire shuddered at the possibility. It was such a simple concept, and a wonderful one.
He was kidding himself. He shook his head, as if to clear it from the fog of too much ale. He was a thief. Enjolras was a baron's son, for God's sake, and would soon be king. Grantaire, who'd given up seeking such companionship long ago, was a fool to look for it here.
"Forget it," he said. "I don't need your pity. In case you've forgotten, we're parting ways in San Genevieve. I don't think you have enough time to reform me from my evil ways. Why don't you just go back to preaching to your sheep?"
He made his words intentionally cruel. Yet the disappointed look on Enjolras's face brought him no pleasure. The knight stood and, without another word, walked away. Grantaire, left alone, curled into his bed roll and tried to go to sleep.

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