“It’s a shame the Order isn’t able to aid us in our time of greatest need. That’s what they’re for, aren’t they?”
“Indeed, Highness,” Amaury said.
“Are we wasting time and resources on them?”
“Far from it,” Amaury said, “but to send the Spurriers out now would be to waste their potential. My next order of business is to work out a targeted training plan, so they can deal with this threat in the event that dal Villerauvais isn’t up to the task. In a few weeks, I expect they’ll be better able to tackle the dragon, if it hasn’t already been dealt with.”
The king steepled his fingers beneath his nose again, as he had a habit of doing when he wished to appear wiser than his years, or his ability. The gesture was quickly coming to irritate Amaury.
“I want our people to have whatever it is he has. Before we send him off. If words were said that might have effect, I want to know what they are. They might even carry more weight when said by one of the Order’s mages, even if they made no difference for dal Villerauvais and his lot. Still, I’m not convinced the initiation to the Silver Circle was anything more than a drunken debauch.”
“Be that as it may, it’s prudent to investigate all avenu—”
“Yes, I agree,” the king said. “Now, I’ve a great deal of work to do. Please see to what we’ve discussed as expeditiously as possible.”
Amaury bit his lip, bowed his head, and left. He glanced out a window as he exited the antechamber under the gaze of the ever-vigilant guards. It was dark out, and he was tired. It was late to arrange a meeting with the new arrivals, though ordinarily that would not have bothered him. However, he wanted to be at his best when he encountered Gill again, and he needed a good night’s sleep for that.
CHAPTER 14
Dal Sason was waiting for Gill when he went down to the dining room for breakfast the next morning.
“The Prince Bishop is ready to see us at our earliest convenience,” dal Sason said, making no effort at a greeting.
“I thought it was the king I came all this way to see?” Guillot said, sniping at dal Sason to exorcise the bad mood he seemed to wake up in each morning since going sober.
“It is, but the Prince Bishop would like to speak with you first.”
“I wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.” Gill waved to a waiter. “I’ll start with fruit and yoghurt, followed by a full cooked breakfast with toast and preserves. Orange juice to wash it down. Then, I think pastries. Just bring me a selection. And coffee of course—strong, with hot milk.” That should take a while to get through, he thought. Then, remembering the Prince Bishop was footing the bill, he added, “And the same for my friends.”
Dal Sason settled into his chair with a resigned look on his face. Gill was disappointed—his tactic had probably been expected. Realising you were predictable always came as a letdown. He also felt a little guilty—dal Sason was, after all, only a servant of the Crown, following orders, much as Guillot had once been. The fact that the Prince Bishop had stuck his beak into the mix wasn’t the young banneret’s fault. Gill’s conscience threatened to get the better of him, and he was on the verge of cancelling the pastry course until he saw a plate of them being brought to a nearby table; gluttony beat conscience back into the hole where it belonged.
Solène joined them as the fruit arrived, showing all the benefits of a good night’s sleep—and many miles distance from the angry mob that had wanted to burn her alive.
“I expect you’ll have a busy day ahead,” Guillot said as she sat. “I think I’ll be needing some new duds myself, so be sure to ask the seamstress if she can recommend a good tailor.”
“That will have to wait,” dal Sason said. “His Grace wishes to meet Solène too.”
Her eyes widened. “Why?”
Her quavering voice betrayed the fear her blank expression was doing its best to conceal. Guillot’s mood darkened further.
“What did you tell him?” he asked, anger in his voice. He was damned if he had saved her from the pyre only to deliver her to the Prince Bishop’s warped sense of justice.
Dal Sason raised his hands defensively. “It’s nothing like that. I’m given to understand he takes a keen interest in her … unique talents. He merely wishes to speak with her.”
Guillot narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean by that?”
“I really can’t say any more. He will explain when you see him.”
“Does she have your word as a banneret and a gentleman that she will not be harmed, and will be free to leave of her own accord whenever she wishes?”
“I can give you my word on that.” He faced Solène. “You have my word, as a Banneret of the White, and as a gentleman and seigneur of Mirabaya.”
“And the Prince Bishop doesn’t mean me any harm?” she said.
“I have no reason to believe that to be the case. In fact, quite the contrary.”
Guillot nodded slowly. “All things considered, I don’t think you can expect any better than that. The only alternative is to get up from the table and leave the city this instant.”
She shook her head. “No, I’m tired of running, and I’m curious to see what such a powerful man might want of me,” she said, her voice firmer than before. “If Nicholas says the Prince Bishop’s intentions are good, I’m willing to see what the man has to say.”
Guillot popped a piece of grapefruit into his mouth and mulled her decision as he chewed. He supposed that if things went sour, she could always turn Amaury into a pig—he’d pay money to see that. He realised curiosity had overcome gluttony, and after one last, longing look at the pastries on the next table, he turned to dal Sason.
“The suspense is likely to kill me, so I suppose we should be on our way.”
The palace of Mirabay was a marvel in white stone: a collection of graceful, colonnaded walls amidst the lush green surrounds of a craggy hill at the edge of the city. The guards recognised dal Sason and waved them through the main gate. It had been like that for Guillot once, but these men didn’t seem to have the first idea who he was or had been. Perhaps that was for the best. Some people had been sympathetic to his plight, as dal Sason had said, but others were only too delighted to attack at the first scent of blood, the Prince Bishop leading the way.
The interior of the palace was just as impressive as its façade. The king’s grandfather had commissioned the great Pierro Lupini, the Auracian artist, to paint the walls and barrel-vaulted roof of the entrance hall with scenes from the histories of the Chevaliers of the Silver Circle. It was heroic pose after heroic pose as Guillot walked into the palace. The paintings had once impressed him, but no longer. He wondered if any of the events they depicted had actually happened. He noted with irony that a frieze representing his generation, one full of drinking, gambling, and whoring, was absent. At least that one he could have guaranteed as being accurate.
Near the end of the passageway, he stopped, his attention grabbed by a painting: a lone horseman, bow in hand, chasing a huge dragon. Guillot tried to remember the story it depicted—Andalon and the Wyrm, he thought. He supposedly shot the beast from the sky, but it seemed like a ridiculous notion, so great a thing felled by a tiny arrow.
“Are you coming?” Dal Sason had gone on several paces before realising Guillot had stopped.