Gill carried the body inside and laid it on the anointing table. There was nothing more he could do for the lad now. He frowned, thinking, and realised that perhaps there was one more thing.
“Is there a seamstress in the village?” Gill said.
The deacon nodded. “Across the square in the arcade, three doors to the left. The blue one.”
Gill forced a smile of gratitude. As he walked out, the deacon called after him.
“Don’t forget to see to the hole. And the coin.”
Gill smiled wryly to himself. It’s always about the coin.
Getting into the seamstress’s house proved even more of a challenge than the church. It appeared that the town had played host to an army at some point in living memory, and wasn’t going to have the same experience twice. Gill had to borrow some money from dal Coudray, and slide three florins under the door before the seamstress even agreed to open it.
The seamstress was younger than he expected—about the same age as Solène. Gill always imagined seamstresses as grey-haired spinsters, probably because that was what the one in Villerauvais had been. Drawing on his limited creativity, Guillot explained what he wanted in as much detail as he could, then gave her another florin to finish the job before sunrise. He’d paid more than twice what the task should have cost, but had no regrets. Val deserved it.
Everybody had to lie in repose for one passing of the moon—Gill had no idea why—so he had until dawn the next morning to find some men willing to dig the hole. He wandered out toward the tent village, where he found four men willing to dig the grave for three florins apiece—and willing to wait until the job was done to be paid.
His meagre loan now fully accounted for, and then some, Guillot wondered who he should appeal to next. While he was confident he was owed significant back pay, it would have to come from the Crown’s coffers, and Amaury was currently in charge of those, which meant Gill was unlikely to see any of that cash any time soon. The king was unlikely to have remembered his purse during the flight from the palace, what with him being completely debilitated at the time.
It occurred to Guillot that he should return to the inn, to see what progress was being made with the king and find someone willing to advance him a few more coins. When he got inside, he saw that a group were clustered around the table where the king lay. He could not approach—two men on guard duty held him back and threatened to forcibly remove him.
“Hugo,” Gill shouted. It wasn’t polite to use dal Ruisseau Noir’s given name, but the whole assemblage was too unwieldy in the midst of an increasingly less polite struggle.
From the king’s side, dal Ruisseau Noir looked over. “Let him through!”
The guards released him immediately and Gill joined the group around the table.
“This is Banneret of the White Guillot dal Villerauvais, my Lord Savin,” dal Ruisseau Noir said, introducing him to a distinguished-looking gentleman who appeared to be a handful of years older than Gill himself. The Count of Savin had a thick grey moustache and similarly coloured, slicked-back hair that was receding from the temples. He was wearing a white sash, signalling that he was also a Banneret of the White. Gill made the appropriate salute, which the man returned.
“The Dragonslayer?” the count said.
Gill’s eyes flicked to Pharadon, who was also at the table, along with Solène, and several men Gill didn’t recognise. He did his best not to blush, and wondered what Pharadon thought, hearing him referred to like that.
“Merely a servant of the Crown,” Gill said.
The count nodded toward the king. “Why did you bring him here?”
“He’s severely injured, and it’s our duty to do all we can for him. We thought he’d be safe here.”
“You’ve brought a world of trouble down on us,” the count said. “You and your friends. I was hoping to muster my forces here quietly, but now? And this fellow”—he gestured to dal Ruisseau Noir—“says you intend to use magic to heal His Majesty? I’m glad I arrived when I did to inject a little sanity back into the discussion.”
Gill narrowed his eyes and wondered what the count was getting at. Naturally, Savin’s ambitions would be curtailed by the restoration of the king’s health, but having Amaury in charge was a huge danger to him.
“It’s my belief it’s the only option if we want to return the king to his faculties.”
“Magic?” Savin said. “This puts us all in a great deal of danger.”
Dal Ruisseau Noir was staring at Gill intently, and Gill realised that this was not what he had expected either.
“As servants of the Crown, it is our duty to protect the king,” Gill said. “We’ve kept good faith with that, and once the king is returned to good health, I’m sure he will agree that we’ve behaved correctly.” If he’s returned to good health, Gill thought. “As one of royal blood, I think your position is far better served by fidelity to the king than by allegiance to a usurper for whom you represent a rival.”
Savin nodded and looked down at the king. There was no sympathy on his face or in his voice. “He’s not going to be much use to anyone like this. He’s a vegetable.”
The expression on the count’s face caused Gill to feel a flash of alarm. Savin might be the king’s cousin, but he would be a serious contender for the throne if the king were to die. It occurred to Gill that they might have rescued the king from Amaury’s clutches only to drop him into the hungry jaws of avarice.
Before Gill could speak, the look was gone.
“I don’t like all this talk of magic and whatnot, and I don’t like the idea of it being used here.” Savin cast a glowering look around the table. “But it seems that everyone here—” He cast a look at his physician, who nodded vigorously. “—my personal physician included, has agreed that magic is indeed what is needed. That doesn’t change the fact that the Intelligenciers will be after the lot of us if we stand by while it happens.”
“I can assure you the Intelligenciers will overlook this incident as being pursuant to the exigencies of the common good,” dal Ruisseau Noir said. “I can provide my credentials, if necessary.”
Savin looked at dal Ruisseau Noir and raised an eyebrow, then nodded. “My man will take a look.” He gestured with his hand, and one of his aides brought dal Ruisseau Noir away from the group where they spoke for a moment, and dal Ruisseau Noir produced what appeared to be water-stained papers. The aide returned to Savin’s side and whispered in his ear.
Savin nodded. “Very well. If this is what it takes to get the king back to himself and back on the throne, then that’s what will be done. Do your worst, lady magister,” he said, directing his gaze at Solène. “But don’t expect any gratitude for exercising your wicked ways. I’ll be in my campaign tent. I want regular progress reports. Then we’ll go and make sure the Prince Bishop wishes he never set foot outside of his cathedral.”
No one in the group spoke until the count, his aides, and his guards had left the tavern.
“Odd fellow, that,” Gill said then. “Old-fashioned views on magic, yet willing to let us use it to save the king.” He shrugged. “His gratitude was heartwarming, though.”
Solène laughed.
“He knows the fight between him and his cousins will hand the throne to the Prince Bishop,” dal Ruisseau Noir said. “I don’t think the count likes him.”
Gill nodded thoughtfully. “Amaury is an easy man to dislike.”
CHAPTER 19
Ysabeau’s heart was in her throat as she watched the cage containing the still-sleeping dragon lift off the floor. Above, the team of oxen inched forward, hauling the burden out of the chamber. The hoist looked precariously flimsy—slender sticks silhouetted against the light; would they be enough to support the enormous weight of cage and dragon?