Nicholas stole across the street to the stable yard, then into the Black Drake and up the back stairs to Gill’s room; there he collected Gill’s sword, which hung in its scabbard from a bedpost. Then he took up a position where he could overlook the taproom. He could see Gill and Solène sitting at a table, likely waiting for him to wake so they could get on with whatever they planned to do next.
The inn’s front door slammed open and the mob barged in, Arnoul at their head, brandishing a walking stick with a large, polished head that suggested it was designed for more than just walking.
“There she is,” he roared, pointing to a visibly surprised Solène. “Take her.”
The behaviour of bullies never ceased to amuse Nicholas. The chief bully, the one with the greatest desire for the end result, always kept the greatest distance, always had others carry out their aims. In certain ways Arnoul was similar to the Prince Bishop, Nicholas reflected. Both were men of influence within their spheres, and both had something to offer the men doing their bidding. It was a sad reflection on the world, he thought, that no matter how high you rose, base instinct and behaviour would always out. Still, when you understood the way of the world, you could thrive in it, and Nicholas had always prided himself on clearly seeing how things worked.
Guillot had jumped to his feet, his hand instinctively going for his sword, which was not there. It wasn’t the done thing to wear a sword in the taproom of a respectable establishment. There were plenty of inns where to go without one was an act of idiocy, but the Black Drake was not one of them. Gill stared down the men Arnoul had commanded to seize Solène, and something of a standoff developed as they tried to work out how much of a danger he represented. Nicholas allowed the standoff to continue a moment longer before making his way down to the taproom.
“Gentlemen, please,” he said, trying to ignore the rising tension he felt. Although Guillot was toothless, Nicholas had no real idea what Solène was capable of. “Master Arnoul, you may take the witch. However, her companion is to be left to me.”
CHAPTER 44
“What in hells are you playing at, dal Sason?” Guillot said. The absence of a sword at his side felt like a stinging wound. The best weapon he had to hand was the chair he had just been sitting on. And Solène. After the trauma of killing for the first time, another confrontation was the last thing she needed, though her spirits had lifted considerably when she successfully used her magical gifts to heal dal Sason. Guillot worried that having to kill again so soon might break her.
“It’s a long, complicated story that I really couldn’t be bothered to go into,” dal Sason said. “Suffice to say, she’s going to be taken away, then you and I are going to have a chat.”
“Now might be a good time to conjure something up,” Guillot said.
Solène looked terrified, then her expression hardened, giving him hope that she would magic the whole situation away. His heart sank when she shook her head. “I won’t,” she said. “I can’t.”
“You can’t let them take you,” Guillot said. “You know what happened the last time.”
She gave him a sad smile. “I do, but I don’t care. It’s better than the alternative. I won’t kill again. Not ever.”
“Well, now that we’ve got that out of the way,” dal Sason said. “Master Arnoul?” He nodded at Solène.
Arnoul barked another order, and his men, emboldened, grabbed her and started to haul her to the door. Guillot took a step forward, taking a firm grip on the chair. Solène shook her head again, but dal Sason’s blade at his throat stopped Gill from lifting it and charging. Laughing harshly, the men manhandled Solène out of the taproom, leaving Guillot and dal Sason alone—anyone not involved had long since fled.
“What now?” Guillot said.
“Let’s go out into the stable yard.”
With a sword point at his throat, Guillot couldn’t argue. He had been around long enough to know that opportunity presented itself at the most unexpected moments. He nodded gently, careful not to cut himself on dal Sason’s blade.
Outside, he was greeted by cool air and the harsh tang of horse dung. A few paces from the inn’s door, he turned to face dal Sason, looking around him for anything he might be able to use as a weapon. There was only a half-full pail of water. Or perhaps night soil.
“So, we’re here,” Guillot said.
“Didn’t want anyone else to see this,” dal Sason said. “When the announcement is made, you’ll have died a hero’s death at the dragon’s claws.”
“The Academy must really be dropping its standards if it’s producing graduates willing to kill in cold blood,” Guillot said, hoping to bait him.
“Oh, come on,” dal Sason said. “That’s the most facile thing I’ve ever heard. The Academy’s been producing cold-blooded killers for centuries. Honour is only for rich boys who never have to get their hands dirty.”
“Sason a bit of a shit-hole then?” Guillot said.
Dal Sason merely smiled. “Far from it,” he said. “Sadly, my father managed to gamble most of it away. Honour is simply a dish that I cannot afford.”
“So being the Prince Bishop’s little errand boy means you’ll get it all back?”
“Something like that,” dal Sason said, throwing Guillot his sword.
Guillot caught it, more surprised than ever. “I’m not sure I follow what’s going on here.”
Dal Sason smiled. “I’ve always wanted to fight a Competition winner. I’ll be even happier to kill one.”
“Find Briché, then. I hear he’s let himself slide even worse than I have. So fat that you could thrust backwards and still hit him.”
Dal Sason burst into an attack, in no way distracted by Guillot’s effort at humour. Gill danced back across the cobbles of the stable yard, parrying dal Sason’s expert attacks, all the while hoping there wasn’t a steaming pile of horse manure stacked up behind him. There were far better ways to go than bleeding out on a heap of horse shit.
Dal Sason overreached and Guillot pounced on the opportunity, countering and firing in thrusts as quickly as he could, driving dal Sason back toward the inn.
“So you haven’t drunk it all away, then,” dal Sason said.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Guillot said, thrusting as fast as he could. It was he who was disappointed, however, when he saw how easily dal Sason parried it.
He backed away to slow things down. Already his chest heaved and his arm burned. It was difficult to accept that he was long past the best he would ever be. More difficult still to accept that he might die because of it. Dal Sason was younger, in better practise, and hadn’t spent the last few years looking into a bottle. Gill sucked in great breaths, but knew it would take more than a few gasps of air to get him through the next few moments.
Dal Sason advanced, attempting to close the distance, but Guillot didn’t give him the satisfaction of controlling the fight and backed off, staying out of range.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid to die,” dal Sason said nastily. “From the state I found you in, I’m surprised you don’t welcome it. Looked as though you were waiting for it to come and the sooner the better.”
Guillot wiped the sweat from his brow and kept backtracking, knowing there wasn’t much farther to go before he’d run into the wall of the stable. He had seen swordsmen behave like dal Sason—he’d even done it himself. When you are so confident of victory, when you are so certain that you have the measure of your opponent, like a cat, you start to toy with them, to revel in your mastery of a life-or-death situation. You know you have faced another in a mortal dance, and triumphed.