“We will wait outside the village for you to bring the cattle. Do not delay and force us to return.”
CHAPTER 4
Gill and Solène left their horses with the puzzled stable boy at the Black Drake, giving the lad no explanation of what lurked beneath the tarpaulin on the litter. Gill had thought about telling the boy not to peek under the tarpaulin, but realised that doing so would guarantee the boy would look. The last time he’d been in that stable yard, Guillot had fought dal Sason to the death. He felt neither grief nor triumph—dying by the sword was the risk they had both accepted on becoming bannerets.
The innkeeper’s face lit up when he saw Guillot. He had stayed at the inn enough times to be recognised as a good customer, the duel to the death in the stable yard notwithstanding. Such things were commonplace when dealing with the nobility, so the innkeeper was probably used to it.
“Your usual room is available, my Lord,” the innkeeper said. “You can go straight up. I’ll have any luggage sent up directly.”
“We’ll need two rooms,” Gill said, quickly correcting the innkeeper’s assumption.
“Of course, my Lord.” He rang a bell on his desk and a porter appeared. “The porter will show you to your rooms.”
Gill and Solène parted company at doors on opposite sides of the hallway. Guillot had many battle-acquired injuries to deal with, but happily none that some rest, good food, and time wouldn’t cure. He considered pulling off his boots once he closed the door, then thought better of it and flopped forward onto the bed. No sooner had he settled into the soft comfort than he heard a scream from outside. He groaned and pushed himself up.
Glad that he’d left his boots on, he went downstairs. By the time he got down, several staff had gathered at the door to see what was going on, although Guillot had a fairly good idea of what had caused the commotion. Sure enough, the stable boy was pressing himself against the wall on the far side of the yard, and the tarpaulin on the litter was partially pulled back, revealing shiny black scales and enough razor-sharp teeth to make even the hardiest flinch. One of the inn’s staff let out a gasp.
“Is that…?”
“The terror of the land?” Guillot said, as nonchalantly as his rumbling stomach would allow him. “It is. Dead.”
“You killed it?” the other man said, his tone switching from fear to awe.
“I did.” Guillot made no attempt at modesty. How could one hope to be modest after slaying a dragon?
“How?”
“I won’t lie to you. It wasn’t easy. It’s no danger now, however. You’re all perfectly safe. All the same, I’d appreciate it if you keep it covered up.” Gill took a penny from his purse and tossed it to the stable boy—the lad snatched it from the air with more dexterity than Gill would have given him credit for.
“Perhaps you’d keep an eye on it for me. Keep the souvenir hunters away.” Gill gave the gathering a nod and went back inside.
“I’ll see to it, my Lord,” the lad called after him.
Gill went to the lounge instead of returning to his room, feeling the continued rumbles of hunger in his belly. He considered asking Solène to join him, but thought she needed the rest more, so ordered food only for himself. When his meal arrived, he ate ravenously, even though the food wasn’t quite as good as it had been during his last stay. The bread was at least a day old and the vegetables were not as fresh as he would have expected from the Black Drake. He supposed it was a sign of the times. Food shortages always followed a panic. Then the violence started. In Guillot’s experience, the aftermath of a panic was far worse than whatever had caused the panic to begin with. That was the threat the kingdom was facing now. He wondered what the Prince Bishop had in mind to deal with it.
Gill wondered if Amaury had finally overstepped. Announcing the dragon’s existence was a calculated risk, and Gill wasn’t sure the Prince Bishop would be able to spread news of the slaying in time to stop the worst of the public reaction that was sure to come. One way or the other, it wasn’t his problem. He ate until he could eat no more, then clumped up the stairs to his room. When he lay down again, sleep came quickly.
Guillot woke with a jolt. It took him a moment to remember where he was and why he was there. He looked out the window—the sun was shining high in the sky, and filled the room with light when he pulled back the curtain. Noise from below drew his attention to the courtyard.
A number of people had gathered there. Frowning, Gill left his room, feeling a sense of obligation to check on his trophy. The innkeeper was standing at his desk in the otherwise empty inn. Usually the place would be abuzz with staff and guests, but it seemed that everyone was elsewhere.
“I’ll take breakfast shortly,” Guillot said.
“Very good, my Lord.”
“Those people in the stable yard?”
“Ah, yes,” the concierge said. “I think word has gotten out about what you brought back with you.”
Guillot grunted with displeasure. The last thing he wanted was people helping themselves to bits of his dragon. He went outside to clear them away and discovered that the reason they were congregated in a huddle was because the stable boy was keeping them away from the tarpaulin-covered trophy with a pitchfork. The lad couldn’t have been much more than fifteen, and was as much dirt as boy, but clearly he had more mettle than many who would consider themselves his better.
“What do you want?” Guillot said to the group in as imperious a tone as he could muster. He already knew the answer, but wanted to get their attention. He rested his hand on the pommel of his sword the way bannerets often did when trying to affect a casual air.
“Came to see the beast’s head, Lord,” one of the townspeople said. “To see if it’s really dead.”
The bunch had a rough look about them, and Guillot had to admire the boy’s courage in standing up to them. There was nothing to be gained in trying to shoo them off—they’d only come back as soon as Gill left.
“Pay the lad a penny each and you can have a look. If anyone tries to touch it, I’ll make sure their head lies next to the dragon’s.”
The men reached for their coin purses with far more enthusiasm than Guillot had expected. Then again, seeing a dragon’s head was a story they’d be telling for the rest of their lives. The fact that it had tried to kill him twice meant the novelty had lost most of its lustre for Gill. Until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to him that there was income to be made from it.
“The money’s all yours,” Gill said to the stable boy before going inside for breakfast.
With the inn all but empty, Guillot had his pick of tables in the lounge. He was curious to see how people reacted to the grotesque sight beneath the tarpaulin, so chose one by a window with an oblique view of the stable yard, including the large pile of manure therein. Even had the dining room been full, he suspected this table would have been vacant because of that. The view was a little more interesting today, however.
Over the course of his meal, more and more people arrived at the yard; apparently word was spreading among those who remained in Trelain. He reckoned that the stable boy would earn enough to retire on by the end of the week if things continued like that. Unfortunately, the dragon’s head, though recently slaughtered, was unlikely to cooperate for much longer without the assistance of a taxidermist. While Guillot had long since put his pretensions of glory behind him, a dragon’s head was too impressive a trophy to allow to rot into oblivion. Hopefully there was a taxidermist still in town, or the proof of Gill’s deed would be little more than a bleached skull in a few weeks.