Guillot quickened his pace.
“Where are you going in such a hurry? You’ll exhaust your horse.”
“The nearest coaching inn. I need a drink.”
CHAPTER 11
They reached the first way station mid-morning. It was small and offered no refreshment beyond water. Gill wasn’t sure whether he felt relieved or disappointed.
“She’s following us,” dal Sason said, as they mounted their fresh horses.
“What?” Guillot said. There had been some traffic on the road—merchants with carts and wagons, travellers, alone or in small groups—and Gill hadn’t noticed.
“I said, she’s following us.”
Guillot groaned inwardly. “That’s her business. Like I told her, she’s free. She can do whatever she wants.” They had passed a number of junctions on the road, giving her plenty of opportunity to head in a different direction. If she was still behind them, Guillot couldn’t help but agree with dal Sason’s assessment.
“When are you planning on stopping?” dal Sason said.
“When I find a coaching inn.”
“The nearest one’s still a fair distance away. We’d have reached it this evening if you’d kept the proper pace. As it is, we’ll pass it this afternoon, too early to stop,” dal Sason said. “Which means another night on the roadside.”
Guillot swore. “If you don’t enjoy the hardships of travel, perhaps you should have told the Prince Bishop to piss off. I know I regret never having taken the opportunity to.”
Dal Sason didn’t respond.
“Let’s get going. We’ve fresh mounts. We should be able to drop her before sunset. She’ll be close enough to the inn to have somewhere safe to spend the night.”
They pushed on without pause for lunch, stopping only briefly at the inn to replenish their travelling provisions.
“I think we should stop,” dal Sason said when the sun hung low over the horizon behind them. “I’d like to have our firewood gathered before it gets dark.”
“Fine,” Guillot said, casting a glance over his shoulder. He couldn’t see any sign of Solène. Likely she had stopped at the inn they had passed a few hours earlier. “We’ll stop.”
They found a patch of grass higher than the level of the road, dry and hidden by some tall bushes. Guillot dealt with the horses while dal Sason went to find firewood. Guillot tethered both animals to a branch that would give them access to plenty of grass. At a sound, he turned to what he thought was dal Sason.
It was someone else. A man Guillot had never seen before.
“Good evening,” the man said.
“Good evening, yourself,” Guillot said. “This campsite is taken.”
“Now then, that’s not a friendly way to greet a weary traveller.”
“You’re not a weary traveller,” Guillot said, taking in the man’s slender, athletic build, his soldierly looking but well-worn clothes, and the sword at his waist. If this fellow wasn’t a highwayman, then Gill wasn’t a drunk. “And I’m not a friendly person.”
The man shrugged.
“I’m feeling generous,” Guillot said. “If you go now, I’ll forget I ever saw you.”
The man cocked his head and smiled.
“I’m not alone,” Guillot said. “Even if we were poor swordsmen, the odds would be against you. I assure you that we are not.”
“You’ve one friend,” the man said. “I’ve got … more. The odds are with me.”
Two additional men stepped out from the undergrowth. Guillot reached for his sword and the first man shook his head.
“Doesn’t have to go like that,” he said. “We’ll take your coin and your horses, but we’ll leave your food and your boots. I’ll never have it said I’m uncivilised.”
“It’s not going to go like that, I’m afraid,” Guillot said.
“Banneret?” the man said.
Guillot nodded.
“You lot never want to hand over what you think you can keep with your sword.”
Guillot shrugged.
The man drew and lunged in one movement, faster than Guillot had anticipated. He jumped backwards, not covering as much ground as he had hoped, and drew his sword just in time to parry the next strike. Guillot realised this was the first time since his judicial duel that he’d parried an attack made in anger. Perhaps he wasn’t as out of practise as he feared? The man nodded in approval. Such chivalry was not something Guillot expected of a common highwayman.
“Are you a banneret?” Guillot said.
The man laughed. “Of course not.”
Guillot lunged. The attempt was disappointing. He was far more familiar with the feel of a bottle in his hand than a sword, and his tip went far wide of its target, so much that it was almost charity that the highwayman chose to parry it at all.
With Guillot’s rapier swatted to the side, he was an open target, but the highwayman paused rather than exploiting it and raised an eyebrow.
“Banneret? Really?”
Guillot shrugged and the man thrust. Guillot parried with a clumsy effort that left him with no opportunity for a riposte. His sword had once felt like part of his arm—now it felt like part of a tree. The man followed up with a more determined effort, and Guillot felt a flash of fear. He had never before been in a sword fight without believing he would win. He managed to parry, but could feel the muscles in his forearm protesting at the unfamiliar use. A boy of seventeen or eighteen taking his Academy entrance exams could have beaten him.
Once, Guillot had been fêted as the finest swordsman in the world. He had won the Competition, and had the Telastrian steel sword in his hand to prove it. How could he have allowed himself to fall so low?
“We don’t have to continue with this,” the highwayman said. “Dying over a few coins and a couple of horses doesn’t make much sense in the grand scheme of things. If you continue with this, you will die. I may be a thief, but I’m not ordinarily a murderer.”
Guillot roared with rage and attacked. He prayed to whatever god would listen for an instant of the dazzling skill that had once come so easily to him. The highwayman parried once, twice. He didn’t even have to move his feet. Before he knew it, Guillot’s sword was flying through the air and his opponent’s blade was at Guillot’s throat.
“If you don’t mind me asking, is that a Telastrian blade? I’ve never actually seen one before.”
Guillot said nothing.
The man’s eyes widened. “It is! Well, ain’t that a thing. Usually I wouldn’t even think of taking something like that from a man. There’s robbing someone, and then there’s robbing someone. Still, a blade like that really doesn’t deserve to be stuck with someone like you.”
Dal Sason emerged from the trees, holding a bundle of sticks, a fourth man’s dagger held tight against his throat.
“Search their things and take the horses,” the man said as he went to collect Gill’s sword, never taking his eyes from Gill. He hefted the Telastrian blade in one hand. “I actually feel bad about this, I really do, so I’ll tell you what. I’m Captain Fernand, Estranzan by birth, infamous by life.” He doffed his hat. “If you ask around, you should be able to find me, should you ever want to get this magnificent blade back. How does that sound? I’m not so bad, am I?” Abruptly he let out a short grunt and crumpled to the ground.