“I had begun to think the stories about you were untrue,” Leverre said. “This is the first time I’ve seen you anywhere near a bottle.”
Guillot blushed with shame. “It was here when I sat down,” he said. “I was just going to call the barkeeper to take it away.”
Leverre nodded in a way that said he didn’t care if it was a lie or the truth.
“I’ll be glad when the healers get here,” he said, sitting down. “I can’t seem to get rid of this headache. I’ve been chewing willow bark all evening, but it’s not making the slightest difference.”
“Bad blows to the head can be like that,” Guillot said, growing angry with himself for having given in to the bottle. “I’ve had one or two that took days to ease off. You’re lucky to have your healers.”
“It’s the way of the future. Once people get a taste for it, they’ll never want to give it up.”
“I’ve heard the same said of dream seed,” Guillot said. And wine, he thought.
“Dream seed will make you feel good for a while, then kill you, but not before robbing you of everything that’s worth having.” Leverre lowered his voice. “Magic can bring an end to pain and suffering.”
“It can also bring death, destruction, power-hungry despots.”
“That was a thousand years ago and more,” Leverre said, sitting back in his chair with a disgusted look on his face. “The Order has been specifically created to make sure that no one person can have too much power.”
“I thought the Prince Bishop was the Order’s master?”
“In name only. The real business is divided between the marshall, the seneschal, and the chancellor. We never agree on anything, so you won’t have to worry about us trying to take over the world.”
Guillot forced a laugh. “I have a great many things to worry about before I come to that one.”
Leverre gave him a thin smile. “I’m sure you do.”
Guillot took the small Telastrian steel cup from his purse and placed it on the table, spinning it between his fingers, trying to distract himself from having to talk to Leverre and to take his mind off the taste of wine. He still couldn’t get his head around the reason why someone would use such an expensive metal to make a drinking cup.
“That’s the thing you found in the cave, is it?” Leverre said. “What do you think it’s for?”
Guillot suppressed a sigh, supposing he should have expected the inquiry. “No idea,” he said. “I found it with the dragon’s stash. It was the only thing that wasn’t fused to the mass. Not sure why I took it. A souvenir, I suppose.”
Leverre nodded, but didn’t say anything. Guillot couldn’t help but notice how he stared at it with far more curiosity than Guillot would have expected. It was Telastrian steel, so would bring a decent price should he choose to sell it, but beyond that it was unremarkable. He put it back in his purse and stood.
“I’m going out for a breath of air,” he said. “I won’t be long.”
Guillot returned later that evening, having spent the time wandering the streets, watching the townsfolk react to the news of a dragon. For some it was business as usual—if they were concerned about being attacked, it didn’t show. Others, mostly those with money, were reacting. When he passed by the houses of the wealthy, he saw carts and carriages being loaded. Likely those people had properties elsewhere, so their flight would be no great inconvenience. Guillot’s failure would have little impact on them. As always, the most vulnerable would suffer most from his mistakes.
He went to dal Sason’s room to see how he was doing, and found Leverre there as well. The local physician had paid one visit before disappearing from Trelain, so until the Prince Bishop sent help, dal Sason’s care was left to Guillot and Leverre, who didn’t seem to have a healing touch. The injured man had a little more colour in his cheeks, but in his usual pessimistic way, Guillot supposed that could be the first sign of fever.
“How are you feeling?” he said.
“Like I got run over by an ox cart,” dal Sason said. “But I’ll mend. What are we going to do now?”
Guillot shrugged and sat in one of the chairs by the bed. Dal Sason’s chest was heavily strapped and his breathing sounded strained. Until a healer arrived, he would have to make do with the conventional treatment of bandages and a poultice the physician had given them. It smelled like horse piss.
“I’m going to Mirabaya to deliver my report in person.” Leverre said. “I’ve never trusted pigeons. Too many things can go wrong. Hawks, cats…”
“What will you tell High Lord Prince Bishop Amaury?” Guillot said.
Leverre frowned. “That our attempt was unsuccessful, and we need to reconsider our approach.”
“Long way to go to tell him we failed and got four people killed.”
“We learned some things,” Leverre said. “It wasn’t a complete failure.”
“It was an expensive way to learn that we didn’t have a clue what we were doing,” Guillot said, dropping his head into his hands and rubbing his temples. He thought of Sergeant Doyenne and the complete lack of fear in her voice, even though she knew she was about to die. He thought of all the people who had died at Villerauvais, and who knew how many others the dragon had already killed. How many more were to come? How many more had they failed?
Had he done something to anger the gods? Everyone knew they disliked hubris, and once upon a time his name had been big enough that perhaps they had noticed him, and were displeased with what they saw. He shook the thought from his head.
His father had always said that a man makes his own destiny, with a sword in his hand, and for everything positive Guillot had achieved in his life, that had been true. It was only when he’d started to take success for granted that things started to go wrong. He wondered when it had begun, when the polish on his career showed its first signs of tarnish. He’d always thought Auroré’s death was the moment, but he knew in his heart that wasn’t true.
No. It had been a cold, wet day on the other side of the Szavarian border months earlier, surrounded by dead men nearly as numerous as the blades of grass on the ground. He had come back to Mirabay bathed in as much glory as he had been in blood on the battlefield. Hero of Mirabaya, her most famous son, he was initiated into the Silver Circle, and took relief in the thought that he would never be sent to war again. Too much relief.
Since then, to be honest with himself, he had drifted. Into marriage, the Silver Circle, into all that came after. He had drifted into this mission, into the dragon’s cave, and had even drifted to defeat. If he was to face the beast again, he had to take charge of himself. He had to be the man he once was, before life had dulled his edges. Could he find that man again? Did he still lurk within?
“When we try again,” he said, “we can’t go into it as if we’re hunting a belek. We need to know more about it. To be better prepared.”
“How do we go about doing that?” Leverre said.
“Like you said, we learned things. We have to sit and discuss exactly what we experienced. What worked. What didn’t. We need to distill every little bit of information that we can, from start to finish. Every detail, no matter how trivial.”
“You think it will make a difference?” Leverre said.
“It can’t hurt,” dal Sason said. “We can’t go running to the Prince Bishop every time we run into an obstacle.”
“Still,” Leverre said. “I have to make sure he is updated on our situation.”
“Run back to your master, then,” Guillot said, his voice laden with frustration. He wondered if Amaury would delight in Gill’s failure or if the danger was great enough to rob him of the pleasure.