“Please don’t call me that.”
“Why not?”
“Because sorcerers hurt people. I’ve read about them, and they did terrible things. I’d never do anything like that. I’d never want to be like them. I didn’t ask for what I can do, and I’d never use it to hurt someone unless they were trying to hurt me. Or my friends.”
“I apologise,” Guillot said, “but did you know you can do what you can do?”
She nodded. “Back home, I already knew I could do things—light fires, move objects around without touching them—but I was always careful. One day, I wasn’t careful enough.” Her voice grew flat. “I was worried that the parish priest might denounce me to the Intelligenciers, so I ran before he had the chance. I thought I could hide in Trelain. Compared to where I’m from, it seemed huge.”
“I don’t know if Mirabay is going to be any better for you. It’s larger by far, but there will be more Intelligenciers there. Lots more.”
“I have to try. You can’t hide in a place where there aren’t many people. In a city I can disappear. It nearly worked in Trelain. It would have, if it wasn’t for Arnoul.”
Guillot didn’t know what to say to her. He hadn’t spent much time listening to other people for a long time, at least not while sober, and he was out of practise. Like swordplay, chivalry had once come easy to him. Now it seemed completely alien. Was he obligated to do more for her than he already had?
“You seem like someone with good intentions,” he said awkwardly. “Mirabay isn’t the place for that. You’ll need to be very careful.”
“What’s it like there?”
“It’s hard to put into words. On the surface it’s beautiful; the buildings, the music, the art, the food. Underneath?” He shrugged. “There’s rot everywhere. They just dress it up better in the city.”
“Thank you for helping me,” she said. “I’ve never met anyone who would do something like you did for a complete stranger.”
Guillot blushed.
“It must have taken a lot of courage to ride into an angry crowd like that and make them hand me over. You saved my life.”
The praise made Gill feel uncomfortable. He was a drunk who had pissed his life away because things hadn’t gone his way. He thought about admitting that he had still been drunk when he’d rescued her, but couldn’t bring himself to say it. Instead, he shrugged, echoing the habit of country folk who didn’t want to respond to something. The thought of being someone’s saviour felt like a heavy burden. Would he have done it had he been sober? He liked to think so, but he honestly didn’t know. He looked at his hands. The shaking had stopped, which came as a relief—as did the fact that his craving for a drink was far less intrusive than before. He still felt off, but “off” was better than he’d felt in a long time. Nonetheless, it was long past time to change the subject.
“You’re very quiet back there, Nicholas.”
“Simply trying to complete my mission with as little aggravation as I can,” he said.
“Oh, don’t be like that,” Guillot said, refreshed by not being the most miserable person present. “It’s not so bad.”
“Dragons? If I tell anyone at home about this, they’ll have me locked up. I mean, dragons?”
Guillot didn’t miss the fact that he hadn’t commented on Solène turning out to be a mage. Was dal Sason afraid of drawing her ire?
“Wouldn’t have believed it myself until I saw one,” Guillot said. “But it was as real as any of us, and it’s only a matter of time before it starts killing people, if it hasn’t already.”
“I don’t mean anything by this,” dal Sason said, “but I couldn’t help noticing all the empty wine bottles in your house. I’ve been the worse for the bottle on more than one occasion, and I’d have sworn I saw things—”
“It was a dragon,” Guillot said, “or something that looked very like one.”
“I was there for a couple of days. I didn’t see anything that gave me to think—”
“A dragon,” Guillot said, his firm tone indicating the conversation was over.
“Always provokes a reaction, doesn’t it,” dal Sason said when they crested a hill later that morning and Mirabay finally hove into view.
The city basked in bright sunshine. It was a stunning sight—even Guillot, who had nothing but bad memories of the place, couldn’t disagree. Surrounded by high walls and towers, the city spread along the banks of the River Vosges, with its heart and ancient centre on an island that split the river in two. The buildings were mostly built of a creamy white local stone, capped with grey-blue slates. He spotted familiar landmarks—the old castle and the cathedral on the island, the palace on the hill on the south bank, overlooking the river. His gaze lingered there a little longer, his memory drawn to the duel in the great gallery that had won him his life and freedom, but had guaranteed his disgrace. He felt bile rise in his throat.
“I don’t think it’s provoked quite the reaction that you mean,” Guillot said as the sight of the place filled him with contempt, and worse: fear. “No point sitting here gawping.” He urged his horse on. “I assume the Prince Bishop will have accommodations prepared for us?”
“That was left to my discretion,” dal Sason said. “I’m not sure he actually expected me to succeed in bringing you back to the city.”
“Excellent. We’ll need two rooms at Bauchard’s, then.” Guillot watched carefully for dal Sason’s reaction, but there was none. “Three, if you need somewhere to stay. The private dining room reserved for us every night we’re there.” Still no reaction. “And Solène can’t go around the city dressed like she is. We’ll need a seamstress to attend her. She needs at least three new sets of clothes. Day and evening wear, and at least one set of travelling clothes, I should think.” Still nothing. Guillot floundered for a more extravagant demand, but couldn’t think of anything. He wondered how much latitude the Prince Bishop had given dal Sason; how badly he wanted Guillot to come to the city?
Guillot waited for an answer, but none was forthcoming. “Am I to assume by your silence that the Prince Bishop will pay for this?”
“I don’t foresee a problem,” dal Sason said.
“Excellent,” Guillot said, regretting more intensely than ever his decision to stop drinking.
Bauchard’s had been the most expensive inn in Mirabay when Guillot lived in the city, and it had not lost any of its lustre. The rooms were opulent, the beds were luxurious, the food was sublime, and the bill always enormous. That it would be satisfied from the Prince Bishop’s funds made the experience even more enjoyable.
The very best Mirabayan wines were on offer at Bauchard’s, as well as those from places farther afield, the famed Blackwater vintages from Ostia among them. It strained Guillot’s willpower to its greatest extent to ignore them. With a seemingly limitless line of credit, one he desired to abuse as much as possible, the temptations were hard to resist, but he had made a promise to himself. To the people who relied on him.
Something about his return to Mirabay felt like a homecoming. As he sat on one of the luxurious couches in Bauchard’s lounge, he could, at times, forget all that had happened. He could recall a nervous afternoon sitting in that very room, waiting for Auroré to arrive for their first date. Their marriage dinner had been held in the inn’s dining room. His stomach twisted with a mixture of grief and shame, and he wondered what he had been thinking, choosing Bauchard’s for their stay. Of all the places in Mirabay, this should have been the one he most wanted to avoid. Why had he been fool enough to come back here? Had he really thought the past would stay where it belonged?