Only that could explain the size of the horse-market that was raging all around him when Jack climbed out of the hay-wain. It was as crowded with horses as the streets of Paris were with people-the only exceptions being a few roped-off areas where the merchandise could prance around and be judged and graded by the buyers. Every horse that Jack saw, he would’ve remembered as the finest horse he’d ever seen, if he’d encountered it on a road in England or Germany. Here, not only were such horses common, but they were meticulously groomed and brushed almost to the point of being polished, their manes and tails coiffed, and they’d been taught to do tricks. There were horses meant to be saddled, horses in matched sets of two and four and even six, for drawing coaches, and-in one corner-chargers: war-horses for parading beneath the eyes of the King on the Champ de Mars. Jack went thataway and had a look. He did not see a single mount there that he would’ve traded Turk for, if he were about to ride into battle. But these were in excellent condition and well shod and groomed compared to Turk, who had been languishing in a livery stable for weeks, with only the occasional walk round the stable-yard for exercise.

Jack knew how to fix that. But before he left the Place Royale, he raised his sights for a few minutes, and spent a while looking at the buildings that rose over the park-trying to learn something about his customers-to-be.

Unlike most of Paris, these were brick, which warmed Jack’s heart strangely, reminding him of Merry England. The four great buildings rising over the gates at the cardinal points of the compass had enormous steep rooves, two and three stories high, with balconies and lace-curtained dormers, currently all shut up against the cold-but Jack could well imagine how a wealthy horse-fancier would have his Paris pied-a-terre here, so that he could keep an eye on the market by gazing out his windows.

In one of the great squares hereabouts-Jack had lost track of all of them-he’d seen a statue of King Looie riding off to war, with blank spaces on the pedestal to chisel the names of victories he hadn’t won yet, and of countries he hadn’t captured. Some buildings, likewise, had empty niches: waiting (as everyone in Paris must understand) to receive the statues of the generals who would win those victories for him. Jack needed to find a man whose ambition was to stand forever in one of those niches, and he needed to convince him that he was more likely to win battles with Turk, or Turk’s offspring, between his legs. But first he needed to get Turk in some kind of decent physical condition, and that meant riding him.

He was on his way out of the Place Royale, walking under the gate on its south side, when behind him a commotion broke out. The hiss of iron wheel-rims grinding over paving-stones, the crisp footfalls of horses moving in unnatural unison, the shouts of footmen and of bystanders, warning all to make way. Jack was still getting about with the crutch (he daren’t let the sword out of his sight, and couldn’t bear it openly). So when he didn’t move fast enough, a burly servant in powder-blue livery crushed him out of the way and sent him tumbling across the pavement so that his “good” leg plunged knee-deep in a gutter filled with stagnating shit.

Jack looked up and saw the Four Horses of the Apocalypse bearing down on him-or so he imagined for a moment, because it seemed that they all had glowing red eyes. But as they went past, this vision cleared from his mind, and he decided that their eyes, actually, had been pink. Four horses, all white as clouds, save for pink eyes and mottled hooves, harnessed in white leather, pulling a rare coach, sculpted and painted to look like a white sea-shell riding a frothy wave over the blue ocean, all encrusted with garlands and laurels, cherubs and mermaids, in gold.

Those horses put him in mind of Eliza’s story; for she had been swapped for one such, back in Algiers.

Jack proceeded crosstown to Les Halles where the fishwives-pretending to be dismayed by the shit on his leg-flung fish-heads at him while shouting some sort of pun on par fume.

Jack inquired whether it ever happened that some rich man’s servant would come around specifically to purchase rotten fish for his master.

It was clear, from the looks on their faces, that he had struck deep with this question-but then, looking him up and down, one of them made a certain guttural jeering noise, and then the fishwives all sneered and told him to hobble back to Les Invalides with his ridiculous questions. “I am not a veteran-what idiot goes out and fights battles for rich men?” Jack answered.

They liked that, but were in a cautious mood. “What are you then?” “Passe-volante!” “Vagabond!”

Jack decided to try what the Doctor would call an experiment: “Not any Vagabond,” Jack said, “here stands Half-Cocked Jack.”

“L’Emmerdeur!”gasped a younger, and not quite so gorgon-like, fishwife, almost before he’d gotten it out of his mouth.

There was a moment of radical silence. But then the guttural noise again. “You are the fourth Vagabond to make that claim in the last month-”

“And the least convincing-”

“ L’Emmerdeuris a King among Vagabonds. Seven feet tall.”

“Goes armed all the time, like a Gentleman.”

“Carries a jeweled scimitar he tore from the hands of the Grand Turk himself-”

“Has magic spells to burn witches and confound Bishops.”

“He’s not a broken-down cripple with one leg withered and the other dipped in merde!”

Jack kicked off his fouled pants, and then his drawers, revealing his Credential. Then, to prove he wasn’t really a cripple, he flung the crutch down, and began to dance a bare-assed jig. The fishwives could not decide between swooning and rioting. When they recovered their self-possession, they began to fling handfuls of blackened copper deniers at him. This attracted beggars and street-musicians, and one of the latter began to play accompanying music on a cornemuse whilst shuffling around racking the worthless coins into a little pile with his feet, and kicking the beggars in the head as necessary.

Having now verified his identity by personal inspection, each of the fishwives had to prance out, shedding glitt’ry showers of fish-scales from their flouncing, gut-stained skirts, and dance with Jack-who had no patience for this, but did take advantage of it to whisper into any ear that came close enough, that if he ever had any money, he’d give some of it to whomever could tell him the name of the noble personage who liked to eat rotten fish. But before he could say it more than two or three times, he had to grab his drawers and run away, because a commotion at the other end of Les Halles told him that the Lieutenant of Police was on his way to make a show of force, and to extract whatever bribes, sexual favors, and/or free oysters he could get from the fishwives in exchange for turning a blind eye to this unforgivable brouhaha.

From there Jack proceeded to the livery stable, got Turk, and also rented two other horses. He rode to the House of the Golden Frigate on Rue Vivienne, and let it be known that he was on his way down to Lyons-any messages?

This made Signor Cozzi very pleased. His place was crowded today with tense Italians scribbling down messages and bills of exchange, and porters hauling what looked like money-boxes down from the attic and up from the cellar, and there was a sparse crowd of street-messengers and competing bankers in the street outside, exchanging speculations as to what was going on in there-what did Cozzi know that no one else did? Or was it just a bluff?

Signor Cozzi scrawled something on a scrap of paper and did not bother to seal it. He came up and lunged for Jack’s hand, because Jack was not reaching out fast enough, and shoved the message into his palm, saying, “To Lyons! I don’t care how many horses you kill getting there. What are you waiting for?”