The workshop looked much as Guillot remembered, more like an expensive tailor’s shop than a smith’s. It sat on a street of refined-looking shops catering to the wealthy—goldsmiths, silversmiths, gem cutters, tailors, and spirits merchants. Elaborately painted signs announced each business, and he knew a person could drain a family fortune before reaching the end of the street. Jauré’s front wall was lined with lead-camed windows of expensive, crystal-clear glass, allowing everything on the inside to be seen with almost no distortion. The front room was wood-panelled, carpeted, and filled with leather couches, while the walls were decorated with armour sketches by the master himself, mounted in gilt frames. He walked in, feeling sick to his stomach, remembering his first appointment to be fitted after being inducted to the Silver Circle. The loss was more pronounced when he revisited familiar places. He craved something to dull the pain. Wine, Ruripathian whisky, anything that would cloud his head enough to shroud the memories.
“Good afternoon, my Lord,” the young clerk said, coming to greet him. “How may I help?”
In an establishment such as that, it was always assumed the customer was a lord. Few others could afford the prices, and the wealthy burgesses had no need for armour—they were too busy making money to entertain notions of getting themselves killed for king and country. Even the Prince Bishop would notice the stomach punch to his purse a purchase at Jauré’s would bring. As cheering a thought as that was, it did little to ease Guillot’s melancholy.
“I believe you might be expecting me. My name is Guillot dal Villerauvais. I’m here for a harness.”
“Of course, my Lord. We got word that you’d be calling. The maestro has worked through the night to modify something based on the old measurements we have for you in our records. I’ll make some updates and pass them over to Maestro Jauré. He’ll further refine the plates, and then you’ll need to return this evening for a final fitting. All being well, the harness will be ready for your departure in the morning.”
The assistant pulled a measuring tape from a pocket in his apron and set about taking Guillot’s measurements. He amended the page several times, making an affirming grunt each time he did. “Not so far removed from what they were,” the clerk said. “A little less on the shoulders, a little more on the waist, but it’s not at all bad. It’s not often a gentleman can say that after more than a decade.”
“I appreciate the flattery,” Guillot said, finally breaking into a smile, “but I can see what you’re writing down.”
The clerk gave a sheepish smile. “No man is immune to the passing years, and it really is far better than we usually see. I’ll bring these measurements to Maestro Jauré, but I suspect he’ll wish to speak to you before you go. If you’d care to wait, it shouldn’t take long. Can I offer you a glass of wine?”
“Yes, please,” Guillot said, the words tumbling from his mouth before he had the chance to consider them. Although it was early, many noblemen took a glass or two of watered wine with their breakfasts. Moreover, a tipsy customer would likely spend more than originally intended. He felt his mouth water and his heart quicken. Then he thought of Jeanne’s disapproving glare and swallowed hard. “Actually, it’s a little early for me. I don’t need anything.”
The clerk gave him a nod and disappeared through a door. Guillot wondered if it was too much to hope that Jauré had something that would fit him outright. Armour was such a personal thing—particularly armour of this quality and expense—so the smiths didn’t tend to keep very much in stock, ready to have minor alterations made.
The clerk reappeared with another man, whom Guillot recognised as Maestro Jauré himself. He had aged some; his formerly grey, cropped hair was now resolutely white, but he still had the broad, defined shoulders of a man who beat metal for a living.
“Banneret of the White dal Villerauvais, I’m honoured that you’ve returned to my smithy,” the master armourer said.
“There wasn’t anywhere else I’d consider,” Guillot said. “Although I can’t help but feel bad for the trouble so hurried a piece of work must be causing you.”
Jauré smiled genially, then gave Guillot an appraising look. “Far from it—it’s rare that I find myself challenged these days and I have to admit I’m enjoying the test immensely. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised. I had something remarkably close to your needs in stock, so it’s simply been a case of reshaping in a few places. The suit was made for the Duke of Fontonoy. Indeed, he was due to collect it the day after the duel in which he was killed.”
Guillot nodded. If it had been made for a duke, the armour would be of excellent quality. It would also be ridiculously expensive.
“The suit is among the finest I’ve made. The duke’s heir doesn’t want it. He didn’t even go to the Academy.” Jauré gave a disapproving shake of his head.
“Might I see it?” If it fit, there was no way Guillot would refuse it. If he had to face a dragon, he wanted to do it wearing a suit of Jauré’s armour, even one designed for the garish tastes of a court dandy.
“This way, my Lord,” Jauré said, leading him into the back room.
The armour was the first thing Guillot saw, arranged on a wooden mannequin. It was shining steel with a dark filigree that rimmed the edges of each plate.
“Finest steel with blackened silver filigree,” Jauré said.
“The duke had particularly fine taste,” Guillot said, genuinely meaning it. He didn’t have the imagination for such things, but if he were to have a suit made for him, it would have been this one. It was far more to his taste than his previous suit, filigreed as it had been with the Silver Circle’s imagery.
“If it’s convenient, we can do a test fitting now? Between that and the measurements we’ve taken, I think it will save you a return visit this evening.”
Guillot nodded and stepped forward, lifting his arms to allow Jauré and his clerk to start putting the pieces on him. They worked with practised efficiency, but Guillot grimaced every so often when he was pinched by a plate that did not quite fit. With everything on, Guillot had to work hard to breathe. Although the armour was well balanced, it placed weight on his chest and shoulders, which were more accustomed to inactivity than burden. This had nothing to do with an ill fit or poor craftsmanship and everything to do with his prolonged idleness. Certainly only a few days of wearing the armour would change that, but that meant he needed to wear it for the whole journey if he hoped to be used to it by the time he faced the dragon. That he would be riding out to his almost certain death in discomfort was not at all a warming thought.
Jauré went around the suit, making marks on the steel with a wax pencil. He took a step back and looked the suit over for a moment before attacking once more with his pencil.
Eventually he stopped. “I think that should do it. There’s not much to be done, and considering the time constraints, I think it will work out better than could have been hoped. I will have it delivered to your inn first thing in the morning.”
Guillot had no idea what kind of tools were required for dragon-slaying, but he didn’t reckon his Competition sword was up to the job. It was perfectly suited for its intended purpose—duelling—but he wouldn’t take it onto the battlefield against armoured opponents and he certainly wouldn’t use it to attack a dragon. No, he’d bring his old family sword—Mourning—with its broader, general-purpose blade. The blade was old—very old—and might have seen use in the days when his ancestor was alleged to have been a dragonslayer. Still, he didn’t think that by itself, that sword would be enough.