Amaury wasn’t sure if the mention of the Marécage was a slight against him. It was a downstream district that was mainly reclaimed swamp, mostly inhabited by cutpurses, whores, and the dregs of society. It was where she had spent the part of her life before he knew of her existence.
“How did you know I’d be here?” he said, changing the subject.
“You’ve always been one to burn the midnight oil. I’d no reason to believe you’d changed. Although I have to admit, I’ve been waiting awhile, and was beginning to wonder.”
“You know me too well,” Amaury said. “Are you … planning on staying in Mirabay for a while?”
She shrugged. “If there’s work. I hear that there might be.”
He was hurt that she had called on Luther before him, but refused to show it on his face. He wondered if he could still trust her, but had no reason to believe not.
“I’m confident I can find some tasks for you.” He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers before his face. “In fact, I can think of something that needs attending to right now.”
“Excellent,” she said.
Her smile could melt the coldest of hearts. It could also lull a man into walking onto her dagger. It was the smile that had almost led her to being burned for witchcraft. That, and the fact that she was more than a little skilled in shaping the Fount.
“You’ll need a more suitable outfit,” he said.
“I’m sure I can rustle up something.”
When Ysabeau left, Amaury turned to his last remaining task for the day. Word had filtered back to the city that the dragon had been slain by Guillot dal Villerauvais. To most, the name meant nothing, but soon enough someone would connect it to a hero of Mirabaya, a former bodyguard to the king. It would be a name that belonged to a Chevalier of the Silver Circle, rather than a member of the Order of the Golden Spur. Amaury’s plan to own the news was simple—claim Guillot for the Order. Say he had been inducted, providing a continuity between the Silver Circle and the Golden Spur. Explain that he was able to do what he did because of the powers that joining the Order had given him.
The time had come to announce that magic was back. It was a moment he had been waiting for, one he had worked long and hard to bring about—but now that he was teetering on its edge, he found himself paralysed with fear. Taking this step meant going directly against the king. This was no act of omission. It was disobedience.
Pen in hand, Amaury stared at a blank piece of paper. He felt the way he had right before his first competitive duel—as if a kaleidoscope of butterflies were trying to beat their way out of his stomach. He could not write a single word.
Back then, all that had been at stake was pride. What he now sought to do could lead to him being burned at the stake. The thought was too terrifying to bear. Nonetheless, his entire life had brought him to this moment, and he knew he couldn’t back away now. To do so would be to admit that at the moment of reckoning, he had been found wanting. That he had failed. He dipped his pen in the ink and started to write.
When he was done, he pulled on the tasselled rope that snaked unseen through the palace to his secretary’s apartment, where it was connected to a large bell. He then turned the egg timer on his desk. His secretary had never once failed to arrive before the last grain of sand dropped. It was why he had lasted so long in the job. Not wanting to waste a moment, Amaury returned his attention to the rest of his correspondence.
He also wrote a note to dal Drezony. He had yet to induct his new appointments, so she remained the Order’s senior officer. It was only right that he notify her that in the morning, the Spurriers’ true purpose would be public knowledge.
By the time he finished crafting the announcement and making a clean copy for the printers, it was late, and he had not yet decided how to deal with the king. The king’s final command had been to do nothing without notifying him first. Getting permission was implied but had not been explicitly ordered. The young king had yet to learn how important precision was, when it came to matters of state. He sent off the paperwork that needed to go out, once his sleepy-looking secretary arrived, and then turned his mind back to the plan at hand.
Amaury quickly penned another clean copy for the king, and headed for the royal bedchamber, for surely Boudain had gone to bed hours earlier. The king’s steward resided in a small antechamber, seemingly always awake in the event that his master needed anything. The Prince Bishop knocked, and when the faithful lapdog opened the door, greeted him with a warm smile. “I wonder if His Majesty is still up?”
“I’m sorry, your Grace, he’s retired for the night.”
“Ah, that’s unfortunate, but can’t be helped, I suppose.”
“If it’s important, I can wake him, your Grace.”
It was nice to know he still warranted waking the king. “No, no, it’s nothing that can’t keep until morning. He simply asked me to notify him of something.” He handed the folded copy of his proclamation to the steward. “I wonder if you might see to it that this is included in His Majesty’s morning papers?”
The steward took the parchment and nodded. Amaury smiled to himself.
The king had been notified. The letter of his command had been followed.
CHAPTER 19
Guillot asked Gaufre, the innkeeper, to serve their supper in one of their bedrooms. He needed privacy to say what he needed to say, and that wasn’t to be found in the taproom, where Gaufre was making more money in a single night than he usually did in months. Turning away from Gaufre, Gill spotted Cabham leaning against the bar when he looked about the taproom, and gestured for him to follow.
The room Val and Beausoleil were sharing was small—and smaller still with a table and chairs added.
“Banneret Cabham, this is Banneret Didier—” Gill faltered and was surprised when Cabham continued smoothly.
“Dal Beausoleil, and young Val. Banneret William Cabham, at your service.” Smiling, Cabham gave them both a banneret’s salute, then turned to Gill, his smile turned apologetic. “I tend to remember anything I hear. Used to drive my parents crazy when I was a child. Not to mention my friends.…”
Gill returned the smile and gestured for them all to sit. They huddled around the small table with barely enough room to push their stools out before hitting the wall. Guillot was nervous. He had chosen the stool by the door, so if they reacted badly, escape wouldn’t be completely impossible.
He waited until they’d finished eating. He reckoned full bellies would make for a more receptive audience, and if worst came to worst, they would slow them down in the event of swordplay. Meanwhile, they made awkward conversation of the kind that always took place when professional swordsmen tried to gauge one another’s ability. Beausoleil and Cabham posed veiled questions as they tried to determine the pecking order. Having tenure, no matter how brief, Beausoleil clearly believed he was the senior, but they were both about the same age, with similar levels of experience. The true test would have to wait until they encountered a dragon.
Val had remained quiet throughout the meal, focussing his full attention on the food, as though it was his last meal. If they encountered a dragon the next day, it might very well be. Gill waited until Gaufre’s new hire—a young woman named Martina, who had been recruited to help deal with the extra business—finished clearing the table and left the room before turning to business.
“Tell me,” he asked Beausoleil, “did you have success with the carpenter and smith?”
“Yes, Captain,” the younger man replied. “They’ll have a half-dozen spears ready by morning, with Telastrian heads affixed. Additional replacement shafts will be finished by the time we’re home in the evening.”
Gill nodded and did his best to smile. He took a deep breath. “You all know of the Chevaliers of the Silver Circle?” he said.
Beausoleil and Val both nodded. Cabham only shrugged. With a sigh, Gill explained.
“The Silver Circle were founded to combat dragons in the dying days of the Empire,” Gill said. “Then their skills were forgotten as the need for them abated.” He drew the Cup from his purse, regarded it for a moment, then placed it on the table in front of him. “This cup is responsible for some of their success.” He paused, allowing the statement to sink in. It would take them a moment to make the connection, but he preferred it if they came to the notion of magic by themselves, so when he had to use the word it would come as less of a shock.
Val was the first to react. “Is it … magic?”
Beausoleil frowned, then gasped with indignation. The idea that the old swordsmen would have relied on magic was an insult to their modern descendants and his was an understandable reaction. Cabham, whatever he felt on the matter, revealed nothing.
“It is, and it helped give them an edge in a fight they would otherwise have perished in.” Val was hanging on every word, Cabham remained unreadable, but Beausoleil was having none of it. Guillot continued. “I’ve seen brave men and women, skilled and determined, die painful deaths fighting these things. I barely escaped my first encounter with my life. I would not have prevailed in the second without this cup’s help.”
“What does it do?” Cabham said.
“It seems to protect you from fire, and also give you a sense for where the beasts are. I think that can be developed to track them.”
“So you’ll be casting a spell on us?” Beausoleil said.
Gill couldn’t work out if his tone conveyed anger or fear. “Not in the way you might think. ‘Medicine’ might be a better way to put it. We take a drop of water from the Cup, say some words, and that’s it.”
“That’s it?” Beausoleil said.
“All I can tell you is this. I found it, discovered how to make it work, tested it, and found that it does. I won’t force any of you to take a drop from it, but I can guarantee you a much better chance of living through a fight with a dragon if you do. Although I’d like to get the process out of the way this evening, it doesn’t take long, so I can wait until morning for your answers.”
There was no immediate response, which Guillot had realised was too much to hope for. All in all, it had gone well. He waited a moment longer before speaking again. “I’ll give you your leave to consider it, gentlemen.”
Gill got up and left without a further word.
“Isn’t it cheating?” Val said, having followed him out.
“Pardon me?”
“Using magic. Isn’t it cheating?”
Gill shrugged. “When the game you’re playing requires one participant to die for the other to win, the only rule is do everything you can to make sure you survive. In any event, dragons are creatures of magic. Using magic to combat them levels the scales.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a scream from outside.