It was all over in the blink of an eye. The horsemen were nothing more than charred flesh and burned steel. Pharadon took no pleasure in it, and didn’t dwell on his victory; he simply continued his flight in the direction of the temple.
Dorant sat in the corner of a tavern overlooking Place Royale Square on the Isle. The tavern had been long known as “the Little Palace,” although that was not its original name. It was a play on its proximity to the old palace, in the shadow of which it sat—and also acknowledged that as much political change had been effected within its walls as in its larger, regal neighbour.
He glanced out the window and across at the cathedral, which dominated the far side of the square, at the courts of justice on the northern side, to his left. Coffeehouses, inns, and shops stood to his right. The Little Palace was often the focal point for citizen protests, which were common in Mirabay—taxes too high, food too expensive, the Watch being too heavy-handed. The people of Mirabay might fear dragons, and magic, but they were not afraid of protesting in the face of perceived infringement of their liberties. Things had been unusually quiet since the new king had taken the throne, but Dorant had known that wouldn’t last forever. Dorant had long thought protest a necessary evil in such a large city. It was like a sealed pot on the fire—every so often one had to lift the lid to release some of the steam.
The citizenry’s propensity for protest was what Dorant was now relying on. He was dressed in civilian clothes, and appeared to all intents and purposes no different from any other tavern patron. Two of his men were at the bar, likewise dressed in civilian attire. There were others in selected taverns across the city, but this was the most important one, where hotheads, students, intelligentsia, and agitators came to find receptive ears. He had frequented the place himself when he was a youth at the Academy. He had known early on that he wanted his career to have meaning; he didn’t want to just slog through mud on the battlefield or act as hired muscle for a man of wealth and means. Joining the Intelligenciers allowed him to sate his desire to affect the sphere of politics.
His men were discussing the Prince Bishop’s announcement. In a place like the Little Palace, they had to be very careful with their words, so Dorant had chosen his two best men and had decided to oversee them himself. The tavern’s patrons were seasoned commentators and agitators. They would be quick to sniff out a plant, but Dorant hoped that even if they did, all his men were doing was starting a conversation that was on everyone’s mind. The city was like a pile of dry tinder—it would likely ignite all by itself, but Dorant wasn’t willing to wait. The abominable course the country was being steered on had to be changed immediately.
The operatives’ conversation had been carefully crafted, but the key was that it had to be overheard and others had to join in. Dorant had to capitalise on the simmering discontent he could feel on the streets as he walked through them.
His men were experts at this clandestine type of work. Over the years, and always dressed as civilians, they had called in to the tavern every now and then, sometimes engaging in what was being discussed, sometimes not. That way, they had become known to the Little Palace’s regulars, who did not know they were Intelligenciers. Disseminating and gathering information was best done by familiar, but not overly familiar, faces.
Neither of them had been involved in anything that had led to an agitator disappearing—the Intelligenciers’ preferred method of dealing with those who had rattled the cage one too many times. Dorant was confident his men had good cover and were practised enough to know when the momentum had built enough for their participation to no longer be required. However, it was always a nervous time. Intellectual argument could turn to violence quickly in places like that—a quality that Dorant was relying upon—and he would rather the discontent was not vented at him and his men.
Gradually his men drew others into their conversation; Dorant didn’t hear a single voice of dissent. People were nervous, feeling betrayed. The king who was supposed to protect them had unleashed something very dangerous. The dragons remained a distant threat, so remote that they were only one step up the ladder from the myth they had been just a few weeks earlier. When dealing with a large population, it was all about managing the hierarchy of fear. Last week it was the dragon, now it was magic. Would the latter be felt acceptable to banish the former? For Dorant, the answer was a definitive no. That didn’t mean to say the public would agree with him, though.
The Prince Bishop had handled it skilfully, chosen his moment and his reasoning perfectly, making Dorant feel a little less ashamed of having missed the development of a cabal of mages under his nose. He wondered how it had gotten past him, and the only conclusion he could come to, disappointingly, was that the Prince Bishop was a smarter man than he. That didn’t mean the Prince Bishop would win, however. It wasn’t just about being smarter; what mattered was what you did with your smarts. The Prince Bishop was venturing into dangerous territory, most likely led by a healthy dose of hubris. That was not a weakness Dorant was prone to, and that was his advantage. He might have had the wool pulled over his eyes for too long, but he would not allow the aberration of sorcery to continue, not for so long as he drew breath.
The evening crowd was starting to build, and the conversation Dorant had seeded had grown to fill the tavern. He finished his ale and left, the cue to his men that their task was complete and that it was time to extract themselves. The air was crisp outside, carrying none of summer’s unpleasant odours. At that time of year, with the leaves turning, he couldn’t imagine a better place than Mirabay to live. He looked at the cathedral—a work of art—and at the slate-capped, limestone buildings that filled the Isle, buoyed by the sense that he was facing the great test of his career and not faltering. The hilt hit his ribs before he realised he had been stabbed. He turned his head, trying to see who had done it, only glimpsing a cloaked figure disappearing into an alleyway.
He tried to reach the wound, but couldn’t. He could tell by the odd sensation on his back where the blade had gone in, and from that, what had been punctured. Perhaps he was guilty of hubris after all. There could be no question of the perpetrator, nor of the fact that he was indeed smarter than Dorant. Faster too. He could hear the debate in the Little Palace reach a crescendo as he crumpled to the ground. His last hope was that he was hearing the resistance forming, that his actions had been enough to start the tale of the Prince Bishop’s end. And the end of sorcery. He watched the blood pool beneath him until he saw no more.
CHAPTER 33
It was a fine thing to stand on a balcony beside the king and watch the Order of the Golden Spur march out of the city in full battle array. They looked magnificent—the brilliant cream of their robes, the fluttering of colourful battle standards to which honours would be attached by the time they returned home. The Chevaliers’ armour glittered, the mages’ embroidered battle robes gleamed in the sunlight. At the head, the royal standard flew in pride of place. As in everything he did, Amaury made sure that the king got the credit. There was nothing worthwhile to be gained in taking any of it for himself.