“You don’t.”
Jeanne continued to glare at him as though he had done something bad to her. Had he? He searched through the cloud of booze and hangovers that shrouded his memory and came up with nothing.
“Lord Montpareil,” she said.
“What of him?”
“He’s collecting taxes here now.”
Guillot’s mind was too dulled by the hangover from the previous night’s drinking to rouse much anger. Insulting though it was, to have a neighbouring lord exert authority in his demesne, he felt greater concern over how to get his glass filled. He shrugged again.
“It all ends up with the king,” Guillot said. “It’s as well Montpareil collects it as I do. Which I don’t.”
The look of contempt on Jeanne’s face was likewise of less concern to him than getting his glass filled. He gave her his most charming smile but she was unmoved.
“Five years, Gill. We were all happy to have you home, but you’ve been rotting here for five years. The village and all the lands are rotting with you. You’d break your poor mother’s heart if she still lived, gods bless her soul. Don’t think for a second that Lord Montpareil has authority to collect taxes here, or that a single penny of it’s getting to the king. Anyhow, some of that tax money should have been spent here in the village. In case you haven’t noticed, we need it. It’s your job. Him collecting them is an insult to you and an injury to us.”
Gill spread his hands in a beseeching gesture. He’d never expected to hear a complaint about not collecting taxes.
“Something needs to change, Gill. You’re dragging us all down with you.”
There were demesnes in Mirabaya where a vassal could be flogged and hanged for speaking to their nobleman like that. He was glad she felt free enough to say what she thought, but what she said wasn’t to his liking at all. Who was she to say how he lived his life? He knew of plenty of others who were far more decadent than he, taxing their vassals to the bone, then pissing it up against a wall. He only pissed away his own family money.
Jeanne sighed and shrugged. “Maybe we’d be better off with Lord Montpareil. Anyhow, there’s no wine today. No reason for you to stay.” She turned, and with a creak of the door, left Gill alone. He swore, then stood and shambled out.
* * *
Gill sat on his porch the following morning, after a fitful night’s sleep, and watched the lone horseman ride toward the village. His once fine, but now ramshackle, townhouse on the edge of the cluster of buildings that formed Villerauvais afforded him a clear view of anyone approaching, which was a rare occurrence. He drew on his pipe, hoping this person had not come to see him. He hadn’t been able to find any wine in the house and his mood had soured as a result—not that he was ever particularly welcoming to visitors. Their only saving grace was that they were rare in Villerauvais. It was a village at the end of the road. There was nowhere to pass through to.
This person was either lost, or going to make a bad day worse. Gill hadn’t had a drink since Jeanne had cut him off the previous day, hadn’t slept well, and was now approaching his longest period of sobriety in memory. He was in no mood to receive a guest.
The horseman was well dressed in what Gill felt confident in assuming was the latest fashion in Mirabay, and had a colourful feather in his wide-brimmed hat. He didn’t look like a dandy, though. His clothes, fitted and cut to allow movement, were the type worn by men who made their living with a sword. It was hard to imagine what a man like that wanted here—there wasn’t much call for professional swordsmen.
The rider drew up by Gill’s porch and doffed his hat. He looked at Gill as though they knew one another, but Gill couldn’t place him. That wasn’t to say they hadn’t met, however. There were plenty of blank spaces in his memory of life in Mirabay. Even more since then.
“It’s been a long time, Lord Villerauvais,” the newcomer said. “You look … well.”
Gill remained lounging on his rocking chair, his feet resting on the low railing surrounding the porch. His dusty, scruffy boots—including the hole in the left sole—were displayed to anyone who cared to look.
“I look ill and hungover,” Gill said, “which is true on both counts. But I’m afraid you have the advantage of me.”
“Of course.” The rider slipped down from his saddle. “Banneret of the White Nicholas dal Sason at your service.”
Gill shrugged.
“There’s no reason for you to remember me,” dal Sason said. “I was a boy when we met at court. Before I started at the Academy.”
Not knowing how to respond, Gill shrugged again.
“To business, then. The king requests that you return to Mirabay.”
“Ah,” Gill said, stroking his moustache. He had a response to that, but kept it to himself. If the shrug had seemed unfriendly to dal Sason, this answer would scandalise him. “I must admit that comes as something of a surprise,” Gill said. “I rather thought that old Boudain had forgotten about me.”
“He had. He’s dead. I bring his son’s command. King Boudain the Tenth.”
“I hadn’t heard. It can take news some time to reach us out here. When?”
“About six months now.”
Gill nodded. He wondered if the news had truly not reached Villerauvais, or if he was the only one that it had passed by. The latter struck him as far more likely. First Montpareil encroaching on his rights, now this. Jeanne was right, loath though he was to admit it.
“I can’t imagine you were thrilled by the prospect of coming all the way out here.”
Dal Sason shrugged now. “It’s the king’s command, and it’s my duty to obey. As it is yours.”
“The king’s word?”
“The new king is his own man,” dal Sason said. “He’s cut from very different cloth than his father.”
“So he’s forced the Prince Bishop to retire to his estates?” Gill said, his voice pregnant with irony. Prince Bishop Amaury’s cold corpse would have to be prised from his throne when the happy day of his death finally arrived.
Dal Sason blushed. “He’s still at court.”
Gill felt his temper flare. “Let me guess. On this occasion—as with all occasions in my experience—the king’s command reached you via the Prince Bishop’s lips.”
Dal Sason was silent a moment, then sighed. “The king’s word is the king’s word. Orders under his seal are orders under his seal regardless of who hands them to you. You of all people should know that.”
Guillot’s eyes flashed with anger. If there had been a sword within reach, he would have grabbed it.
“I apologise,” dal Sason said, raising his hands and taking a step back. “I didn’t mean anything by that.”
“You may tell the Prince Bishop that I politely decline the king’s summons. I am no longer a courtier and am needed here to manage my estate. Should the Prince Bishop choose to take issue with this, you may tell him to charge me with whatever he pleases, and I shall kill whoever the king’s champion is at my trial. As I did the last time.” Guillot’s gaze followed dal Sason’s to his gut, which strained against the button that held his trousers closed, then to the hand that gripped the arm of his chair to keep from shaking. In his heart he knew that a child with a stick could likely get the better of him now. “I apologise for your wasted journey.”
He started to gently rock his chair, took another long draw on his pipe and allowed his gaze to drift out to nothing in particular. Despite his effort to effect nonchalance, his curiosity was piqued. What could possibly convince the Prince Bishop to seek him out after all that had passed between them?
Dal Sason remained where he was, his mouth opening every so often, then closing again without a word. He had barely had time to dismount and had already failed his mission. Guillot sighed, feeling a pang of guilt.
“There aren’t any inns here, but Jeanne the Taverner has a back room she can let you sleep in if you want to rest before returning to the city. Go to the end of the lane and turn left. You can’t mis
s it. The food’s good too. Everything’s fresh. A benefit of country life. Probably best not to mention you’re an acquaintance of mine.”
“The benefits of country life are clear to be seen,” dal Sason said with a hard edge to his voice. “I’m sorry for having bothered you, my Lord, and wish you good day.” He mounted, doffed his hat, and rode on.
Guillot watched him go. He thought of dal Sason’s parting words and looked himself over. His clothes were old, his gut more prominent than it had been the last time he had paid it any attention, and it was several days since he had last shaved. Four, he thought. Perhaps five. Nonetheless, he had the irritating feeling he had not heard the last of the matter. The Prince Bishop was not a man to refuse in the old days. Gill doubted the years had mellowed him.
Still, what use might Gill be now, considering how long it was since he had held a sword or gone to sleep sober? Perhaps Jeanne was right. Perhaps he had allowed too many things to get away from him. Then again, how fastidious did a man need to be about himself to oversee lands that produced artichokes and unremarkable grapes? In a place like Villerauvais, there was little to do but drink to the sun as it passed through the sky.
Realising his pipe had gone out, he had set about refilling it when a shrill voice broke the renewed quiet.
“Gill! Gill!”
Gill groaned. He seemed destined not to have any peace that day.
“Gill! Gill!” repeated the voice.
He wondered if his first step in taking firmer control of Villerauvais should be to demand that his vassals address him with the proper formality. It seemed likely the window of opportunity for that had long since passed. No one would have dared to call his father by his given name—not even Gill had done that.
“You have to come, Gill!”
The voice belonged to one of the village boys—Jacques—who was no more than seven or eight years old. Judging by his ruddy face, he had run the whole way from the small farm he lived on with his family.
“Father says you have to come,” he said, between gasps, as though adding the authority of his father—a tenant farmer working a small patch of Gill’s land—would lend the request sufficient weight to assure it was acceded to.
“What is it?” Gill said, trying not to be overly harsh on the boy, who was likely only following his father’s instructions.
“Father wouldn’t tell me. He said to bring your sword.”
This caught Guillot’s attention. There wasn’t much that could go wrong in Villerauvais that needed a sword to put right, and Guillot was well enough acquainted with the boy’s father to know he was not an alarmist. His first thought was that Montpareil might have taken to more aggressive tactics to collect taxes that weren’t his to collect. That could indeed mean a fight, and one Gill thought likely to see him bleeding out on a patch of artichokes before the day was done. It had been a long time since Guillot had strapped a sword belt around his waist. If he was being honest, he had not thought the cause would ever arise again—the region was too poor for bandits, he was no longer an officer in the king’s army, and most would agree that he had no honour left to impugn. He glanced at the straining button at his belly and feared his sword belt might not fit.
“Tell him I’ll be along directly,” Guillot said, getting to his feet and grimacing at the creaking in his knees. Inside his house, he opened the chest in the hall by the door. The hinges protested, reminding him of how long it had been since he last opened it. A purpose-built compartment contained three rapier and dagger sets, each blade glistening with preservative oil.
Few men could claim to own three Telastrian steel swords—the rarest and finest metal from which a blade could be made. Possibly he was the only one. Two he had won, the third he had inherited. Many young men dreamed of winning the Sword of Honour at the Academy in Mirabay. Only one did each year, as he had. The medium-width blade was a jack-of-all-trades, supposed to serve the wielder equally well on the battlefield or in a duel. Whatever career a young graduate might embark upon.
The second was something few even at the Academy dared dream of, with a narrower, lighter blade, more suited to duelling than anything else. The annual Competition drew the finest swordsmen from around the Middle Sea—usually masters or graduate students from each country’s Academy of Swordsmanship—and that second Telastrian sword was Gill’s prize for winning it. It seemed like half a lifetime ago. He supposed it almost was. The smile the memory brought him soured quickly.
The final blade was old and named, with an indecipherable etching in old Imperial along its fuller. It was called “Mourning,” although Guillot had no idea why—perhaps something to do with all the men it had killed. The hilt was unfashionable and plainer than the others, but its dark Telastrian steel, swirling with blue accents, had a quality that the others did not—a quality that said “great deeds and heroic feats have been done with me.” Its origin was so shrouded by the mist of time that it was almost legend. Its first owner—a distant ancestor of Guillot’s—was one of the founding Chevaliers of the Order of the Silver Circle, a famed dragonslayer, champion of the king, and all-round overachiever. Difficult shoes to fill, he thought. Guillot had once been a member, though the Silver Circle was but a shadow of its former self by the time of his induction, little more than a gentlemen’s club with drinking, gambling, and whoring as its aims, with the occasional duel thrown in.
His hand hovered over the named blade for a moment, but to touch it felt as though it would sully it. It deserved better than he. To use it for lesser feats such as those he might accomplish was to shame it, and to display it on his waist was an appalling concession to vanity. Guillot snatched the Sword of Honour and its matching dagger from their felt-lined resting places and put them in their scabbards. A deep breath got the buckle secured at the last hole on the belt and he was ready to go. He almost felt like a swordsman again.
Jacques was still waiting outside, impatiently shifting his weight from foot to foot. As soon as he set eyes on Gill, he tore off in the direction of his home. Gill followed, albeit with far less energy.
CHAPTER
3
Alpheratz woke again, this time comfortable in the knowledge that he had slept for no more than a few days—he could still feel the bulk of his meal straining against his belly. A meal of that size would take him nearly a month to completely digest. He drank in the view that never failed to capture his imagination; great limestone peaks covered in snow soaring over verdant valleys. It was the domain of dragonkind, given to them by the gods in gratitude for their fidelity. He remembered the different peaks not by the names man had given them, but by the names of the great dragons who had called them home. His gaze lingered on Nashira as he wondered if she still lived, or if she had been killed during his slumber. The thought made his stomach twist in despair.
His memory was better now. He could recall how mankind had taken it upon themselves to hunt down and exterminate dragons. There was great wealth in those mountains—metals and minerals that they coveted. At first trade had kept them satisfied. They had farmed cattle and sheep and bartered them with the dragons for access to the mountains. Letting them in had been a mistake. They had learned too many secrets.
There were special places, sacred places. Wells of energy where the very essence of the world bubbled to the surface. Places where the gods had walked when dragonkind was young and mankind were few. Men had learned of them—sometimes with the guidance and help of dragonkind who wished to help mankind. Humanity’s magicians were never satisfied. They were always hungry for more power to fuel their wasteful efforts in shaping magic. They sought out the secret places. Coveted them. They tried to murder dragons by trading diseased and poisoned meat. Their outrages continued and increased, until dragonkind would take no more. Conflict followed.
Alpheratz’s thoughts drifted to Nashira. The remembered sight of her soaring around her peak still made his heart race. His battles with Pharadon to win her affection had been ferocious. Pride swelled in his heart
to think that he had prevailed in the end. He still wasn’t sure how. With his greater size and lustrous red scales, everyone had thought Pharadon would be the one she chose, but it had not happened that way.
He wanted desperately to see her again. It was not unheard of for males to retreat deep into the mountains for decades—even centuries—after mating, but it would have been uncharacteristic for him. The question of why she had not come to look for him, to wake him from his slumber, popped into his mind, but he dismissed it quickly.
He scanned the sky for any sign of dragonkind, but saw none. On such a magnificent day it seemed impossible that none would be soaring around their peaks, revelling in the beauty of the world. Might they be hiding? Their absence was cause for concern, but he stopped short of hasty speculation.
He stretched his wings, then hesitated. He still felt weak. The Fount had strengthened him somewhat, the meal more so, but he was still feebler than he had been as a hatchling, hiding in the folds of his mother’s wings. He needed to know what was going on, and there was no way he could walk all the way to Nashira’s peak.
Alpheratz breathed deeply. The Fount tingled along his teeth, down his windpipe, and deep into his lungs. He tensed his shoulders and walked forward. Extending his wings as far as they would go, he threw himself from the mountainside. At first he fell, and something that had once been second nature felt like an unknown skill. He strained, willing his wings to grip the air, feeling its cold touch as it whistled past him at ever greater speed. His heart raced as he tried to remember the movements that had once come without thought. Finally he felt his wings catch and it all came back to him.
Soaring up, he rejoiced in the sensation. The air was rich with the Fount, like fertile soil, and it tingled against his flesh where he was not covered in scales. He allowed himself a moment to revel in it—he looped and rolled and dived between peaks until his muscles and lungs reminded him that he had slumbered for a long time. He climbed high, turned toward Nashira’s peak, and allowed himself to glide with the wind.
Dragonslayer (The Dragonslayer) Page 2
