He drummed his fingers with agitation as he did his best to pretend he wasn’t watching Val conclude his exchange. What had the lad gotten himself into? Once the scroll was handed over, Val visibly relaxed, then came to join Gill. The coffees arrived a moment later, and Gill took as much of the hot liquid into his mouth in one go as he could manage. The warmth coursed through him and helped him relax.
“So,” Gill said, “if old Hubert has gone to the gods, what have you been doing?”
“I found myself a new tutor,” Val said proudly. “Hugo dal Ruisseau Noir.”
He explained what had happened since he had reached Mirabay; nothing about the story even hinted at where the note sealed with black wax had come from. Other than this new fencing tutor, dal Ruisseau Noir, Val didn’t seem to have had any worthwhile interactions with anyone in the city. How did a lad like him get caught up in Intelligencier business after such a short time in the city? In the end, he was left with no option but to ask.
“Val, I couldn’t help but notice you passing a note to the innkeeper.”
“Oh, that?” Val said, blushing enough to confirm that he was about to lie. “I deliver messages for a few businessmen. It doesn’t pay much, but it’s enough to keep me going.”
“The black wax the note was sealed with. Do you know what that signifies?”
Val narrowed his eyes, then shook his head.
“That’s the Intelligencier seal,” Gill said. “Interfering or tampering with it is an instant death sentence. Only the intended recipient is allowed to open it. Even handling it without proper authority can get you killed. Where did you get it?”
“I … I really can’t say.”
Gill nodded slowly. The truth was, it was none of his business, but he didn’t like to think the lad had gotten into something over his head. “If you’re in trouble, I’ll do my best to help you. I’d like to think you can trust me. Not many men can say they’ve faced down dragons together.”
Val chewed his lip for a moment. “There are people in the city who are concerned for the king.”
“I heard he was taken ill.”
Val shook his head. “That’s not what I heard,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I’ve heard that there’s nothing wrong with the king, that the Prince Bishop is behind this whole magic thing, and threw the king into the dungeons when Boudain tried to stop him. There are people looking into it.” He smiled with conspiratorial glee. “I’m helping.”
Gill leaned back into his chair and thought for a moment. “And these people plan to do what, exactly?”
Val shrugged. “I don’t know that. Not yet. But I suppose they’re going to free the king, and put him back on his rightful throne.”
“Easier said than done,” Gill said. “That’s a dangerous business to be in. Are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?”
Val looked sheepish. “No. No, I don’t, but I’m in it now, and it feels like the right thing to do. If the Prince Bishop has overthrown the king, someone has to stop him. What right do I have to expect someone else to do that for me? I’m here. I’m involved. What other option is there?”
Gill nodded slowly. It was a noble sentiment, and he could see some of his own youthful attitude in Val. However, he’d learned the hard way that noble sentiments were often a slippery path to disaster. However, this might be the opportunity Gill had been looking for.
“Can I ask how you got into this?”
“It’s a long story,” Val said. “One that I’d rather not go into.”
Gill took another mouthful of coffee and wiped his moustache. If these people Val had taken up with were trying to get at Amaury, they might prove useful allies. He couldn’t trust anyone without a vested interest in this, and if they were trying to restore the king to his rightful place, perhaps he could tag along for the ride and snatch the Cups when the time was right. Assuming they were in any way competent. The few conspiracy groups he’d helped stamp out when in the Royal Guard were little more than drinking clubs of idiots with grand ideas, big mouths, and no ability. At the very least, they might provide a more subtle distraction than having Pharadon torch part of the city.
“I’d like to meet this group,” Gill said.
Val looked panicked.
“It’s nothing untoward,” Gill said. “I think that our interests could be aligned, and we might be of assistance to one another.”
His words did little to settle the lad. Gill knew that Val had said far more than his new friends would be happy with, and it would be difficult to progress along this avenue without him suffering some loss of esteem. Still, perhaps it would show what a forward-thinking good judge of character he was. Gill smiled to himself. Unlikely.
Solène walked in and Pharadon appeared a moment later. Each day that went by, his human appearance became more and more natural; Gill couldn’t see any flaws in his appearance. There might be hundreds, thousands of dragons living amongst people, without anyone knowing. It was a sobering thought, but at least if they could turn into human form, they were enlightened, and unlikely to go on a rampage of flame and slaughter.
“You might remember Solène,” Gill said, as his companions approached. “She stayed at the Black Drake with me. This other handsome fellow is our new comrade, Pharadon.” For a moment Gill considered going into greater detail, then thought better of it. “Everyone, this is Val, my erstwhile squire. I think he may be able to help us.”
CHAPTER 9
Val refused to take all three of them to meet his contact, and was clearly uncomfortable having Gill with him without having first discussed it with his mysterious confederates. Gill didn’t like pressuring him into it, but he reckoned it would be for the best in the long run. He didn’t want to hang about.
The walk from the Wounded Lion was shorter than Guillot expected; despite what Val had told him about his new tutor, Gill was surprised to find that their destination was a fencing salon. In Guillot’s experience, political agitators tended to be of a more cerebral nature, frequenting coffeehouses and reading rooms more often than training venues. However, it appeared that Val’s new fencing master was one of the conspirators. Judging by that wax seal, he was also likely an Intelligencier. Dangerous men to be involved with, Gill thought, but needs must.
An Intelligencier wasn’t likely to support a ruler who was trying to reinstitute magic, given that their primary purpose was to prevent the scourge of sorcery from ever rearing its head again. Access to their network was exactly what Gill needed, but he’d have to play his hand very carefully. They were likely to turn on him, Solène, and Pharadon if they learned the truth.
In the salon, he was presented with one man overseeing two students working their way through the positions—the series of guards that all trainee swordsmen practised daily until they were perfect in form and had become second nature.
The maestro, whom Gill took to be dal Ruisseau Noir, frowned as soon as his gaze fell on Gill. He drew himself up and immediately dismissed his students. “That will be enough for today, boys. I’ll see you at the same time tomorrow.”