Amaury gave a wry smile, angry with himself. Because of his past compromises, dal Drezony felt she was entitled to make autonomous decisions.
“You misunderstand me,” he said. “I’m not asking for your opinion. I’m giving you an order. People with a greater appreciation of what needs to be done have made the determination that this needs to be done. You, as an agent of the Crown, will do as you are instructed.”
Dal Drezony let out an incredulous laugh. “I’m not going to do this. Your Grace.”
The confidence in her voice bordered on arrogance. Amaury felt his temper flare.
“If you are unable to continue in your position as Seneschal of the Order of the Golden Spur, I will, with regret, accept your resignation,” he said sharply. “Before I do, I would point out that in the eyes of many—indeed, most—you are a witch. Within the Order, you are protected from the consequences that status would bring in open society. Outside it, you will be exposed to those consequences.
“Let me assure you of one other thing. Your father does not have the influence to protect you from the Intelligenciers.” He paused. “I wonder, when was the last time you saw a sorcerer burned at the stake?”
She glared at him, hatred in her eyes. In that moment, he knew he would have to start looking for her replacement, but for the time being, she was the only member of the Order with the magical finesse to do what was needed without killing Barnot. Solène might have the power—were she not missing—but from what he had seen thus far, she was all power, no control. He couldn’t risk using her on something like this, nor did he wish to turn her against him as he just had Kayte dal Drezony. Dal Drezony would never have the power to be a real threat to him, but Solène most certainly did. He needed to treat her with more care.
“Well?” he said. “When?”
“Not for years,” she said, from gritted teeth.
“And why do you think that is?”
“The Order.”
“Precisely. For many years now, I’ve gotten to promising young mages before the Intelligenciers, and hidden them behind the protective walls of the Priory. I’m sure I’ve missed a few here and there out in the provinces, but there hasn’t been a single burning in Mirabay in five years. It would break my heart for you to be the one to end that streak.”
She fell silent, frowning, and Amaury revelled in her discomfort. He had won. Like as not she would try to draw some small illusion of victory from the defeat, but so long as that didn’t stand in the way of what he wanted, he would give it gladly.
“On one condition,” she said. “Once this person has finished whatever it is he’s doing for you, I can cure him completely.”
“I have no problem with that,” Amaury said.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll do what you command.”
“Excellent,” Amaury said. “He’s waiting in the next room. You can attend to it immediately.”
The hatred with which she had looked at him was a clear message. If he didn’t get rid of her, she would become a problem.
“All right,” she said, a smile spreading across her face, “but before I do, you should read this.” She threw a letter onto the table between them. “It’s from Leverre. It was found in his rooms at the Priory. I don’t think you’ll like what it says. Now, where is this man I need to treat?”
Betrayal.
Amaury crumpled the note and let it drop from his fingers. Betrayal was a new experience for him—at least, being on the receiving end was. Leverre had always had a troubling stubborn streak and a warped sense of honour. If he hadn’t been so good at his job, Amaury would have cut him loose a long time ago.
When Amaury had selected the first recruits to the Order, ability and a sympathetic attitude to what he was trying to create had been his only criteria. The difficulties that arose from conflicts of personality had been the least of his concerns at the time. Now that had come to bite him in the backside.
With Leverre gone, the matter of replacements was pressing, and needed to be prioritised. He briefly considered asking Luther for recommendations, but hated the idea of making rushed appointments. Then he realised he didn’t need to look so far afield—there were perfectly suitable men closer to home, already on the royal payroll. They might not have magical talent, but for now, muscle would do. He could replenish the ranks of magisters at a later time.
Amaury knew of a royal requisition official with a creative flair in sourcing what he needed. He’d first come to the Prince Bishop’s attention when Amaury was trying to clear out the rot in the Crown’s administration service. His initial impulse had been to have the man—Gassot, Amaury thought his name was—beheaded, but something else had come up, and fate had earned the man a reprieve. Now, it seemed, fate would bring him a substantial promotion, if he had the sense to play along. That would be the chancellor taken care of.
For the blood-and-guts work, one name sprang to mind. Amaury knew of at least one village Vachon had put to the sword in order to make a point, and that was the kind of mettle that Amaury reckoned the Order would need in its marshall. He rang the small bell on his desk, summoning his secretary.
“Send for the Clerk of Requisitions, Gassot I think he’s called. Also Captain Gustav Vachon. I believe he’s in the city at present. I want them both to attend on me as soon as possible.”
The secretary nodded and disappeared. Amaury looked to the crumpled ball of paper on his floor and grimaced. If Leverre—whom he had thought of as little more than one of his faithful hunting hounds—could betray him, whom could he trust?
CHAPTER 11
Bravos tended to flock to where the action was, and Gill knew that from the moment word of the initial dragon attacks spread, men of arms would head for the region. As a result, he hoped there would be more fighters in Trelain than might ordinarily be found there. Guillot wanted to head for Venne as soon as possible, so he could not afford to be choosy, but all he really needed was one or two good swordsmen. The rest could be cut loose when better options were available.
The first interested party turned up not long after breakfast, and his initial appearance was enough to get Gill’s hopes up from near desperation to the thought that his plan might not be a complete disaster.
He was the type of man that could be instantly identifiable as a jobbing banneret—athletic, confident, hungry. In such a man, the first thing Gill always checked was his sword. The leather scabbard was scuffed and worn, but looked like it had been oiled recently, and the hilt of his sword, though elegant in the swirling shape of the complex guard, was of plain, unadorned steel, with a wire grip. It was the weapon of a man interested mainly in function, and such men were always the ones Gill thought most likely to be of value.
The man stopped in the foyer and looked about. Gill raised an expectant hand, ready to hear the bravo’s pitch. The man nodded and made his way over.
“My Lord,” he said.
“Sit, please,” Guillot said.
“I’d prefer not to, if it’s all the same. I’d rather wait by the door until you’re ready to leave.”
Gill frowned, and the man looked puzzled.
“Lord Relau?”
“Ah,” Guillot said. “I think you’ve got the wrong man.”
“My apologies. Good day to you, sir.”
“And you,” Guillot said. “I don’t suppose you’ve any interest in dragon slaying?” he added as an afterthought.