He stopped and set down his pen. A coup. How had he come to such a momentous decision so quickly, and without thinking it over? He was panicking, and that was not good. Amaury stood and went to the window. The garden below was empty, and he allowed his gaze to drift as he considered what he was planning to do.
His people in the palace would be able to give access to his men and keep the king’s guard at bay. He would need a visible presence on the street also. The fact that the people feared the Order would play in his favour for the time being. Or perhaps it was time to have the healers still at the Priory set up clinics—show the people what a help they could be.
The stick or the carrot? Which should he choose? He kneaded his temples with his knuckles and wanted to scream.
It had been a long time since he had contemplated thoughts that would get him beheaded. He had gotten away with it the last time, against a more experienced and stronger king. Why not again? Of course, the last time, he had not been planning on taking the throne for himself, merely replacing its occupant with someone he had thought would be easier to deal with.
This was a far different proposition, and he needed to consider the consequences in more detail. Not only did he have to get rid of Boudain the Tenth, he would have to seize and hold power for himself. That was a far more difficult thing to do. That would make him the target. He didn’t like that idea.
What alternative did he have? The king was going to paint him as the villain who was dragging magic back to the fore. He could imagine the proclamation, portraying the young king as appalled by the practices of a powerful and established minister who had been deposed once his treachery became known.
Still, a coup?
This solution did not sit well with him. It was the act of a panicked man. Something similar had happened in Ostia, across the Middle Sea, only a decade or so before, and that man, Amero dal Moreno, was still known as the Usurper of Ostia, though he had been dead for many years. That was what Amaury would come to be known as. Usurper. Tyrant. Despot. Regicidal Megalomaniac. That was not how he wanted to be known. After all, he had the best interests of the kingdom at heart.
The King of Estranza was finally getting control of his realm, and the Humberlanders had just won a war against their northern neighbours, the Ventish. It was only a matter of time before their attention turned to Mirabay, or her trading posts on the Spice Isles.
A tyrant having recently seized the throne was more than enough reason for any self-respecting monarch to invade their neighbour. No, Amaury thought, I can’t take power for myself. As the thought took hold, he realised that not only could he not safely take it, he didn’t want it. He had everything he wanted where he was, and would soon have even more if the king’s attempt to assert his authority didn’t get in the way.
Who, then, could he place on the throne? Things would be a lot easier if Boudain had managed to squire an heir, Amaury thought. An infant or child on the throne was the ideal puppet through whom he could rule. Given the absence of an heir, Amaury had been named regent when Boudain took the throne, in case the king became incapacitated. None of the cousins presented themselves as particularly attractive, and they all shared the same burden: he would have to get one safely onto the throne and deal with the civil war the rest of them were certain to stir up. Civil war would leave them equally open to invasion.
When a solution finally occurred to him, a broad smile spread across his face.
He didn’t need to overthrow the king. He also didn’t need to find the leverage to make sure he was able to influence the king. What he needed to do was to make the king more malleable. A way to turn everything on him that he was planning to dump on Amaury. He could use the Cup to pacify the young king’s mind, but what then? That only saved the Order from being disbanded. The Prince Bishop was inextricably linked to the Order, so there was no way he could pass the blame for it on to someone else. But then again, he would not need to. As soon as word got back to the city that they had killed the new dragons, that they were ready and willing to continue keeping the people safe from future attacks, they would be embraced. Then he would be able to guide the king in the way that made the most sense for the kingdom, while the Order would be able to continue developing its potential thanks to the Cup and the temple, once Solène found it.
He crumpled up the letters and held them over a candle flame until they took light. A coup was not the way forward. He threw the burning papers into the bronze bucket he used for this purpose, and watched until there was nothing left but ashes. That done, he turned his gaze to the Cup, sitting on his desk. Was there a way to use it that would give him the control over the king that he needed? It had given the Order the ability to fight dragons. It had allowed him to create a powerful light far beyond anything he had been capable of before. It seemed reasonable to presume there was a way to use it to bring the king around to his way of thinking.
He supposed there was only one way to find out.
CHAPTER 42
Gill lifted a fresh beam into place over the doorway into the bakery. It was hard work, and even in the cool autumn evening air, he was sweating. There was still much clearing and heavy lifting to be done in the village, the only labour to which Gill was suited. The masons and carpenters were already working on reconstruction, with some of the burned-out buildings starting to take new shape.
Despite the fact that his arms ached worse than after his first day at the Academy, Guillot felt good about himself for the first time he could remember. He had helped people before, but that had always meant killing or destroying something. This was the first time he was helping to build something that would be of use. He might only be carting away waste and hauling lumber, but the work was deeply satisfying, and it made him wonder why soldiers were lauded while builders largely went unnoticed.
As buoyant as the day’s labour had made him feel, it also dragged him down. This was how things should have been in Villerauvais. How he should have been in Villerauvais. The realisation that it wouldn’t have made any difference was equally saddening. At least the years leading up to that event would have been better. The church bell rang, signalling that the day was done and supper was ready.
With so many homes destroyed, meals were prepared and consumed communally. Rough tables were set up in the square, and the villagers ate and relaxed together after the day’s efforts. They laughed, joked, and teased each other with the same camaraderie Gill had experienced at the Academy and in his old regiment. Their shared day of work for a common cause had created a bond between them the like of which few other things could. The contentment Gill felt made him anxious. He had taken happiness for granted before, and it had been taken from him.
Despite all that had happened to them, the people of Venne were putting a brave face on things; they were rebuilding. Tragedy or mistakes didn’t mean your life was over. You picked yourself up, you rebuilt, you moved on.
A number of horsemen clattered into the square, breaking the contented hum of conversation and laughter. At first Gill thought the newcomers were one of the groups of bannerets returning after an unsuccessful dragon hunt, but a quick glance told him this was not the case. The riders were all wearing the Order’s cream robes. Gill strained to see if Solène was with them, but didn’t recognise anyone.