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“Nobody is to go out at night,” Guillot said. “Not until we’ve dealt with it. I’m going to go for help in person. The king wants a favour of me, according to the fellow just arrived in town. Perhaps he’ll do me one in return.”

“Banneret of the White Nicholas dal Sason,” René said.

Guillot nodded. “You know him?”

“We’ve met. He’s staying at Jeanne’s.”

“Indeed,” Guillot said. “I’ll go to Mirabay with him and bring back soldiers.”

“Why don’t we just send to the duke in Trelain?” René said. “Mirabay is a far longer journey.”

“The Duke of Trelain is a drunken degenerate,” Guillot said, then blushed, realising that the men at the table could think much the same of him. “He spends most of the year at court in Mirabay anyway. I’d have to go there to speak with him. If I’m going that far, I might as well speak with the king. We’ll need everything he can give us. I saw it with my own eyes. You were right, Philipe. It’s a dragon. A huge black dragon. Believe me, we’ll need more help than the Duke of Trelain can provide.”

René started to shake his head in disbelief. In Guillot’s opinion, the man’s years away studying winemaking and viticulture left him thinking he was a little smarter than everyone else, Guillot included. He looked at Philipe, who refused to meet Guillot’s eyes, probably embarrassed that the only man who believed him was the town drunk.

“Tell them what you saw, Philipe.”

Philipe hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “It’s true, Mayor. I saw it too. With my own eyes. A great black beast with wicked claws and enormous wings. You know I’m not a man to exaggerate. I saw what he says. Gill’s not making it up.”

René nodded, but slowly, clearly not convinced, and Guillot felt his anger build. Any lord worth his name would have a vassal flogged for such contempt. That wasn’t his way, however, and in that moment he realised his anger was directed at himself. He had allowed this situation to come to pass. If they respected him, there would have been no pause for consideration. He was the only one to blame for that.

“You’ll need to leave at first light,” René said. “Who knows when this beast will decide it prefers the taste of human flesh to cattle and sheep. If it is as you say, we need help, and we need it soon.”

“At first light,” Gill said. “I’ll need travelling provisions,” he added, trying to take some of the initiative back from René. He considered putting down his cup of wine to punctuate his statement, but the desire to drink it first was too great. He drained the cup, then set it down with a thud. “At first light,” he repeated, wiping his mouth as he left.

Dal Sason was eating breakfast when Guillot walked into the tavern the next morning. He had not been up this early in some time and he felt out of place.

“Good morning,” dal Sason said. “Would you care to break your fast with me? As you said, the food here is excellent.”

Guillot hadn’t slept much, and the early start had done nothing to improve his mood. “I’m going to Mirabay with you,” Guillot said, the words sticking in his craw.

“That’s very good news,” dal Sason said. “Mayor René mentioned as much to me this morning. Do you mind me asking what changed your mind? I’ve heard whispers of some livestock killings. Is that it?”

“I don’t think you and yours are behind it anymore, but I’m not convinced you don’t know exactly what’s going on. Even if you don’t, I reckon your master does.”

“I’ll need a few minutes to pack,” dal Sason said.

“Be quick. I don’t intend to wait for you. Meet me outside my house.”

Dal Sason nodded, stood, and headed for the back room, leaving his food unfinished.

“I’ve travelling provisions for you,” Jeanne said. “René told me to tell you that he sent Jacques to bring your horse down from the manor.”

Guillot nodded his thanks and took the bag of supplies she handed over. He had determined not to take another drink until after he got back from Mirabay, so didn’t check to see if she’d given him a bottle—and he could tell she was watching to see if he did. Not drinking was an easy resolution to make first thing in the morning, if his rising time could be called that. He would have to see how easy it was to stick to as the day progressed. He didn’t want anyone in Mirabay—particularly the Prince Bishop—to see what he had allowed himself to become. He was nervous about returning to court after all these years. He had left a failed disgrace, and it shamed him to think he was going back even worse.

The first things to pop into his mind were foolish, superficial concerns. Would his good clothes be moth-eaten? Would they still be fashionable? He cut himself off at that thought, almost laughing at himself, realising how glad he was that he no longer made his life at the capital.

At his house, Jacques waited for him with a saddled horse. He glanced up at the sun, which had risen higher than he’d hoped. The day was getting away from him, and they needed to get going soon if they were to make it to Trelain before nightfall. Gill gave Jacques a nod of thanks and a penny, unfastened the saddlebags, which he threw over his shoulder, then went inside. He went to his bedroom and cleared the empty wine bottles from the top of his trunk before opening it; he was pleased to see the clothes within had not been reduced to dust. A quick inspection proved he would not shame himself in them, so he threw them into the saddlebags along with Jeanne’s provisions and returned downstairs.

Next, weapons. A duelling rapier was most suited for the city, so he strapped on its sheath and belt—relieved that it fit—and slid the sword home. Just then, dal Sason appeared at the door.

“Can I help with anything?” the younger man said.

“No. Almost ready.”

Dal Sason studied the only painting on the wall, of a young woman with gently curling chestnut hair. “I was told your wife was a great beauty, and now I see that she was. I’m very sorry for your loss. It’s always a tragedy when the gods choose to take someone so young.”

Guillot almost said something, then thought better of it, then felt churlish. Dal Sason was only following his orders. Guillot’s grievance was not with him. “Thank you,” he said. He patted the coin purse on his belt to confirm it was still there, then looked around to check for anything he had forgotten. There was nothing. “I’m ready to go.”

  CHAPTER 8

Solène slid the wooden peel into the stone oven and pulled it out in a fast, practised movement, leaving the loaves of raw dough inside. The heat of the oven’s fire warmed her face but made her tired eyes water. Ignoring the sting, she fixed her gaze on the loaves, sitting deep in the oven’s red glow. A focussed thought was all it needed to ensure each loaf baked perfectly—crusty on the outside; light, fluffy, and delicious inside. More importantly, that would guarantee a repeat customer and ensure the queue outside the bakery door every morning continued to grow.

Still, she was ambivalent about using magic. Even calling it magic seemed silly, but it was hard to argue that it could be anything else. Part of her wanted to turn her back on it entirely, while part of her thought she might as well take some advantage of the talents that had brought so much trouble to her life.

At times, when she felt tired and alone, she wondered if they might be able to find her because of it. Every so often she would see one of them, the black-cloaked spectres—Intelligenciers—moving about the town as though they had some great, important business to attend to. Trelain wasn’t big enough to warrant their permanent presence, which was why she chose it, but as she had quickly learned, they made it their business to be everywhere and unpredictable. Caution was her only shield, a tricky thing when she had only the most basic understanding of her gift and affliction. She had fled from her home as soon as the villagers had discovered what she could do, hoping her disappearance would be enough—that they would forget her rather than report her to the Intelligenciers. Bastelle was a small village, far from everywhere. Few there thought much beyond the pastures surrounding the village and it was the sort of place where a person lived and died within a few paces of where they were born.