The man let out a laugh, but cut it short when he realised that Guillot was being serious. “Gods, no,” he said. “There’s plenty of well-paid work to be had that doesn’t come with the choice of being well-done or extra crispy.” He frowned when he saw Guillot’s reaction. “I apologise again—you’re that fellow, aren’t you? Villerauvais? Congratulations.” He clicked his heels and gave a curt nod, the traditional salute bannerets gave to acknowledge a colleague’s success. “I can’t say I envy you the job, but you seem to have come through it in good trim. I’m afraid I must be going; I’ve a client to find.”
He gave Guillot another nod, and wandered deeper into the inn, leaving Guillot feeling foolish and wondering how much attention killing the dragon was actually going to bring. Had he overestimated? Might the thirst for fame that young swordsmen had once possessed diminished?
Then another man walked into the inn, and Gill let out an audible groan. The newcomer looked equally the type—athletic, tanned skin, confidence bordering on arrogance. He was well dressed, his black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and he had a finely waxed black moustache. He stood with his thumbs hooked in his sword belt, adopting the casual slouch of a man so confident that he’s relaxed to the point of passing out. Guillot’s eyes drifted to his sword. The scabbard looked like it was fresh from the tanner’s shop, the hilt was filigreed with gold wire, and the pommel contained a large jewel. “Peacock” was the word most often reserved for a man like that. Guillot wondered, if he kept his head down, might the man leave without bothering him?
The fellow looked around, spotted Gill, gave him a nod, and strode over.
“Banneret Didier dal Beausoleil, at your service,” he said. “Very pleased to make the acquaintance of the only living dragonslayer.”
Guillot forced a smile and gestured to the chair opposite him. Beausoleil smiled and sat.
“What brings you to my table, Banneret Beausoleil?” Gill said.
“I read in the news sheet that you’re looking for men to help you deal with some more dragons. Is that correct?”
Gill considered lying for a moment, but couldn’t see anything to gain by doing so. “It is. And you’re interested in the job?”
“I very much am,” Beausoleil said.
Guillot nodded. “Why don’t you give me an idea of your background and experience?”
“I’m twelve years out of the Academy. I spent the first three of those on the duelling circuit.”
Guillot did his best to look interested. The duelling career went some way to explaining the sword. Professional duellists were all about the image and the show. That didn’t mean there weren’t some superb swordsmen on the circuit—some of the world’s very best made their livings duelling in the arena. It was a place with defined rules, however, and in Guillot’s experience, duellists tended to be less prepared to deal with the unexpected, to improvise when things went to crap in the blink of an eye, as was so often the case on the battlefield.
“After that, I spent a few years in private service—first in the retinues of a couple of burgesses in Mirabay and Tarbeaux, then with the Company of the Silver Arrow until it disbanded a few months back. Since then, I’ve been odd-jobbing here and there. Body-guarding mainly.”
He had more varied experience than Guillot had expected. “I’ve not heard of the Silver Arrow. Who was the principal?”
“Banneret-Captain Garonne de la Maison Noir.”
Guillot did his best to stifle a laugh at the ridiculously ostentatious name. It didn’t bode well, however. Men who hid behind a fancy, self-appointed name tended to have only that name to trade on, rather than a respected reputation.
“See any action with them?”
“The usual,” Beausoleil said.
Guillot remained silent and smiled with expectation.
“Oh, you know, we’d get hired, be seen about the place by the enemy, then terms would be agreed. We’d get paid and move on to the next job. The usual.”
Guillot wanted to tell him to take his fancy peacock sword and piss off, but the line of eager volunteers he had expected to form by the door was conspicuously absent. Perhaps adding a few names to his roster would get some momentum going. If nothing else, Beausoleil could distract the beasts while Guillot got down to the real work of killing them.
“Well,” Guillot said reluctantly, “I can’t offer anything in the way of payment, but the reputation and fame you’ll get from this will be priceless.”
“That works for me,” Beausoleil said.
I reckoned it would, Guillot thought. “It will be dangerous, and no amount of potential glamour or fame can take away from the fact that there are three dragons that need to be dealt with. The last one killed several people who were as well prepared to face it as could be. I know a little more of what to expect now, but the danger will never be diminished.”
Beausoleil shrugged with the sangfroid of a man genuinely unafraid—or very good at appearing so. “To tell the truth, I’ve felt my blade was a little underutilised the past few years.”
It was as good an answer as could be hoped for. “That brings up another problem. Your blade. A regular steel rapier blade won’t be of much use against a dragon. Telastrian steel is effective, but I wouldn’t expect anyone to have a Telastrian blade.”
Beausoleil held up his hands and shook his head.
“A heavy field blade might serve, but I think lances and spears are a better bet. You’re comfortable with those?”
“Of course. Four years at the Academy teaches a lot more than just the sword.”
The banneret raised his eyebrows in a suggestive way that made Guillot think they might not be referring to the same type of lance. He tried to think of any other questions. He knew everything worth asking about. The things that really mattered could be learned only out on the field.
“Do you have any questions?”
“Of course,” Beausoleil said. “How did you do it? The first man in a thousand years to kill a dragon! That really is something.”
“Luck, mainly.”
Beausoleil laughed. “I’m sure there was far more to it than that.”
“There always is, but that’s the big part.”
“So you’ll have me, then?” Beausoleil said.
The man wasn’t what he was looking for, but Guillot couldn’t think of a single valid reason to refuse.
“Why not? I’ve no contracts of engagement to be signed. Truth be told, this approach is a new idea. For the time being, a banneret’s oath will have to be enough.”
“It’s always been enough for me in the past.”
“Well then,” Guillot said. “I hope the gods smile on our ventures together.”
Guillot followed Solène out to the stable yard. He didn’t like letting her ride off to Mirabay on her own when she was still so upset, all the more so when she had no idea what awaited her there. She seemed confident that her absence could be easily explained away and that there was nothing to connect her to the fight she and Leverre had with the other Spurriers on the road to Trelain. He did his best to take solace in that, but he knew Amaury—the man had eyes and ears everywhere, and as Gill knew only too well, he never forgave when someone crossed him.
Her horse was saddled and waiting for her, and she accepted a boost into the saddle without complaint.
“You’re sure you’ll be all right?” Guillot said.
Solène chuckled. “You’re starting to sound like an old woman.”
He blushed. “It’s just that … Well, I’ve lost too many people who were important to me. I don’t want to lose another.”