He would need weapons that could be used at greater distance. He feared that if he was close enough to use his sword, he might already be halfway down the beast’s gullet. He had no great skill with a bow, so that seemed pointless—hopefully one of Leverre’s people would be able to fill that need, either with a real bow or some sort of magical one. If Solène could knock men out without laying a hand on them, perhaps someone from the Prince Bishop’s order would be able to knock the dragon out of the sky, leaving Guillot with the job of finishing it off.
That seemed too much to hope for, however, and he didn’t want to turn up at the dragon’s lair wishing he had something he hadn’t thought to bring. In the past, he had encountered few problems that lance or sword couldn’t put right, but the most important element was not the weapon, but rather the arm wielding it. Unless he practised and regained some of his ability, he would be a lamb to the slaughter. How to do that without revealing that he was a burnt-out old hacker was going to be tricky.
As he walked away from Jauré’s, he considered what he would need in a lance. It would have to be modified from the type used against a horseman. Something more akin to a belek spear might fit the bill. The work would be easy enough, and wouldn’t take long, and he knew of a pole turner who made tournament lances. The weapon would need to be long enough to keep him out of reach of claws and teeth, stiff enough that he could drive it home true, and barbed to make sure it caused the maximum amount of damage. That he was walking along contemplating how best to kill a dragon continued to amaze him.
CHAPTER 18
The air felt crisp the next morning when Guillot got up, the heat of the day having yet to fill it with all the smells of the city. The sky was pale blue and the sun was only moments from breaking the horizon when he looked out of his bedroom window. There was time for a good breakfast, and then they would leave. To slay a dragon. He shook his head, allowing himself a smile. Still such a ridiculous notion, one that brought amusement rather than fear. He knew that would change, however, and sooner than he might like.
When he got downstairs, Jauré and an assistant were waiting to greet him. It didn’t look like either of them had slept, suggesting that the armourer’s declaration that only a few changes needed to be made had been something of an understatement. Guillot would have felt guilty were it not for the amount Jauré was likely to charge.
“My Lord dal Villerauvais,” Jauré said. “Your harness is ready. I’d like to check the fit. We’ve arranged for the use of a room here.”
“Please do,” Guillot said, following Jauré and his assistant into a private coffee room.
Jauré and his assistant unwrapped their greased-paper parcels, carefully placing the pieces of the armour on the large coffee table—not out of fear of scratching the table, but rather of marring the mirror finish on the highly polished metal. Such care seemed a daft thing to Guillot, considering the plate would have three hells bashed out of it if used for its intended purpose. He supposed few who purchased armour from Jauré’s wore it for anything other than ceremonial purposes. That did not change the fact that it was the best, and that in Jauré’s steel he was more likely to survive his mission.
“Before I start,” Jauré said, “I want to say how much I admire your bravery, and what an honour it is that you have chosen me to make your harness. These are terrifying, unimaginable days, and every Mirabayan is lucky to have a man like you to protect us.”
Guillot looked at him, puzzled, then spotted the morning’s news sheet, left on the coffee table for guests to read. The headline said everything he needed to know. Word of the dragon had reached the city, and it had been announced that he was going to kill it. Gill felt sick. That news could only have come from one place. What could Amaury hope to gain from letting it out?
Jauré’s assistant, clearly an expert in dressing an armoured man, manhandled Guillot into a more receptive pose, then got to work. The cuisses went on first, overlapping horizontal plates that covered his thighs from waist to knee. The assistant secured the pieces with soft leather straps. The cuirass was next, its tassets—the metal plate skirts at its bottom—draped over the thigh armour, ensuring no attacking blade, tooth, or claw could find a way to flesh. The cuirass was made of the same overlapping plates as the cuisses, allowing a remarkable range of movement while still providing superb protection. The assistant tugged on the fixing straps, then looked at his master.
Jauré stroked his moustache and studied the problem. Guillot took a deep breath, but it did nothing to impress the old armourer. “Perhaps it might be best to skip breakfast this morning,” Jauré said. “There was only so much we could do in the time we had. Perhaps skip it tomorrow also.”
Guillot almost said something smart in retort, but Jauré spoke again.
“And the day after.”
Though he remained silent, Guillot was as determined as ever to enjoy the bounty of Bauchard’s kitchen once more before leaving the city. Pauldrons, gorget, and helmet finished the suit, all of which thankfully fit. He didn’t think a few skipped meals would make his head any smaller.
“Move around a little,” Jauré said. “Try to get through the full range of movement to see if there is any restriction or pinching.”
Guillot did, delighted at how easily the overlapping steel plates moved over each other, and how light the whole suit felt. The subtle alterations made it feel like far less of a burden than it had the previous day. Although it felt a little tight around his gut, he had a hard time noticing any reason to skip a few meals. “It’s superb. As though it was made for me.”
“A tailored suit is unlikely to fit much better,” Jauré said. “Unless there’s anything else, my Lord, I think the armour is as perfect a fit as we can hope for.”
“It is,” Guillot said. “You have my gratitude, Maestro Jauré. Please add twenty crowns to your bill for the inconvenience I put you through.”
“I feel I should make a gift of the suit, my Lord, considering the task you are undertaking.”
“Not at all,” Guillot said. “The Prince Bishop was insistent that he would cover all expenses.”
“His generosity matches your bravery.” Jauré gave a curt bow, then he and his assistant departed, leaving Guillot still in his armour.
Guillot looked about in puzzlement, wondering how he was supposed to get out of the suit on his own, when dal Sason appeared at the door.
“The Prince Bishop wants you to be armoured as we ride out of the city. I’ve to crawl into mine now, then it’s time to leave. If you’ve still to eat, do it fast.”
Time, rather than Jauré’s advice, dictated Guillot’s more modest than planned breakfast. When seated, he noticed the armour was a little tight around his waist. While it was merely a trifle uncomfortable at the breakfast table, the small impingement on movement it would cause in battle might mean the difference between living and dying.
It was not far off the right fit, though, and with a little luck and moderation, it would be perfect by the time he encountered the dragon. As he sat there, doing his best to ignore the curious stares from other patrons, he noticed that Jauré had etched Gill’s family arms into the blackened filigree pattern that ran along the edges of each plate. Considering the timeframe, it was an impressive touch.