Content warning: Slurs are exchanged without censorship.
Phoebus halted Achilles and signaled the two individuals following him to stop as well. The teenage boys looked up glumly at where they had stopped and pouted. They were in front of a vandalized building near the edge of town. Trash and debris lay scattered about. Graffiti covered the side of the building.
"Alright, boys, we're here," Phoebus said, dismounting and gesturing for the teens to follow him. "Your community service starts now." He produced a bucket and cleaning supplies and tossed them at the kids.
"Do we have to clean all of this up by ourselves?" one of the boys protested. "It's not just our mess!"
"Of course not," Phoebus assured him. "You'll have plenty of help, which should be arriving...mmm, now."
He pointed toward the alley just as three figures appeared.
"I see your timing has improved, mon capitain," the leading figure called, stepping out of the alley with two Romani teenagers in tow.
"Been taking lessons from Esme," Phoebus said with a grin. "Hope your two hooligans didn't give you any trouble, Clo."
"What trouble could they give me when I have them right where I want them?" Clopin replied, keeping his grip on each boy's ear tight. The teens' teeth were clenched against the pain, but they stayed silent.
"Not them!" one of Phoebus' charges whined.
"Hey, they helped you make this mess, so you're going to work together to clean it," Phoebus said sternly. He produced a paper from the pouch at his hip. "I have the court order right here. Community service as restitution for the fight you started here that caused all this property damage. And you're expected not to kill each other while you work."
Clopin released the two boys he held and shoved them forward. "I promised you public humiliation for your little stunt, didn't I? Well, here it is! Pick up a rag, boys."
The boys grunted and strode forward to grab a rag and a brush.
"The well is a hundred yards to the east," Phoebus said.
"Where's our bucket?" one of the Romani boys asked.
"You'll share the bucket you have between you," Phoebus said.
"We have to use water out of the same bucket as them?!" one of the French boys shouted. "They're the ones who started the fight anyway!"
"Are not!" the other Romani boy shouted back.
Clopin placed himself between the teens before the shouting match could escalate. "Children! Think of it this way; you can clean together, or you can do time in the stocks together."
The teens begrudgingly accepted their punishment. But one French boy had to get in a last jab. He glared at his opposite number.
"We'd better not get any of your Gypsy filth all over us!"
Phoebus was so glad he had picked up the lighting reflexes that came with parenting a young boy like Zephyr. Had he moved just an instant slower, no fewer than three Roma would've had the other teen delinquents laid out flat in a heartbeat.
"Clopin!"
Clopin halted and turned his head toward Phoebus, still clutching the little gadjo punk by the cowl. (When had he even grabbed the boy?) Somehow Phoebus was holding back both the Romani teenagers and keeping a tight hand on Clopin's shoulder.
"We have an example to set, remember?" Phoebus said.
Clopin turned to look back at the boy he held by the shirt. The kid looked terrified, like he was afraid he was about to be eaten or something. Clopin forcefully let go, keeping his glare on the teen, who stumbled back as far from the irate Rom as he was allowed.
"See, that's why we can't work with those gadjes!" one of the Romani boys said. "They just wanna start a fight again!"
"This is exactly why you're expected to work together," Phoebus said. "You know what'll happen if King Charles decides this peace isn't worth keeping. Look at the collateral damage you boys caused with your own street brawl! Can you imagine what shape Paris would be in if the king sent all his troops in? And what about innocent people, forced from their homes for looking different or for simply being in the way? Is that fair? Is it right?"
Suddenly all four boys became fascinated by their shoes. "No," they all mumbled.
"Yeah, I didn't think so either. Get to work. We'll supervise. No name calling, and figure out amongst yourselves what system of dividing or sharing tasks works for you. I don't wanna get drill sergeant nasty if I don't have to. Clopin does, but me, not so much."
Phoebus sent a friendly smirk in Clopin's direction. Clopin just stood there, arms crossed.
The Romani boys turned their pleading gazes back on their own king. "Do we really have to work with these guys, Clopin?" one of them whined.
"In perfect harmony and synchronization," Clopin said with a nod. "I don't want any of this reflecting on our people. If it comes back to bite us, rest assured I will not hesitate to throw both of you under the wagon. Literally."
That settled that. The four teens turned to their work, trying to keep their arguments about who should do what from turning into another all-out shouting match.
Phoebus sidled up next to Clopin and said in a low voice, "That was close, you know. What happened there?"
Clopin ground his teeth. "Just trying to keep my temper in check, that's all."
"They're just kids, Clo. They're gonna do and say idiotic things."
"Things they learned from their parents as being 'acceptable' to say."
Phoebus sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "We both knew this was gonna be an uphill battle. But we can't take it out on kids. Not like that. Not when they're not actually responsible, and not disproportionately."
"Well, then give me the adults responsible to string up!"
"You can string up racists all day, and it's just gonna be treating a symptom. The disease marches merrily on. That's why we have to lead by example."
Clopin rolled his eyes, then sighed. "I've got a shorter fuse these days," he confessed. "Don't know why."
"Well, with the pope coming, and Zephyr's birthday the day before that, and the fact that you agreed—practically begged, really—to handle the party, you're probably over-stressing yourself."
"No, it's more than just that," Clopin replied with a shake of his head. "There's something else. A sort of...premonition, maybe. Something has kept me tense and on edge lately. Like something's coming that won't be pleasant for any of us. Least of all me."
"Been pulling the ol' crystal ball out of storage and sneaking a look?" Phoebus teased.
Clopin raised an eyebrow at him. "Hilarious. Don't give up your day job."
"Gotta be the stress that's getting to you," the captain insisted. "Once the papal visit is over, take some time off. Head down to Nice and visit the Riviera. It'll make you feel a lot better. Every king needs a vacation."
Clopin was about to respond to that when he heard someone calling his name. He turned to see one of his lieutenants running up, out of breath.
"Clopin! There's been a report. Sarousch the Slaver is back! He's right outside Paris!"
"Slaver?!" Phoebus repeated, alarmed.
Clopin's eyes went wide. He immediately started issuing orders. "Xavier, return to the Court and put everyone on lockdown! Phoebus, take your delinquents home! Boys, come!"
The urgency in the Gypsy King's voice set all four teenagers scrambling. The two Romani boys dashed over to Clopin, while the two French boys sought refuge beside Achilles, who tossed his head and flicked his ears, fully alert for whatever had startled the two-leggeds.
"Go with Xavier," Clopin instructed his teens, who immediately obeyed.
"What's going on, Clopin?" one of the teens asked.
"Nothing for you to worry about," Clopin answered sharply. "I have...something I need to deal with. Xavier, which direction is Sarousch coming from?"
"East," Xavier answered. "Toward the old graveyard."
Clopin nodded. "He's heading for our old stomping grounds. Well, that's where I'll meet him."
"I'll send backup."
"Thank you."
Clopin set out, but Phoebus grabbed him first.
"What's going on?" the captain demanded. "Who is this Sarousch the Slaver?"
"An old...acquaintance," Clopin answered carefully. "He was excommunicated for threatening treason. He's been building himself one nasty reputation ever since. He's the reason for a lot of those awful stereotypes about us."
"And you're going to meet him alone?"
"Oh, I won't be alone. Help is on the way. You just worry about getting those kids home to their racist parents and make sure they don't look remotely slave-worthy."
Clopin could hear one of the teens gulp behind Phoebus. The boy was right to be scared.
"And keep Zephyr inside," Clopin added. "He'd be a great prize for Sarousch."
Phoebus could feel the hairs on his neck standing at attention. He nodded. "Guess there's something to those premonitions after all."
"Hmm," was all Clopin said before turning in the direction of the old graveyard that had once marked the entrance to the Court of Miracles.
Phoebus mounted Achilles and turned to his charges. "Come on, boys, let's get you home."
"Don't gotta tell us twice, sir," one of the boys said, jogging ahead.
Phoebus and the other boy swiftly followed.
Cirque du Sarousch had arrived on the outskirts of Paris. Sarousch looked around with disdain at the gravestones and broken crypts. "Abandoned," he mused aloud. "But they're still around. I would've heard if they'd left the city altogether. Especially someone of Clopin's ego, and I certainly would've heard if he were dead." He turned to two of his minions. "Alright, get digging. Bury it here, next to this crypt. He'll know where to look. The rest of you, get ready for this afternoon's show!" He gave a theatrical little clap. "Hop to it! We've an audience to impress, and I want us to hit that square running!"
Sarousch turned his attention to his own wagon, rapping on the wooden frame. "Madellaine, my little flower, are you ready for your very important role?"
He heard an annoyed sigh from within. "Yes, I'm ready to stand there and look pretty. Are you sure I can't do something else for a change?"
"You'll do exactly what I tell you to do, just as you always have," Sarousch answered firmly. "You know it's what's best for you."
"Yes, sir," came the defeated response.
"That's better. Now, as soon as we arrive in the city center, we will start with my magic act. Just a taste, remember. I want to leave audiences salivating for our big show tomorrow."
"I'll be ready."
Satisfied, Sarousch returned to his seat and waved the caravan onward. They turned north toward the nearest Seine crossing, headed straight for Notre Dame.
