Clearly something had gone wrong, and he didn’t know what.
He chewed the matter over for a moment, and came to the conclusion that the dearth of information didn’t matter. He had his orders, and in the absence of instructions to the contrary, the correct course was to follow them. He stretched his arm, shoulder, and neck, and smiled broadly when he completed the movement entirely free of pain. The girl had worked wonders, though the amount of power she appeared to wield was a concern. He had no desire to die in the execution of his duty, and he knew she would side with Gill in the event of a fight.
He would have to wait until they were apart, and if necessary, kill them both. He knew the Prince Bishop wouldn’t be happy with the loss of his protégé, but Nicholas felt confident that her presence in Trelain wasn’t on the Prince Bishop’s orders. If she was as strong as she seemed to be, she posed too big a threat to be allowed to live if there was even a hint of uncertainty as to her loyalty. Both Solène and Gill had to die.
He swung his feet out of bed and sat up, rotating his shoulder as he did. It was amazing how quickly one became accustomed to debilitating pain. With each revolution he expected the agonising grind of broken bone to spear through him. That it did not was an enjoyable novelty. He dressed quickly and strapped on his sword belt.
Nicholas didn’t think of himself as an assassin, though that was the role he found himself playing most often. There was a way of doing things in polite society, and if someone needed a nobleman or banneret killed, it was frowned upon to do it with a dagger in a dark alley. Nicholas had found his niche quickly after leaving the Academy: “Duellist for hire” was the way he preferred to think of himself. If his clients wanted only to draw blood, he would draw blood. If they wanted to maim, he would maim. If they wanted to kill, he would oblige. The Prince Bishop’s patronage would change his life, and he couldn’t afford to fail.
Killing Guillot would be a different matter, however. Given Gill’s reputation, Nicholas considered using a dagger and striking when it was least expected. However, while cleaner living over the past couple of weeks had cleaned the rust off Gill’s edges, Nicholas was confident that he was still a long way from the man he had once been. A somewhat recovered has-been alcoholic should not give him too much trouble. Unfortunately, Guillot wasn’t alone.
He smiled as he adjusted his tunic and pulled on his cloak. What was the witchcraft accuser’s name again? Nicholas struggled to remember details about the man who had accused Solène of witchcraft. That encounter seemed like it had taken place long ago—the details were fuzzy in his memory. He slipped out of the Black Drake unseen, revelling in the pleasure of being out of doors and pain free. Perhaps revisiting the scene would jog his memory. Concealed under the hood of his cloak, Nicholas made the short walk from the inn to the small town square where the mob had tried to burn Solène.
It was a very different place now, virtually empty rather than filled with a bloodthirsty crowd. Remembering where he had been on his previous visit, albeit on horseback, he moved to that spot. He visualised Gill riding forward, his horse brazenly shoving people out of the way. He recalled the imperious, utterly confident way Guillot had commanded someone to tell him what was going on and the unquestioning obedience of the townspeople in response.
Unfocussing his eyes, Nicholas receded into his mind, placing himself back at that moment: the crowd, the noise, the atmosphere of anger and bloodlust. Guillot’s forceful questioning. The man who had denounced Solène.
Arnoul. Arnoul, Master of the Tanners’ Guild. Nicholas smiled to himself and grabbed a passer-by.
“The Tanners’ Guild house. Where is it?”
“Jerome’s Square, my Lord,” the man said, looking uneasy at Nicholas’s unexpected attack. He pointed in the direction. “Can’t miss it.”
Nicholas let the man go and set off without even considering an apology. The sooner he was done with this, the sooner he could return to Mirabay to reap his reward. Once he’d reclaimed his ancestral home and lands, there would be no more fighting other men’s duels. And no more dragon-slaying. No amount of gold or promotion could tempt him to repeat that folly.
Jerome’s Square was not far and the Tanners’ house was well marked and easily found. Entering, Nicholas found a clerk working at a desk. “The Master of the Guild,” Nicholas said. “I wish to speak with him.”
“He’s very busy,” the clerk said. “Leave a calling card and we’ll arrange an appointment.”
“I’ll see him now,” Nicholas said, his temper flaring, “or I’ll drag you out into the street and beat your impertinent teeth from your face.” He pushed back his cloak to free the hilt of his sword.
The clerk looked up, his eyes widening when he realised that he wasn’t dealing with a commoner. “Apologies, my Lord. I’ll see if he’s available.”
“Do that,” Nicholas said, taking a seat on a bench by the door.
Arnoul wasn’t long in coming. Nicholas recognised him from the day on the square, although he looked less rattled than he had on that day. The piggy eyes were the same.
Nicholas stood.
“My Lord,” Arnoul said. “If you’d like to come this way, I’ll do my best to see to whatever you need.”
“I haven’t the time,” Nicholas said. “I’ve come to deliver a message. A few weeks ago, you accused a young woman of witchcraft.” Arnoul’s face reddened. “She’s back in town. Staying at the Black Drake. She hasn’t been punished and likely won’t be unless someone does something about it. I don’t know how much longer she’ll be there, so I suggest you move quickly.” Arnoul’s eyes narrowed and he licked his lips before speaking.
“I thank you, my Lord. If you’ll give me leave, I’ll attend to it at once.”
“By all means,” Nicholas said. “I don’t want to see justice go unserved.”
Nicholas walked out of the Tanners’ house and headed for the Black Drake. He still hadn’t decided on how he wanted to deal with Gill. If Gill was with Solène when Arnoul and his lackeys turned up, he would fight to protect her, and with her magic added to the mix, it could get messy. Very messy.
Ideally the two would be apart when it happened, then Nicholas could draw Guillot into a duel. He hoped Arnoul’s anger at what Solène had done to him was still smouldering hot enough to inspire him to immediate action, but Nicholas supposed waiting a day or so wouldn’t make a great deal of difference. The dragon might torch a few more villages, but that wasn’t really his concern. So long as it was stopped before it got to Mirabay, or to his own village and demesne at Sason, he didn’t give a damn. Even wiping Trelain off the map wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen. It was a dirty hole of a town with nothing to commend it, as far as he was aware.
Nearing the Black Drake, he loitered in a small alleyway opposite, curious to see if something would grow from the seeds he had sown. The easiest way to kill someone was if a good distraction kept the target from thinking of their own situation. That principle held true just as much in duels as it did in an outright assassination. If some blood spilled unnecessarily along the way, he wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it.
He didn’t have to wait long before he saw a crowd of men coming down the street. They were nine strong, and several held weapons of some sort—a club, a smith’s hammer, a short sword. He felt a momentary pang of sympathy for the staff at the Black Drake, who were accustomed to a certain standard of client. None of the men marching on it at that moment came even close to fitting the bill. It wasn’t going to be a pretty scene, nor a pleasant experience for anyone standing in the mob’s way.