Ysabeau smiled sweetly at a uniformed gallant, then returned the jealous, frosty stares of several young women who viewed her as competition, though they knew they could never gain the attention of the heir to the throne. She didn’t care. In a couple of days, Katherine dal Drenham would cease to exist. Her hair, currently the colour of spun gold, would be black once more, and dal Drenham’s magnificent powder-blue skirts would be replaced by Ysabeau’s riding britches—so much more practical in her line of work. The accent was the thing she most looked forward to being rid of. Her magical gifts allowed her to ape the Humberland twang perfectly, but the tones of Mirabay were the ones she longed to hear. It was rapidly approaching a year since she had fled Mirabaya, but already it felt like a lifetime. She had seen half a dozen countries, and crossed the Middle Sea more times than she cared for. She wanted to go home.
Before she could, she had a job to finish.
CHAPTER 5
Amaury sat in his carriage, the message he had received by pigeon shortly before leaving the palace crumpled in his hand. He was torn between a great, sweeping wave of relief, and one of fury. In the morning he would be able to tell the king that the great threat to the kingdom had been destroyed. However, he would not be able to claim the credit for his Spurriers. According to the message, a man had brought a dragon’s head to Trelain. Guillot dal Villerauvais, Banneret of the White, Chevalier of the Silver Circle. The message had come from one of the spies Amaury employed in the town. Of dal Sason, there was still no word, and Amaury was coming to accept the idea that he was dead.
It was hard to view the Order’s performance as anything other than a failure—the brothers and sisters he had sent with Gill to kill the dragon were dead. Perhaps he had been expecting too much of them? Perhaps they had simply been unlucky? Perhaps he had underestimated Guillot—that option created a bitter taste in his mouth. How could half a decade of idleness and drinking not have dulled the man’s edge to the point of uselessness?
Tapping a knuckle against his forehead, he wondered how events might be spun to his favour. The dragon had only ever been a bump on the road to his true goal, and while it had represented an attractive short-term opportunity, it was irrelevant in the greater scheme of things. He took solace in that, and in reminding himself what he was truly after. The Cup, which would grant him nearly unlimited power. All he had to do was get it from Guillot.
He took a deep breath to still himself. The Cup, then, was his immediate priority. His homegrown talent, both those with magical ability and those without, had been unable to deal with Guillot. As disappointing as that was, Amaury had to accept that Guillot’s skill remained finely honed. To best him meant bringing in outside help. He had some contacts who would undoubtedly be able to point him in the right direction, but his first choice—Ysabeau—might prove impossible to find. And, as much as he wanted to settle things with Gill once and for all, the Cup had to come first. Everything else could wait, no matter how frustrating that was—killing two birds with one stone had simply not worked. His course decided upon, there was no point in delaying. He leaned forward and hit the roof of the carriage three times.
“Three Trees Tavern,” he shouted.
After a muffled response from the driver, the Prince Bishop relaxed back into his cushioned seat. It was unseemly, going to a well-known mercenary hangout, but he knew his mind wouldn’t rest until he had set something in motion. The Three Trees was his best chance of finding what he needed; it was where the best fixer in the city—Luther—spent his days. If Luther couldn’t find the person Amaury needed, they weren’t to be found.
The carriage jolted to a halt. Amaury stepped out before the driver had the chance to open the door for him. He drew his cloak tightly around him, pulling the collar close, glad he had chosen to wear something a little less ostentatious than his pale blue robes of office. It was always better to be unrecognised in such places, save by those with whom you were dealing.
He had visited the tavern on a few occasions over the years, most memorably when he was still training to be a banneret and was curious to see what type of life might await on the other side. Back then, he had thought there was something compelling about the life of men who earned their living with their swords—freedom, excitement, mystery. Now he knew most of them had barely two coins to scrape together. If you were seriously wounded, as he had been, your career was over and you were out on the street. It wasn’t the career for a man with sense, or any other choice.
The Three Trees was much as he remembered it. Its patrons weren’t men who cared much about the upkeep of their drinking establishment. So long as the ale was fresh and reasonably priced, Amaury reckoned the walls could be daubed with cow dung, and no one would care. He kept his head down as he headed toward the snug in the back where Luther held court. He was hailed before he was halfway there.
“Monsieur Grachon, what brings you to the Three Trees?”
Amaury turned, recognising the false name he had used the last time he had hired men there—to disappear the man he suspected of sleeping with his mistress.
“Luther, just the man I was looking for,” Amaury said, relieved that it was Luther, and not someone else, who had recognised him.
“The lovely lady straying again?”
Amaury smiled to conceal a flash of anger. He hated it when people were overly familiar with him. “No, I cut her loose some time ago. I’ve something different in mind.”
“Always a pleasure. The snug is empty, if you’d like to talk with a little more privacy.”
“That would be perfect,” Amaury said, his smile genuine this time. Luther might be overly familiar, but he knew his business, and how to ensure his clients returned every time they had a problem. Luther led him back into a small seating area surrounded by well-worn, decorated mahogany partitions set with panels of frosted glass. A small door gave access to the side of the bar, making the placing and delivery of orders more convenient.
They sat, and Luther wasted no time in getting to business. “What do you need, my Lord? There are a few fine blades looking for work at the moment, so I’m sure we can find someone who fits your needs.”
“I’m not in need of a blade this time,” Amaury said. “There’s an item I would like to obtain, and the owner is proving rather … truculent in handing it over.”
“Smash and grab? Cut and run?”
“I was thinking ‘light fingers,’” Amaury said.
Luther sat back and stroked his chin. After a moment, he nodded. “I can think of a man who might fit the bill. But, truculent, you say?”
“Truculent.”
“Is he handy? Alert?”
“I think it safe to answer in the affirmative to both.”
Luther resumed stroking his chin. “And he’s keeping a close eye on this object?”
“I expect so, although he’s prone to certain lapses of self-control,” Amaury said, nodding toward the bar.
“That could certainly make life easier, but I’ll be honest with you, if he’s handy and keen to keep hold of whatever it is you want, I’m thinking it’s two men you want, not one. Someone to do the lift, and muscle to back him up if things go wrong.”
Amaury frowned, thinking. As with all matters, the fewer people who knew what he was about, the better. He had no doubts regarding Luther’s ability to keep his mouth shut—men in his line of business who couldn’t never had long careers, and Luther had been in the game since Amaury had first wandered into the Three Trees in his youth. Luther knew damn well who “Monsieur Grachon” really was, but never showed even a hint of amusement at the subterfuge. Reflecting that trust, Amaury couldn’t resist asking the question that had been in the back of his mind since he had decided to visit this tavern.