There were more people out here—guards standing sentry duty at various doorways leading to important parts of the palace, groups of nobles discussing matters that were probably far less consequential than the aristocrats were making them out to be, with their hushed voices and severe expressions. Other courtiers moved about too, the “dandies” as they were usually known—those who participated in society for society’s sake, rather than for any political or career motivation. Lastly, there were the unnoticed, like Gill, Solène, and Pharadon.
No one even spared them a glance as they passed. Despite Guillot’s earlier fears, being dressed as servants seemed to be the perfect disguise. Why would you need a weapon when you don’t exist?
There was only one clerk in the antechamber of Amaury’s office suite. He looked tired, a harried expression on his face. Amaury had never been easy on his staff, and that didn’t seem to have changed. Gill felt bad—what he was about to do wasn’t going to be pleasant for the clerk, but at least it wouldn’t be fatal. A chokehold would have the man out cold in only a moment, and aside from a wicked headache bad enough to rival the most malignant of hangovers, he would be none the worse for it when he woke up.
“Can I help you?” the clerk said as Gill moved toward him swiftly.
Before Gill reached him, the aide twitched suddenly, then slumped in his seat, chin on his chest, mouth open and eyes shut. He started to snore. Gill cast Solène a glance and she shrugged. He hadn’t seen her do that since the highwaymen had tried their luck with him and dal Sason after they’d rescued Solène from a witch hunt in Trelain. It seemed like a lifetime ago and he’d all but forgotten that she was capable of such feats. Probably far more now, after the training and practice she’d had.
“The Cup is yours, Pharadon, but Amaury is mine,” Gill said. “I’ll be the one to kill him. Understand?”
Both Pharadon and Solène nodded. Guillot opened the door, revealing Amaury dal Richeau, Prince Bishop of the Unified Church, First Minister of Mirabaya, and now Regent. Despite all the grand titles he’d amassed, he was still the puffed-up prick Gill knew him to be.
Clad in his usual powder blue, the Prince Bishop looked up from a pile of paperwork, pen in hand. His face twisted with irritation at the disturbance, and it took him a moment to recognise Gill. Surprisingly, his reaction was to smile.
“I’d rather hoped you’d be dead by now,” the Prince Bishop said. “Life seems to be full of disappointments.”
“That’s funny,” Gill said. “I was going to say exactly the same thing.”
“And you,” the Prince Bishop said, turning his gaze on Solène. “After all I offered you, you chose to betray me.”
“Everything you offered came with a price I wasn’t willing to pay,” she said.
He shrugged, then looked at Pharadon. “You, I don’t know. While I can speculate with reasonable authority on what brings Gill and Solène to my office on this fine autumn morning, I’m at a loss when it comes to you. Have I caused you injury at any point, or are you simply in Gill’s employ?”
“I’ve come to retrieve something that doesn’t belong to you,” Pharadon said calmly.
“Ah,” the Prince Bishop said. “The new Cup? Is it yours?”
“After a fashion,” Pharadon said.
“After a fashion,” the Prince Bishop repeated. He moved a bundle of papers to one side, revealing the Cup sitting on the table.
It was exactly like the one Gill had found, and he couldn’t be certain it was the one they were after—the unused Cup that Pharadon needed to ensure the goldscale dragon reached enlightenment.
“Is that it?” Gill whispered to Pharadon.
“That is it,” Pharadon said.
“You’re sure. He has two of them now.”
“That is the unused Cup.”
“I’m sorry,” the Prince Bishop said. “I hate to interrupt, but I’m very busy, so can we move along? You’re here to take the Cup from me, so come and take it.”
Gill studied him. He was very confident for a man facing three opponents. It wouldn’t be beyond Amaury to try bluffing them, to stall for time until help could arrive. He probably had a bellpull under his desk, connected to the nearest guardroom. Then again, he might have something up his sleeve, and Gill didn’t have a sword to dig his way out of trouble with, only a dagger. It would be enough to deal with this ponce, though. Gill didn’t expect Amaury to have a sword—it wouldn’t look right with his church vestments.
“Give us the Cup and this doesn’t need to get unpleasant,” Gill said, oddly feeling bad for the lie.
The Prince Bishop laughed. “How very sporting an offer. However, I’m afraid I must decline. Perhaps I can offer you something else? After all our history, I won’t lie to you, offer you a role in my government, titles, and a happy-ever-after in Mirabaya, but I can offer you a large sum of gold on the understanding you leave the country on the first ship and never come back.”
He scanned the others. “I can offer you all the same deal. Ordinarily I wouldn’t even be this generous, and as much as I’d like to see your head on a spike, Gill, I’ve far bigger matters to deal with, and swatting mosquitoes is something I simply don’t have the time for.”
“You say the sweetest things, Amaury,” Gill said. “Shame you couldn’t have been so generous when you were convincing old Boudain to have me done for treason.” He knew he didn’t have time for verbal sparring, but if he was going to kill Amaury, Gill wanted him to know that he knew all the wrongs done against him.
“Ah, you know about that?”
“I suspected, but now I do. Like you said, we’ve a lot of history. A turd that big won’t make it under the bridge with the water. Give me the Cup and I’ll end you fast and painlessly.”
The Prince Bishop gasped in mock indignation. “Well, when you put it like that.”
He reached for the Cup and Gill moved to cut him off, drawing his dagger. He was too slow—the Prince Bishop lifted the Cup, put it to his lips, and tipped it back.
Pharadon roared. Solène blasted the Prince Bishop into the back wall of his office. He sat there a moment, dazed, shaking his head. Gill grabbed him by the neck and hauled him to his feet.
“You greedy bastard,” Gill said, holding his dagger to Amaury’s neck. “There’ll never be enough for you, will there? You’ll always want more. I wonder which hell you’ll end up in.” Before he could cut Amaury, he found himself flying back across the room and slamming into the wall with a brain-rattling impact. Groaning, Gill did his best to get back to his feet while trying to stop the room from spinning around him.
“Well, I’ve definitely never managed anything like that before,” the Prince Bishop said, “so I’d say it’s worked. To think, it’s been sitting on my desk, full to the brim, for a couple of days now, and I was too afraid to drink from it.”
Gill looked up at Pharadon and was pained by the distraught look on the old dragon’s face. He stared dumbfounded at the Cup, lying on the floor. It was Gill’s fault. If he hadn’t insisted on being the one to kill the Prince Bishop, the bastard would be dead and they’d be on their way out of the palace with the king, the Cup, and the realm saved. He was a fool. Such a bloody fool.
“I have to thank you, Gill,” Amaury said. “You’re the perfect cure for the paralysis of indecision. Do I know enough to make it work? Should I take the chance? You forced my hand. All that wasted emotional energy. Not good for the heart. Still, all’s well that ends well. You won’t, of course. End well, that is.”
The Prince Bishop smashed him into the wall again. It was an odd sensation. Not initially painful, it was like being hit by a wave. The impact was the thing, and that knocked the air from his lungs and filled his vision with stars.