Cabham raised his eyebrows. “A little? This is the type of opportunity that makes a career. A few coins will last a matter of months. A solid reputation? That’ll feed you for a lifetime.”
Guillot smiled. “Well said. I’m happy to give it a try if you are.”
“More than happy,” Cabham said.
“Welcome to the Company of … Dragonslayers,” Guillot said, and saluted him. “It’s early days yet, so there’s not much to tell you. I’ve one other banneret with me, and a lad who fancies himself a squire, but he’s new to it and still finding his way. We’ll all be finding our way, to a degree. This is new for everyone, myself included.”
“I’ll help however I can,” Cabham said. “What’s first?”
“I’m having some lances made up. I want to ride out in the morning, even if it means the smiths working through the night. The sooner we get to business, the less this village loses.”
“I’m sure they’ll be glad to be rid of this crowd, too,” Cabham said.
Guillot gave him a knowing look. “They’re putting us up at the inn, two rooms between the three of us—four now, so find a comfortable spot and make it yours. The other two are Banneret Didier dal Beausoleil, and my squire of sorts is Val. They’re feeding us too, so we’ll eat together this evening, and talk through everything that needs to be done.”
Cabham nodded. “Until then.”
Guillot walked a little way out of the village to be alone with his thoughts. He reckoned he had enough men for the job, and if Cabham didn’t work out, he could be replaced easily enough. The same went for Beausoleil. With Val, he had a slightly higher duty of care, but squiring could be just as dangerous as being a banneret. Best he learned what he was getting himself in for early. Gill walked along a hedgerow, sheltered from above by the trees dotted along its length, enjoying the serenity of the countryside, thinking about the Cup.
There seemed to be many reasons to keep it to himself, but the idea made him feel like a gluttonous child hoarding sweets. He knew there was danger, however. No matter how well he had rehearsed the words with Solène, there was the very real possibility that he would make a mess of them. Who knew what damage that could cause? If he tried to carry out the ceremony on one of them, he could easily kill them. Or himself. Or both.
He knew he could minimise the risk by practising and being very careful. However, that left the question of how Cabham, Beausoleil, and Val would react to having magic used on them. That could just as easily result in someone’s death at the end of a blade.
Finally, there was the more nebulous problem. The Cup was ancient, and had powers far beyond his comprehension. It occurred to him that it was something that might be better kept a secret, particularly from men about whom he knew very little. Something about it made him nervous, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He had always believed his instincts to be good, and exercised caution any time they told him something was wrong. There being sense in his keeping the Cup to himself did nothing to alleviate his feeling of deceit. How could he ask men to ride into a battle such as this without giving them every advantage, without giving them the same chance of survival that he had? It was a callous, selfish thing to contemplate, and it shamed him. Was he simply being greedy, or might his concerns be valid?
He knew how he would feel if one of them died, if having the boon offered by the Cup might have allowed them to survive. A risky choice it might be, but it seemed like the only one he could make. His fears were based in speculation, while the chance they would be killed without it was a very real thing. He stopped for a moment to enjoy the feel of the cool, fresh country air in his lungs, free from thought or worry or stress, then turned back to the village, his decision made.
CHAPTER 18
Amaury was tempted to stop at his house and call an end to his long day rather than heading for the palace. He had spent far longer in the archive than he had intended, as he always did when he found something new and alluring. It was late, and he was tired. But there was still paperwork that needed to be completed for the following day. Not for the first time, he wondered if his position as first minister was worth all the hassle. Once the Order was out in the open and had taken its proper place in the affairs of state, perhaps he could hand off the ministry to an underling, and merely oversee matters as Master of the Order of the Golden Spur.
Despite his exhaustion, his mind still buzzed with possibilities. As always, his time in the archive had raised as many questions as it had answers. If the Cup could give such great power, what must enlightenment offer? Might the latter be the result of the former? Whatever it was, if this temple of enlightenment still existed, he needed to control it too.
As the carriage passed his townhouse, Amaury closed his eyes and tried to quiet his mind. He would make time for further investigation, but until he did, his mental resources were needed elsewhere. The carriage stopped, and he swept through the darkened palace, his robes flaring out around him as he walked. Although the main halls were quiet, he knew in some of the parlours and salons, activity would continue until the participants were too exhausted, too drunk, or had lost all of their money. In some rooms, his agents watched, looking for something the Prince Bishop could use as leverage, but until one of those juicy morsels cropped up, what went on behind the palace’s closed doors was of little interest to him.
His secretary had gone home for the day, leaving Amaury’s office suite subdued and peaceful. It seemed like a very different place absent the usual hustle and bustle of the day. Amaury closed his office door and briefly contemplated trying to light the office with magic, then let the idea go. He could create light, or work, but not both. Seating himself at his desk, he lit a magelamp with the touch of his fingers.
“I hear you’ve been looking for me.”
The voice came from an armchair in the corner, beyond the reach of the meagre desk lamp. Amaury was startled, but did his best not to show it. He’d recognised the voice instantly.
“I wasn’t aware you had come back to the city.”
Ysabeau dal Fleurat stood and walked from the shadows. Dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face of fair skin, luscious red lips, and smouldering eyes. She was wearing a dress that would turn heads in envy and admiration, even at a centre of fashion like the palace.
“Just arrived.”
“I expect so,” Amaury said. “I’d ask how you got in, but looking at you, I think I can tell.”
She shrugged, then sat in one of the chairs facing his desk. “I fit my clothes to the occasion.”
“It’s good of you to make the effort. You certainly look … prosperous.”
“The contacts your friend set me up with paid well.”
“What brings you back, then?” Amaury said.
“Homesick.”
He raised an eyebrow and she laughed.
“One job too many,” she said. “You know how it is. That’s why you made me leave in the first place.”
“It seemed like the sensible thing to do, although I’ll admit it was probably unnecessary.”
“So everyone thinks old Boudain really did choke on that fish bone?” She laughed. “It was nice to see a bit of the world. Most girls who grow up in the Marécage rarely get a glimpse outside the city walls.”