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Dal Sason attacked again, lunging in a smooth, powerful movement. Solène had done too good a job healing him. Why hadn’t she left even a little crack in one of his ribs? Guillot parried and spun to the side, hoping to get around dal Sason so he would be able to retreat toward the other side of the courtyard. He needed time to think—something in precious short supply during a duel.

He saw the way the fight was going as well as dal Sason. It was only a matter of time before he missed a parry and was skewered. He wasn’t so prideful as to believe he could push for victory solely by gritting down and relying on his speed and skill. Both had long since departed him. He was still good, he would allow himself that much, but dal Sason was better.

Dal Sason came at him again. He parried and tried to riposte, but the parry had left him so off balance that he stumbled and missed his target by so much that dal Sason didn’t even bother to try to defend himself.

“How sad,” dal Sason said. “I’m only sorry I didn’t get to see you in your prime so I’d have something to compare to this sorry exhibition.”

“I thought you did see me?” Guillot said.

Dal Sason smiled and shrugged. “I’ve never been a particularly good liar. I always forget what I’ve told people.”

“Occupational hazard,” Guillot said, edging back toward the tavern, wondering if he could run faster than dal Sason. Probably not, and even if he could, he would allow himself to sink only so far. Better to die on the sword, even considered a drunken disgrace, than to live as a coward. He wasn’t willing to simply roll over for the assassin, though. The smug grin on dal Sason’s face, his absolute certainty of victory, was galling.

Dal Sason attacked again, but Guillot could tell there was no intent behind it. It was more a demonstration attack, showing perfect form, without commitment to the kill. It was an insult, and Guillot could tell by the look on the other man’s face that dal Sason planned to toy with him until he was too tired to even lift his sword, then make the killing cut at his leisure. And that was Guillot’s answer.

He waited for the next attack and made a haphazard effort to parry. It wasn’t the parry of a completely exhausted man, but indicated that he was nearly there. He followed it with a slow, wobbly lunge. Dal Sason simply stepped aside and laughed. He didn’t even bother coming in with a riposte, though Guillot had left himself dangerously open. That had been a gamble, but dal Sason’s inaction proved his suspicion correct. He retreated again, breathing heavily—that much, at least, wasn’t an act. He stood with his sword en garde, but the point wavering around as though he were halfway through his third bottle of wine.

Dal Sason thrust twice, probing attacks that Guillot limply parried, making sure to bring his sword slowly back to guard. The moment was near. Dal Sason’s eyes narrowed, and he exploded into a series of powerful attacks, cutting at Guillot rather than thrusting. Gill shied back from the first, parried the second, then riposted with everything he had left. His sword was buried up to the hilt in dal Sason’s chest before the younger man realised what had happened.

“Not so slow after all,” Guillot said. He pulled his sword out with a twist to make certain dal Sason wouldn’t come at him again. Dal Sason dropped to his knees, sword falling from his limp fingers. Blood bubbled from the corners of his mouth and he fell to the muddy cobbles.

“I was beginning to think you were all right,” Guillot said. “Seems my judgement is as bad as it ever was.”

He stood over dal Sason until the life left the banneret’s eyes. As his excitement faded, Guillot felt light-headed. He realised he had pushed his body far beyond what it was able for. He balanced on his sword, sweat dribbling from the end of his nose. His heart started to slow, then jumped back to full speed as he recalled Solène. He had to free her from Arnoul’s mob. After the fight he had just been in he didn’t fancy his chances, but he had to at least try.

He had no idea where they would take her—they would need several hours to build a pyre big enough to kill someone, so they would need to put her somewhere for safekeeping.

An uncertain face stared at him from the street entrance to the stable yard.

“I was about to help you,” Solène said, “but you didn’t need it.” She walked into the courtyard and stood looking down at dal Sason’s body. “It would have saved us both a lot of bother if I’d let him die of his injuries, wouldn’t it?”

“I know I’m a cynical git,” Guillot said, “but I meant it when I said that the world is a better place without some people in it.” He looked at her sharply. “How did you get free?”

She shrugged. “Just because I won’t use magic to kill doesn’t mean I won’t use it to protect myself.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“We should ready the horses and leave. I want to see the secret room you told me about. Also, it won’t be long before nine sheep become nine very angry men again. I’d like to be far away from here before that happens.”

Guillot laughed and called for the stable boy.

PART THREE

  CHAPTER 45

Seeing sheep ambling about on Trelain’s main street was not terribly unusual—it happened every market day—but for Guillot, knowing that only minutes earlier they had been an angry mob made it a very bizarre experience. Solène didn’t cast the animals so much as a glance as they rode out of the town, but Guillot’s eyes were glued to them, wondering what it would look like when they turned back into people. He wondered at the confusion it would cause, and how people would react. On consideration, he was glad they wouldn’t be around to find out for themselves.

That Amaury thought himself so powerful that he could dispose of people at his convenience was enraging. That he had sent someone to kill Gill was even more so. Amaury had always been an arrogant little shit, but Guillot had to admit that he had been too, in his younger days, which was probably why he and the Prince Bishop had been friends once upon a time.

His first taste of battle had begun to knock that arrogance out of him. His second had finished the job. Gone were the legion of adoring fans lining the arena at the Competition. Gone was the glamour, the excitement, the ceremony. It was all blood, guts, mud, and watching people you knew and considered friends getting chopped to bits and dying in agony, far from home and the people they loved. All a big attitude did on the battlefield was get you killed. It had nearly done for him, but he prided himself in having been self-aware enough to learn his lesson quickly. He might have been better with a sword than the men around him, but he didn’t have eyes in the back of his head, and when he needed them, his comrades were there.

Amaury never learned that lesson. The injury he sustained in the Competition’s quarterfinal—from a blow Guillot had delivered—had ended his days with a sword in hand. It struck Gill that his former friend had probably resented him since their days at the Academy, where he had been the big fish until Guillot came along. Since then, despite his best efforts, Amaury had always been second-best.

With the power he had now, and the resentment he seemed to harbour, Guillot was surprised that Amaury hadn’t sent a hired sword to pay a call on him before, one night when he was lost in the bottom of a bottle. Perhaps out of sight was out of mind, and it wasn’t as if Amaury hadn’t been occupying himself in other ways, climbing the slippery slope of power.