She continued up the stairs, trying to remember how many floors the house had. At the fifth, the stairway ended, and she found herself in an undecorated, shabby passageway—the servants’ quarters. She hurried along the corridor, trying to determine where to go next. At the end of the hall was a window with a rough curtain pulled partly across it. Ysabeau looked out. It gave a fine view of the city at night, magelamps glittering in its older parts, but she had no time to admire it. Almost as she reached it, the first shout of alarm reached her ears. She saw a narrow walkway running along the roof, between the balustrade and the slate-covered slope.
Ysabeau unlatched the window, hopped out, and looked over the balustrade. There was nothing but a long drop to the street below, and the buildings on the other side were too far away to reach.
Glancing back, Ysabeau saw two men advancing down the corridor, swords drawn. They had reacted far faster than she would have liked, but she supposed Whitly had hired the best men money could buy. She bunched up her skirts, freeing her legs and revealing the flat shoes she wore, rather than ones with a fashionable heel. She ran along the walkway, angry shouts following her as she did.
The far end of the building offered greater hope—there was a gap of only a metre or two between her and the next house. She looked back to see someone clambering out of the window. She didn’t have much time to find another opportunity, and might not be able to get back to this one. She climbed up onto the balustrade and looked about for anything she might grab on the way down if she didn’t make it to the next roof. There were some decorative features that would provide a handhold, assuming they were solidly attached. Where she would go from there was a problem she would deal with if it arose.
Another backwards glance had Ysabeau dismissing the notion of fighting her way out. She was great with a dagger and good with a sword, but Whitly’s men would be better, and even with magic to aid her, there was no way she’d get past all of them.
She took a deep breath and jumped. The world seemed to slow as she flew through the air. She realised her survival instincts were drawing on the Fount to see her through. This was something she had done all her life, since long before she even knew what magic was. When it was added to what she had already used, there would be a price to pay, however.
She reached for the opposite balustrade, stretching for all she was worth. It seemed so far away that she wondered how she could have thought it was possible to reach it. Her hands slapped onto the balustrade and her fingers found purchase. Her body slammed into the wall, jarring one hand free. She dangled for a terrifying moment—long enough to get a good look at how far below the ground was. She contorted hard and managed to get her free hand back on the balustrade, then scrambled up and over, to safety. Only then did she allow herself a sigh of relief.
Still catching her breath, she looked back at Whitly’s house. A moustached bravo stood on the roof, staring at her, sword in hand. His expression said there was no way he was following her. It wouldn’t take him long to figure out his next step—to race downstairs and catch her leaving this building. She gave him a cheeky smile and a mock banneret’s salute, then bolted, heading for the street.
CHAPTER 7
Guillot sat in the Black Drake’s lounge, turning an empty coffee cup on the table. Solène was sleeping again. The past days had taken their toll on her, but Gill wasn’t convinced it was exhaustion keeping her to her room. He had seen it before: sometimes, when someone killed for the first time, a spark in them was extinguished. Solène had taken killing as hard as any he had seen, and he was worried. He had no idea how to help her. On campaign, people either got over it or it broke them and they went home, in shame, usually accused of cowardice.
What could he say that would help? That after she’d killed a dozen times, she wouldn’t be able to remember the individual faces anymore? He shook his head; that was unkind. An unknown voice distracted him.
“My Lord dal Villerauvais?”
It occurred to Guillot that he might need to change his name now that Villerauvais was nothing but a pile of ash, rubble, and charred bones.
“The same,” he said.
“I wanted to offer my congratulations at your great feat in slaying the beast,” the man said.
“You’re too kind,” Guillot said. He couldn’t deny that he was flattered, that he delighted in the recognition, and it shamed him. He had been a prancing show pony in his youth, and it had brought him nothing but ruin and regret. That he was still drawn to it brought bile to his throat. “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me.”
“My apologies. I’m Edouard Renart, mayor of Trelain.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Guillot said. “I hope life in town returns to normal now that the threat has passed.”
“I do also,” Renart said. “Word has been sent out. I understand the bells in Mirabay rang all day to celebrate the news. I’d have seen to it that the same happened here, but sadly the Bishop and his entourage are … out of the town at the moment.”
Guillot smiled. “Like a great many others, unlike your good self.”
Renart blushed. “I’ve received word from His Grace, the Duke. He’s rushing here and is very much looking forward to meeting you.”
“My celebrity seems to grow by the hour,” Guillot said, wondering if he should go out to the stables, saddle a horse, and ride until no one had heard of him or dragons.
“Not at all surprising considering what you’ve achieved. I’m sure you’ll be on your way to Mirabay for an audience with the king before long. We’ll have to make the best of you while we have you.”
Guillot felt his stomach twist. “Perhaps a parade,” Guillot said. “We could rig up a cart and I could stand on the dragon’s head, waving to people as we pass.”
Renart nodded eagerly, missing the irony in Gill’s voice. “Not a bad idea at all. It will take a little organising, but leave it with me.”
Dismayed by the man’s reaction, Guillot quickly said, “I was joking. To be quite frank, Mayor, I’d appreciate as much privacy as I can get. I understand that will be difficult, but nonetheless.”
“Oh, of course. I’ll do my best, but all things considered, I don’t know what will happen. You’re a hero. You’ve delivered people from their worst nightmare, and that’s not going to go unremarked.”
Escape on horseback seemed like a better and better idea. He wondered how long it would be before Solène was ready to go.
The mayor picked up on Guillot’s intentional silence. “Well, I’ll do my best, out of gratitude for you saving the town, but I’m afraid my counsel counts for little with the duke.”
“I appreciate your efforts, Mayor,” Guillot said. “I’ll deal with His Grace when the time comes.”
“Until then, I wonder if you’d considered organising viewings for the beast’s h—”
“Good day, Mayor,” Gill said.
Renart nodded apologetically. “I wish you good day, then, and my most heartfelt thanks.”
Guillot felt churlish, and touched his fingers to his forehead in salute, but knew he was in danger of being dragged down a road he had no desire to walk again. No sooner had Renart left than Gill’s attention was drawn to a scruffy group of people who had arrived at the door.
Staff had started trickling back to the inn over the course of the day, coming out of whatever cellar they had been hiding in. The innkeeper approached the new arrivals with the demeanour of a man who didn’t even want to breathe the same air as them. A quiet but heated discussion ensued, with several nods in Guillot’s direction. He knew that he would be surrounded by powerful nobles whom he could not say no to soon enough. These people, however, he could choose to see.