In his experience, humans treated the indigent in one of two ways: either they ignored them completely, or they behaved as if they were vermin. Pharadon hoped for the former; his unpleasant smell might convince others to give him a wide berth. You could never tell with humans, however, and he wondered if he should smear some horse dung on the cloth to make his odour more potent. Realising he was in view of the guards, he decided it would look odd and would guarantee unwanted attention, so elected not to.
He shambled along, mimicking the air of defeat and lack of purpose exuded by others of a similar appearance, locking his gaze on the ground before him. Being accosted by the guards would not be an enjoyable experience. While in human guise, he was unremarkable in all respects. He could fight well enough, and his body was strong, fit, and healthy, but none of that could stop several guards from beating him senseless. He’d experienced that once, and had no desire to do so again.
These guards didn’t prove to be a problem; they let him pass without interruption. Pharadon maintained his defeated gait until he had put some distance between himself and the gate, then eased into a more comfortable stride. It didn’t take him long to get to the source of the smell, a small building with letters painted along the lintel. Many years ago, Pharadon had made an unenthusiastic attempt to learn to read the human language, but he’d never mastered it. He squinted at the letters, and despite a strenuous effort at recollection, he couldn’t make out the words. He considered applying some magic to the problem, but was still tired from his transformation and didn’t care all that much what they said. A window of small glass lozenges held together by lead cames afforded a distorted view of what was inside, but Pharadon could not work out if the figure moving about inside might be Alpheratz in human form.
The building looked like a business of some kind, so Pharadon let himself in. The man inside was facing away, working at a large object on a bench that was covered with a sheet of linen cloth. Pharadon cleared his throat. The man turned, and frowned.
“No vagrants here,” he said. “Be gone, or I’ll call the Watch.”
That was the type of trouble that Pharadon was trying to avoid, but perhaps Alpheratz had sunk so far into his new form that he behaved like the humans too. The scent was certainly coming from in front of him.
“Alpheratz?” Pharadon said, hesitantly.
There was no sign of recognition in the man’s eyes. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Please leave. Now.”
He took a step forward, revealing what had hitherto been obscured by his body. Pharadon’s eyes widened in horror. He couldn’t see much, but it was enough. Alpheratz. Still very much in dragon form, with a great glass ball staring at him from where Alpheratz’s eye should have been. It took Pharadon a moment to realise that the man was still talking. He made out the word “Watch” again, so he nodded and stumbled backwards, out onto the street. The shopkeeper followed and slammed the door in his face, leaving Pharadon to absorb the shock of seeing the head of his equal parts friend and enemy of countless years, disembodied in a human workshop. What had happened to him? How had it come to this? He had to find out. Dumbfounded, Pharadon walked straight out of the town.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 17
Acampsite had sprung up overnight next to Venne, and it looked very much like a royal regiment was being billeted there, though this camp lacked both a chain of command, and discipline. As confident as Gill was in what he had told Edine about bannerets, he was certain that plenty of other men—former enlisted soldiers, bandits, confidence men—bolstered the numbers. Of them, he had a far lower opinion. Without the threat of flogging or hanging, that camp would soon become a hive of vice.
Where large numbers of single men went, others followed. Hawkers, prostitutes, thieves—it was only a matter of time before they saw opportunity, and the quiet, picturesque little village of Venne turned into an open sewer. It was up to him to make sure there was no reason for them to stay long enough for any of that to happen. He wondered where the real danger lay—the three dragons, feeding indiscriminately on people and livestock, or this accumulation of armed men and all they brought with them.
He gave Beausoleil a list of tasks and sent the man to find the smith and carpenter, then headed for the mayor’s house. There was still a line of men outside, but it was shorter than it had been the previous evening. He cast an eye over them as he passed, trying to see if any of them looked the type he wanted in his little company of dragonslayers, but no one stood out. Edine was ensconced behind her desk, diligently writing down the answers to the questions she asked each banneret.
“I’ve looked over the attack sites,” Guillot said. “We’ve some preparations to make, but I expect we’ll be ready to go hunting in short order.”
One of the men in the line, sandy-haired with a ruddy complexion, gave Guillot an intense look.
“You’re Banneret of the White dal Villerauvais, aren’t you?”
His accent was unmistakably Humberlander, from a country Guillot had fought two wars against. He hesitated—it was difficult to tell, but the man looked just about young enough to be the son of someone Gill had killed in the first war. With no alternative, he gave a curt banneret’s salute—a click of the heels and a nod of the head.
The Humberlander responded in kind. “Banneret of the Red William Cabham, at your service.”
“A pleasure,” Guillot said, before turning to Edine. “I’m ready to leave for the manor whenever you are.” He gave her an apologetic smile as he ducked out the door.
A short while later, Edine found Gill hiding in a corner of the inn’s taproom, hoping he wasn’t going to have to deal with a mob of angry, fatherless sons. With Val tagging along behind, Edine led the way up to the seigneur’s manor house, which sat on the higher ground behind the village.
“Lord Venne doesn’t come down to the village much,” Edine said. “He’s never been interested in anything that isn’t hawking or hunting. When the duke sent me to the village, Lord Venne took it personally, and has almost nothing to do with the place now.”
“Sounds like a nice fellow,” Gill said. At least he had resided in his village, and not out at the manor. Not that it had done much good. “Does he have family?”
“A wife. Two sons away at the Academy. Some staff: steward, huntsman, cooks, butlers, maids, stablehands. He entertains quite a bit, holds hunts at least once a month. There’s good hunting around here. Belek too, if you go looking for them. There’s a constant stream of the well-to-do passing through the village. Brings in quite a bit of income.”
“He wasn’t interested in helping deal with the dragon?”
Edine let out a snort. “No, he prefers hunting smaller beasts. Particularly those who can’t hunt him back. He wasn’t even willing to go looking for help. Too busy, apparently.”
“I’ve encountered a few like him,” Guillot said with a sigh. Even at his lowest and most neglectful, he’d been willing to ride to Mirabay for help.
Gill felt a strange sensation pass over him. It was fleeting, and he wondered for a moment if he’d imagined it. The last time he had felt that way was when he’d ridden into the valley where he killed the first dragon. It was part of the Cup’s effect—a way of detecting dragons.
“Everybody stop,” he said, in barely more than a whisper. They did, and he tried to concentrate on the sensation. It was far weaker than it had been on the previous occasion, so weak he had barely noticed it. It was confirmation, though, that with the Cup he could indeed sense when dragons were near.