He returned to the others, who had taken a table by the fire, and relayed the news.
“What does that mean for us?” Solène said.
Worry was clear on her face. Considering all she had seen and done over the past weeks, the fact that the Prince Bishop frightened her said a lot. He frightened Gill, too.
“Opportunities and problems,” Gill said. “On the one hand, there’s no longer anyone to veto what Amaury does. Without the king keeping him in check, he’s free to do as he likes. That could cause us problems, if we get caught.
“On the other hand, such a huge disturbance means things will be pretty chaotic up at the palace, and that represents our opportunity. There’ll never be a more dangerous time for us to do what we need to do, but I doubt we’ll ever have a better chance at success. I’ll head out in the morning to take a look at the lay of the land. Until then, I think we could all do with a good night’s sleep.”
CHAPTER 7
Val had to quickly learn the routine of life at Maestro dal Ruisseau Noir’s salon. His hours of tuition were intermingled with the classes taken by the Maestro’s paying clients, and his day was always split by a short trip to the Wounded Lion to fetch a pie and flagon of small beer for the Maestro.
He mopped the floors between clients, and after even a few days his hands had become permanently scented by the fine oil the training blades were coated with after every use. Dal Ruisseau Noir appeared to be happy with his service, rarely commenting on any shortcomings in Val’s work, and was proving to be an excellent swordsman and tutor.
The Maestro struck Val as being very much what Gill would have referred to as a “peacock” and seemed cut from the same cloth as the last peacock Val had met, Didier dal Beausoleil. Beausoleil had proved to be made from a much higher grade of cloth than most men Val had encountered and he hoped dal Ruisseau Noir would be the same. The man was a fine swordsman, with a muscular and athletic physique, something he chose to hide underneath the clothing of a dandy. Val saw similarly dressed men all about the city; they appeared to think that swords were a decorative accessory, rather than a tool by which a man might make his living. Val wasn’t sure why dal Ruisseau Noir did this—perhaps to affect an air of affluence in front of prospective clients.
Val’s skills had notably improved in his three days at the salon; he felt that he had a natural talent for the discipline, even if he did say so himself. One of the benefits of watching other students was comparing himself to them. Like him, most of dal Ruisseau Noir’s clients were young men training for their entrance exam, and despite the fact that he had far less training and tuition under his belt, he wasn’t all that far behind them, and was gaining with each day.
He reckoned it was all about determination. Most of the other students were rich boys; the sons of aristocrats and wealthy merchants. Val had no family. While they all realised that entry to the Academy wasn’t a given, that they had to work hard for it, none of them had quite the edge that Val had. They’d never been hungry for anything in their lives. None of them had spent days on end shovelling horse shit and sleeping in a stable. He reckoned the threat of going back to that pushed him to succeed.
Those boys were sent here by their fathers. Val had worked for years toward getting to this position because he wanted it, not because someone else told him it was what he should do. He was champing at the bit for dal Ruisseau Noir to allow him to spar with one of the other students. Until he tested himself, he wouldn’t really know for sure.
Until then, all he could do was work as diligently as he could, and practise in every spare moment. He still had a long way to go, and a finite amount of time to get there. At moments it seemed like a monumental, nearly overwhelming, task, but he supposed it was no different from a huge pile of horse manure—you could only clear it one shovel-load at a time.
Not that he’d touched a shovel in weeks. Now it was a mop—which he was using at that moment to wipe the sweat off the salon’s mirror-polished wooden floor—or a lunch pail. His reward was that he got to hold a sword. Even if it all went wrong, that experience could never be taken away from him. It was enough to bring a smile to his face.
“What’s got you so cheerful?” dal Ruisseau Noir said, appearing out of the changing room at the rear of the salon. “Menial labour is supposed to drain the soul.”
“Might be menial,” Val said. “But it’s better than shovelling shit.”
Dal Ruisseau Noir raised his eyebrows and nodded. “That it is. A fine way to look at it. Anyhow, no time to discuss philosophy, I’ve some errands to attend. I’ll be back late, so lock up when you leave. Unless, of course, you’re planning on staying here tonight. Again.” He gave Val a knowing smile.
Val had been staying there for a few days now. Although he wasn’t even close, yet, to running out of money, he reckoned it was foolish to keep spending it on an inn if he didn’t have to. After the first day of their agreement, dal Ruisseau Noir had given Val a key so he could lock up if leaving after the Maestro. The idea of sleeping there to save a few coins had occurred to Val almost immediately.
He’d been careful. Each morning he rose early, washed in the small dressing room at the back of the hall, packed up his few belongings and spare clothes, and left the salon before the Maestro arrived. He’d take a slow walk around the block, and arrive shortly before his appointed hour, to demonstrate his diligence. Dal Ruisseau Noir hadn’t shown any inkling that he knew what Val was up to before now, and Val wondered what had given him away. Had the gift of the key been a veiled invitation? Swordsmen were supposed to be proud and haughty, and the offer of charity was not something an aspiring banneret should ever contemplate.
“I…” Val said.
“Good thinking, if you ask me,” dal Ruisseau Noir said. “Wish I’d thought of it myself. Better to have someone here at night to keep the burglars away. What with the city in such a miasma, the ne’er-do-wells are out in force.” He doffed his hat at Val. “I’ll see you in the morning, then.”
He left before Val had the opportunity to respond. The young man stood there for a moment, not quite believing that his worry about discovery had been so easily dealt with, then shrugged and got back to his mopping.
Val woke with a start and looked around. There was nothing to see in the pitch-dark salon. None of the light from the magelamps in the street reached the salon’s windows, so the darkness was total. There was a thud on the door and Val was instantly reminded of what dal Ruisseau Noir had said about having someone there to deter burglars.
There was another thud. He lay deathly still in his bedroll on the wooden floor, and tried to decide what to do. Should he make noise in the hope of scaring whoever it was away? Should he sneak over to the weapons locker as quietly as possible, arm himself, and surprise the intruder?
Another thud was followed by a whisper. “Let me in.”
It was dal Ruisseau Noir. Despite the darkness, Val easily found the door and opened it. The Maestro stumbled in. Was he drunk? Dal Ruisseau Noir turned and shut the door, gasping as he locked it again. There was pain in the sound.
“Are you all right?” Val said.
“Be a good lad and fetch the medicines chest from the closet,” dal Ruisseau Noir said.
It was too dark and his surroundings too unfamiliar for Val to do that without light, so he bumbled around for a moment until he found and lit the lamp he kept by his bed.