Clearly something had gone wrong, and he didn’t know what.
He chewed the matter over for a moment, and came to the conclusion that the dearth of information didn’t matter. He had his orders, and in the absence of instructions to the contrary, the correct course was to follow them. He stretched his arm, shoulder, and neck, and smiled broadly when he completed the movement entirely free of pain. The girl had worked wonders, though the amount of power she appeared to wield was a concern. He had no desire to die in the execution of his duty, and he knew she would side with Gill in the event of a fight.
He would have to wait until they were apart, and if necessary, kill them both. He knew the Prince Bishop wouldn’t be happy with the loss of his protégé, but Nicholas felt confident that her presence in Trelain wasn’t on the Prince Bishop’s orders. If she was as strong as she seemed to be, she posed too big a threat to be allowed to live if there was even a hint of uncertainty as to her loyalty. Both Solène and Gill had to die.
He swung his feet out of bed and sat up, rotating his shoulder as he did. It was amazing how quickly one became accustomed to debilitating pain. With each revolution he expected the agonising grind of broken bone to spear through him. That it did not was an enjoyable novelty. He dressed quickly and strapped on his sword belt.
Nicholas didn’t think of himself as an assassin, though that was the role he found himself playing most often. There was a way of doing things in polite society, and if someone needed a nobleman or banneret killed, it was frowned upon to do it with a dagger in a dark alley. Nicholas had found his niche quickly after leaving the Academy: “Duellist for hire” was the way he preferred to think of himself. If his clients wanted only to draw blood, he would draw blood. If they wanted to maim, he would maim. If they wanted to kill, he would oblige. The Prince Bishop’s patronage would change his life, and he couldn’t afford to fail.
Killing Guillot would be a different matter, however. Given Gill’s reputation, Nicholas considered using a dagger and striking when it was least expected. However, while cleaner living over the past couple of weeks had cleaned the rust off Gill’s edges, Nicholas was confident that he was still a long way from the man he had once been. A somewhat recovered has-been alcoholic should not give him too much trouble. Unfortunately, Guillot wasn’t alone.
He smiled as he adjusted his tunic and pulled on his cloak. What was the witchcraft accuser’s name again? Nicholas struggled to remember details about the man who had accused Solène of witchcraft. That encounter seemed like it had taken place long ago—the details were fuzzy in his memory. He slipped out of the Black Drake unseen, revelling in the pleasure of being out of doors and pain free. Perhaps revisiting the scene would jog his memory. Concealed under the hood of his cloak, Nicholas made the short walk from the inn to the small town square where the mob had tried to burn Solène.
It was a very different place now, virtually empty rather than filled with a bloodthirsty crowd. Remembering where he had been on his previous visit, albeit on horseback, he moved to that spot. He visualised Gill riding forward, his horse brazenly shoving people out of the way. He recalled the imperious, utterly confident way Guillot had commanded someone to tell him what was going on and the unquestioning obedience of the townspeople in response.
Unfocussing his eyes, Nicholas receded into his mind, placing himself back at that moment: the crowd, the noise, the atmosphere of anger and bloodlust. Guillot’s forceful questioning. The man who had denounced Solène.
Arnoul. Arnoul, Master of the Tanners’ Guild. Nicholas smiled to himself and grabbed a passer-by.
“The Tanners’ Guild house. Where is it?”
“Jerome’s Square, my Lord,” the man said, looking uneasy at Nicholas’s unexpected attack. He pointed in the direction. “Can’t miss it.”
Nicholas let the man go and set off without even considering an apology. The sooner he was done with this, the sooner he could return to Mirabay to reap his reward. Once he’d reclaimed his ancestral home and lands, there would be no more fighting other men’s duels. And no more dragon-slaying. No amount of gold or promotion could tempt him to repeat that folly.
Jerome’s Square was not far and the Tanners’ house was well marked and easily found. Entering, Nicholas found a clerk working at a desk. “The Master of the Guild,” Nicholas said. “I wish to speak with him.”
“He’s very busy,” the clerk said. “Leave a calling card and we’ll arrange an appointment.”
“I’ll see him now,” Nicholas said, his temper flaring, “or I’ll drag you out into the street and beat your impertinent teeth from your face.” He pushed back his cloak to free the hilt of his sword.
The clerk looked up, his eyes widening when he realised that he wasn’t dealing with a commoner. “Apologies, my Lord. I’ll see if he’s available.”
“Do that,” Nicholas said, taking a seat on a bench by the door.
Arnoul wasn’t long in coming. Nicholas recognised him from the day on the square, although he looked less rattled than he had on that day. The piggy eyes were the same.
Nicholas stood.
“My Lord,” Arnoul said. “If you’d like to come this way, I’ll do my best to see to whatever you need.”
“I haven’t the time,” Nicholas said. “I’ve come to deliver a message. A few weeks ago, you accused a young woman of witchcraft.” Arnoul’s face reddened. “She’s back in town. Staying at the Black Drake. She hasn’t been punished and likely won’t be unless someone does something about it. I don’t know how much longer she’ll be there, so I suggest you move quickly.” Arnoul’s eyes narrowed and he licked his lips before speaking.
“I thank you, my Lord. If you’ll give me leave, I’ll attend to it at once.”
“By all means,” Nicholas said. “I don’t want to see justice go unserved.”
Nicholas walked out of the Tanners’ house and headed for the Black Drake. He still hadn’t decided on how he wanted to deal with Gill. If Gill was with Solène when Arnoul and his lackeys turned up, he would fight to protect her, and with her magic added to the mix, it could get messy. Very messy.
Ideally the two would be apart when it happened, then Nicholas could draw Guillot into a duel. He hoped Arnoul’s anger at what Solène had done to him was still smouldering hot enough to inspire him to immediate action, but Nicholas supposed waiting a day or so wouldn’t make a great deal of difference. The dragon might torch a few more villages, but that wasn’t really his concern. So long as it was stopped before it got to Mirabay, or to his own village and demesne at Sason, he didn’t give a damn. Even wiping Trelain off the map wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen. It was a dirty hole of a town with nothing to commend it, as far as he was aware.
Nearing the Black Drake, he loitered in a small alleyway opposite, curious to see if something would grow from the seeds he had sown. The easiest way to kill someone was if a good distraction kept the target from thinking of their own situation. That principle held true just as much in duels as it did in an outright assassination. If some blood spilled unnecessarily along the way, he wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it.
He didn’t have to wait long before he saw a crowd of men coming down the street. They were nine strong, and several held weapons of some sort—a club, a smith’s hammer, a short sword. He felt a momentary pang of sympathy for the staff at the Black Drake, who were accustomed to a certain standard of client. None of the men marching on it at that moment came even close to fitting the bill. It wasn’t going to be a pretty scene, nor a pleasant experience for anyone standing in the mob’s way.
Nicholas stole across the street to the stable yard, then into the Black Drake and up the back stairs to Gill’s room; there he collected Gill’s sword, which hung in its scabbard from a bedpost. Then he took up a position where he could overlook the taproom. He could see Gill and Solène sitting at a table, likely waiting for him to wake so they could get on with whatever they planned to do next.
The inn’s front door slamme
d open and the mob barged in, Arnoul at their head, brandishing a walking stick with a large, polished head that suggested it was designed for more than just walking.
“There she is,” he roared, pointing to a visibly surprised Solène. “Take her.”
The behaviour of bullies never ceased to amuse Nicholas. The chief bully, the one with the greatest desire for the end result, always kept the greatest distance, always had others carry out their aims. In certain ways Arnoul was similar to the Prince Bishop, Nicholas reflected. Both were men of influence within their spheres, and both had something to offer the men doing their bidding. It was a sad reflection on the world, he thought, that no matter how high you rose, base instinct and behaviour would always out. Still, when you understood the way of the world, you could thrive in it, and Nicholas had always prided himself on clearly seeing how things worked.
Guillot had jumped to his feet, his hand instinctively going for his sword, which was not there. It wasn’t the done thing to wear a sword in the taproom of a respectable establishment. There were plenty of inns where to go without one was an act of idiocy, but the Black Drake was not one of them. Gill stared down the men Arnoul had commanded to seize Solène, and something of a standoff developed as they tried to work out how much of a danger he represented. Nicholas allowed the standoff to continue a moment longer before making his way down to the taproom.
“Gentlemen, please,” he said, trying to ignore the rising tension he felt. Although Guillot was toothless, Nicholas had no real idea what Solène was capable of. “Master Arnoul, you may take the witch. However, her companion is to be left to me.”
CHAPTER
44
“What in hells are you playing at, dal Sason?” Guillot said. The absence of a sword at his side felt like a stinging wound. The best weapon he had to hand was the chair he had just been sitting on. And Solène. After the trauma of killing for the first time, another confrontation was the last thing she needed, though her spirits had lifted considerably when she successfully used her magical gifts to heal dal Sason. Guillot worried that having to kill again so soon might break her.
“It’s a long, complicated story that I really couldn’t be bothered to go into,” dal Sason said. “Suffice to say, she’s going to be taken away, then you and I are going to have a chat.”
“Now might be a good time to conjure something up,” Guillot said.
Solène looked terrified, then her expression hardened, giving him hope that she would magic the whole situation away. His heart sank when she shook her head. “I won’t,” she said. “I can’t.”
“You can’t let them take you,” Guillot said. “You know what happened the last time.”
She gave him a sad smile. “I do, but I don’t care. It’s better than the alternative. I won’t kill again. Not ever.”
“Well, now that we’ve got that out of the way,” dal Sason said. “Master Arnoul?” He nodded at Solène.
Arnoul barked another order, and his men, emboldened, grabbed her and started to haul her to the door. Guillot took a step forward, taking a firm grip on the chair. Solène shook her head again, but dal Sason’s blade at his throat stopped Gill from lifting it and charging. Laughing harshly, the men manhandled Solène out of the taproom, leaving Guillot and dal Sason alone—anyone not involved had long since fled.
“What now?” Guillot said.
“Let’s go out into the stable yard.”
With a sword point at his throat, Guillot couldn’t argue. He had been around long enough to know that opportunity presented itself at the most unexpected moments. He nodded gently, careful not to cut himself on dal Sason’s blade.
Outside, he was greeted by cool air and the harsh tang of horse dung. A few paces from the inn’s door, he turned to face dal Sason, looking around him for anything he might be able to use as a weapon. There was only a half-full pail of water. Or perhaps night soil.
“So, we’re here,” Guillot said.
“Didn’t want anyone else to see this,” dal Sason said. “When the announcement is made, you’ll have died a hero’s death at the dragon’s claws.”
“The Academy must really be dropping its standards if it’s producing graduates willing to kill in cold blood,” Guillot said, hoping to bait him.
“Oh, come on,” dal Sason said. “That’s the most facile thing I’ve ever heard. The Academy’s been producing cold-blooded killers for centuries. Honour is only for rich boys who never have to get their hands dirty.”
“Sason a bit of a shit-hole then?” Guillot said.
Dal Sason merely smiled. “Far from it,” he said. “Sadly, my father managed to gamble most of it away. Honour is simply a dish that I cannot afford.”
“So being the Prince Bishop’s little errand boy means you’ll get it all back?”
“Something like that,” dal Sason said, throwing Guillot his sword.
Guillot caught it, more surprised than ever. “I’m not sure I follow what’s going on here.”
Dal Sason smiled. “I’ve always wanted to fight a Competition winner. I’ll be even happier to kill one.”
“Find Briché, then. I hear he’s let himself slide even worse than I have. So fat that you could thrust backwards and still hit him.”
Dal Sason burst into an attack, in no way distracted by Guillot’s effort at humour. Gill danced back across the cobbles of the stable yard, parrying dal Sason’s expert attacks, all the while hoping there wasn’t a steaming pile of horse manure stacked up behind him. There were far better ways to go than bleeding out on a heap of horse shit.
Dal Sason overreached and Guillot pounced on the opportunity, countering and firing in thrusts as quickly as he could, driving dal Sason back toward the inn.
“So you haven’t drunk it all away, then,” dal Sason said.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Guillot said, thrusting as fast as he could. It was he who was disappointed, however, when he saw how easily dal Sason parried it.
He backed away to slow things down. Already his chest heaved and his arm burned. It was difficult to accept that he was long past the best he would ever be. More difficult still to accept that he might die because of it. Dal Sason was younger, in better practise, and hadn’t spent the last few years looking into a bottle. Gill sucked in great breaths, but knew it would take more than a few gasps of air to get him through the next few moments.
Dal Sason advanced, attempting to close the distance, but Guillot didn’t give him the satisfaction of controlling the fight and backed off, staying out of range.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid to die,” dal Sason said nastily. “From the state I found you in, I’m surprised you don’t welcome it. Looked as though you were waiting for it to come and the sooner the better.”
Guillot wiped the sweat from his brow and kept backtracking, knowing there wasn’t much farther to go before he’d run into the wall of the stable. He had seen swordsmen behave like dal Sason—he’d even done it himself. When you are so confident of victory, when you are so certain that you have the measure of your opponent, like a cat, you start to toy with them, to revel in your mastery of a life-or-death situation. You know you have faced another in a mortal dance, and triumphed.
Dal Sason attacked again, lunging in a smooth, powerful movement. Solène had done too good a job healing him. Why hadn’t she left even a little crack in one of his ribs? Guillot parried and spun to the side, hoping to get around dal Sason so he would be able to retreat toward the other side of the courtyard. He needed time to think—something in precious short supply during a duel.
He saw the way the fight was going as well as dal Sason. It was only a matter of time before he missed a parry and was skewered. He wasn’t so prideful as to believe he could push for victory solely by gritting down and relying on his speed and skill. Both had long since departed him. He was still good, he would allow himself that much, but dal Sason was better.
Dal Sason came at him again. He parried and tried to riposte, but the parry had left
him so off balance that he stumbled and missed his target by so much that dal Sason didn’t even bother to try to defend himself.
“How sad,” dal Sason said. “I’m only sorry I didn’t get to see you in your prime so I’d have something to compare to this sorry exhibition.”
“I thought you did see me?” Guillot said.
Dal Sason smiled and shrugged. “I’ve never been a particularly good liar. I always forget what I’ve told people.”
“Occupational hazard,” Guillot said, edging back toward the tavern, wondering if he could run faster than dal Sason. Probably not, and even if he could, he would allow himself to sink only so far. Better to die on the sword, even considered a drunken disgrace, than to live as a coward. He wasn’t willing to simply roll over for the assassin, though. The smug grin on dal Sason’s face, his absolute certainty of victory, was galling.
Dal Sason attacked again, but Guillot could tell there was no intent behind it. It was more a demonstration attack, showing perfect form, without commitment to the kill. It was an insult, and Guillot could tell by the look on the other man’s face that dal Sason planned to toy with him until he was too tired to even lift his sword, then make the killing cut at his leisure. And that was Guillot’s answer.
He waited for the next attack and made a haphazard effort to parry. It wasn’t the parry of a completely exhausted man, but indicated that he was nearly there. He followed it with a slow, wobbly lunge. Dal Sason simply stepped aside and laughed. He didn’t even bother coming in with a riposte, though Guillot had left himself dangerously open. That had been a gamble, but dal Sason’s inaction proved his suspicion correct. He retreated again, breathing heavily—that much, at least, wasn’t an act. He stood with his sword en garde, but the point wavering around as though he were halfway through his third bottle of wine.
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