He wondered how much lessons would cost, and how much money he would need to survive on. That was all he needed to do—survive long enough to reach the skill level he needed. Once he was in the Academy, everything would be taken care of; he simply had to get there.
Val knew how much money was in his purse, down to the last penny, and at the rate of a florin a day for bed and breakfast, he would be broke by the end of the month. He could get a job—he had never been shy of hard work—but going back to mucking out stables seemed like a step in the wrong direction. As he munched his way through three pennies that he would probably have been better off saving, he tried to make a plan.
The first thing he would do was sell his horse. It was true that she had faced down dragons with him, and that had created a bond between them. He didn’t like the idea of selling her, but stabling a horse was expensive and he needed every penny he had to support himself. Not to mention that whatever he got for her would lengthen his stay in Mirabay.
He also had to find a cheaper place to live. Then, he needed to find a fencing master who would take him on as a pupil, at a modest fee. After that, he would likely need to find a job. When he laid out each step, it didn’t seem like so great a task. However, the city was large and he was a stranger. Nothing would come easily to him, but then again, nothing ever had.
* * *
That morning, after breakfast, he’d taken his horse to a livery near the south gate. The few pennies he got for her would help stave off penury for a few more days. It was a sad parting but a necessary one. That done, salon hunting was next on his to-do list.
It wasn’t too difficult for Val to find the addresses of a few fencing salons in the city. Most wealthy men, and some women, practised fencing to varying degrees, so there were plenty of salons to choose from. What would be difficult was finding one who would take him on. He hoped the fact that he had a recommendation from a Banneret of the White would help, but despite the countless hours he had spent shadow-fencing in the Black Drake’s stable yard and studying the fencers competing in Trelain’s small arena, he had no formal training.
With luck, Gill’s letter would convince someone to take Val on. He didn’t have the luxury of being able to offer more than their usual rates—in fact, he was hoping he might be able to get a discount if he helped clean up the salon in the evenings. Difficult or not, he hadn’t come this far to turn away now.
He made his first attempt on a street that housed four salons. Picking one at random, he let himself in and was greeted by the sounds of activity—the clatter of blades, shouts, and the stamping of boots. Above it all rose a single voice, and it didn’t take long to separate the man to whom it belonged from the sparring couples around him. He prowled up and down the salon with a rapier in his hand, using it to correct the positions of his students.
Val watched in silence, wondering how to approach the maestro. His quandary was taken care of when the man’s intense stare fell on Val.
“Who are you?”
“I, uh…”
The sparring fencers stopped to see who the maestro was speaking to.
“I didn’t tell you to stop,” the maestro barked. The stamping and clattering resumed. “Now, who are you?”
“My name’s Val. I’m looking for instruction.”
The maestro approached and looked Val over, including the crude short sword he wore at his waist. Val cringed, wishing he hadn’t worn it. Having had it at his side every day since Gill had instructed him to have it made, he felt naked without it, particularly in a big and dangerous city. He’d strapped it on as usual that morning, without giving it a second thought.
“Who have you trained with?”
“Guillot dal Villerauvais,” Val said. “I was his squire for a short time. He gave me his recommendation for the Acad—”
“I know of him,” the maestro said. “If he trained you, why do you carry that?” He pointed to the short sword.
“It’s all I have.”
“Guillot dal Villerauvais was a master of masters until he threw it all away. It’s sad to see he’s lowered himself to instructing youths in how to fight with…” He gestured with his free hand as he searched for the word. “… farm implements. I do not, and can’t assist you. Good day.”
He returned to prowling amongst his students, leaving Val red-faced. There was nothing to be gained by responding to the insult, nor by remaining there, so he left, angry and ashamed. Was this the treatment he could expect everywhere? He had been so proud of his short sword, but now it felt like a badge of shame. He stared at the signs for the other fencing salons and asked himself if he wanted to go through that experience all over again.
* * *
Val received much the same response at the next two salons he tried. One was a little more polite, but the meaning was the same. He wandered through the warren of alleys behind the cathedral until he felt his resolve build enough for another try. Spotting another sign with the familiar crossed swords on it, he took a deep breath and reminded himself of how Gill took every blow, then picked himself up, and got on with his business.
This premises was in a smaller building on a narrower, quieter street than the others. The inside proved to be as quiet as the exterior, with none of the frantic activity that Val had encountered at the other salons. Not seeing anyone, he turned to leave—and walked right into someone. Val looked into the taller man’s face and excused himself. They each stepped to the side to allow the other to pass.
“Wait,” the man said as Val headed out the door, “I know you.”
Val looked back and frowned. “I don’t think so.”
“The Little Palace. You were there last night.”
Val nodded, finally placing him as one of the men gathered around the table. “I, yes. I needed a room for the night.” He’d slipped into his deeper than normal voice again.
“What brings you to my salon?”
“I’m looking for instruction.”
“Have you studied with anyone before?”
“A little,” Val said. “I squired for Guillot dal Villerauvais for a time.”
“Dal Villerauvais…” the man said, with a slight smile.
“You know him?”
“We met on a few occasions. But I forget my manners,” the man said. “Banneret of the White Hugo dal Ruisseau Noir, at your service.”
“Val, at yours. Just Val.”
“A pleasure, although I have to admit some surprise at your choice of sword.”
Val felt his hackles rise. “It’s far more useful than that stick you have when you’ve a dragon to face.”
Dal Ruisseau Noir’s eyes widened and he smiled. “You were with him when he faced the dragons?”
“Some of them,” Val said, with as much solemnity as he could muster. His indignation began to fade in the face of dal Ruisseau Noir’s curiosity.
“And you’ve come to the city to seek instruction? With what purpose?”
“Gill gave me his recommendation for the Academy,” Val said. “But I’ve still to—”
“Pass the entrance examinations,” dal Ruisseau Noir said, nodding. “Easier said than done. The next set of exams aren’t until the summer. Two terms away, so there is time. With hard work…”
“You’ll take me on?” Val said. Now that it seemed he might have found a willing instructor, he was starting to have doubts. Was dal Ruisseau Noir any good? Would he be able to help Val reach the standard in the time they had available? Why was his salon so quiet, when all the others were so busy? He supposed there was only one way to find out.
“There is the matter of payment,” dal Ruisseau Noir said.
Val shifted from one foot to the other, trying to work out what kind of deal he could offer. He had enough to pay for a few weeks, but not enough for two full terms of tuition.
Dal Ruisseau Noir smiled. “An impecunious student.” Arms akimbo, he looked about the studio. “As it happens, my apprentice has returned to his home in the country to get away from
the current unrest in the city. How does this sound. Four hours’ tuition per day for four hours’ work?”
“What type of work?” Val said. He instantly regretted the question; he should have just taken the man up on the offer. He didn’t think it very likely he’d get another as good.
“Keeping the place clean, sharpening and oiling swords, fetching my lunch, delivering messages, all the things that I have neither the time for nor the interest in doing. Do we have a deal?”
Val nodded eagerly.
“Excellent. You can start with my lunch. The Wounded Lion is two streets over. You can’t miss it. A slice of pie and a flagon of small beer.”
He tossed Val a coin, which Val caught with as much ease as he could muster.
“Try not to let the pie go cold.”
CHAPTER
3
“The Duke of Trelain would like to see you, your Grace. The Dukes of Bonmille and Castelneuve also.”
Amaury smiled at his secretary. “Tell them I’ll make appointments with them all at my earliest convenience.”
Dealing with them would never be a convenience, but there was only so long he could put off the magnates of the realm. His only surprise was that just three dukes had asked to see him. The rest would likely follow in due course. Power, wealth, and position were up for grabs, and everyone would want their slice. The ones he gave a piece to would be his staunchest allies as long as he kept giving them what they wanted, while the rest would hate him for being shut out in the cold.
Despite Amaury’s best efforts, news of the king’s incapacity spread through the city quickly. At first he had been furious, determined to root out how word had slipped beyond the palace walls. However, it seemed as though it had been a stroke of good fortune. The unrest that had been simmering toward the boiling point since he’d announced the Order’s magical dabbling had calmed considerably. He wasn’t sure why, and wouldn’t have cared, were it not for the fact that it might be something he could manipulate and exploit going forward.
What mattered for the time being was that it had bought him breathing space. People weren’t thinking about the scourge of magic being within their city walls, they were thinking about their young king, who was said to be at death’s door. The truth was, Amaury wasn’t sure what the king’s condition was, and neither were his physicians. Amaury didn’t know exactly what he had done to the king, and doubted if he could repeat the act even if he wanted to. It had left him with an equal portion of opportunity and mess.
The opportunity was that he now had the potential freedom to direct the kingdom in keeping with her best interests, meaning he could integrate the Order into Mirabayan society, further invest in study and training, and make sure that Mirabaya was at the cutting edge of magical ability. If any of her neighbours sought to challenge her, they would need to think twice, and when it came to negotiation, they would have a strong bargaining chip to make sure the terms were always favourable.
Mirabay had been primed as the natural successor to the empire—home to the church, and a great centre of science and culture. Were it not for the piratical Ventish and Humberlanders, and the haughty Estranzans, that would have been the case. As it was, with her powerful trading fleets and enormous resultant wealth, even Amaury had to concede that Ostia held that mantle, and it seemed she had been dabbling in magic for some time. He only hoped he was not too late.
Still, Mirabay had advantages peculiar to her history. If his agents managed to find the Temple of the Enlightened, and with it a way to prolong or make permanent the effects of the Amatus Cup, there would be no stopping him. How to use it to the greatest advantage was a matter that often occupied his thoughts, but he rarely had more than a minute or two to devote any attention to it. The king’s ailment, and Amaury’s de facto appointment as regent, had changed everything.
The more he thought about it, the more liberated he felt. In the past, he had preferred to wield power from the shadows. He had seen too many assassination attempts, successful and otherwise, to desire a public mantle of leadership. He had been happy to use a proxy—the previous bishop, the former king once Amaury had ascended the episcopal throne—but now that he seriously thought through the possibilities, having found himself thrust into the open, he could feel the attraction. It was like having shackles removed, or being told that you can do whatever you choose.
Of course, he was not so great a fool as to think that there were no constraints whatsoever. There were the ever-present nobles who would whine and grate at any changes that took coin from their purses or restricted their privileges. Then there was the public. The citizens of Mirabay had an inconvenient but well-deserved reputation for agitation when they didn’t like something. One only had to open a history book to see evidence of the numerous riots and assassinations that had been carried out on waves of popular discontent. Finally, there were economics to consider. To achieve his aims, he needed coin, which meant taxes, which meant all of the above problems, if they were applied too heavily.
As he allowed his mind to drift down this avenue of thought, it felt as though the shackles were going back on. He tried to focus on the positives. To do otherwise would have meant admitting just how alone he was. Before, he had always had adversaries in the battle to win the king’s attention and favour. He had almost always prevailed, but sparring with his opponents allowed him to sharpen his thoughts and strategies. Now, all that was gone, leaving him with an empty sensation that bordered on nausea.
Although as regent he assumed all the powers of the incapacitated king, his regency was a temporary measure. It would last only until a valid successor could be found. Since Boudain had no children, that successor would have to come from elsewhere in the family, and would have to be determined by studying genealogies and other documents.
He reckoned setting the wheels in motion to prevent that should be his first order of business. After all he had done to get power, there was no way he was going to step aside for the first inbred aristocrat who could open a vein and spill some blue blood on the ground. However, he remained open to the possibility that there might be an eligible candidate who would be happy to occupy the throne while allowing Amaury to continue his machinations behind the scenes. The last thing he needed was to install an idle fop and find out they had ideas of their own—as he had discovered with the current, and soon to be former, king.
One way or the other, the king’s cousins were going to be a problem. Off the top of his head, there was no clear successor. While this gave the Prince Bishop the freedom to choose, it was likely that those who were shut out would raise arms in rebellion. He would love to unleash the Order on them, but his forces had been crippled by casualties since the dragon problem arose. There were enough brothers and sisters to carry out the day-to-day activities he had in mind for them, but not until he had fully unlocked the Cup’s potential would he be able to wield them to full effect. Hopefully that matter would be soon settled.
So many problems—so many balls to keep in the air.
He stood and walked to the window of his office, massaging his temples as he went. The garden below was empty, but even its serene setting was not enough to quell his growing agitation. One task at a time, he told himself. The Order, the king, the dragons, the successors. That didn’t even take into account the usual running of the kingdom. If he didn’t find a way to make the Cup’s effect permanent, he would end up drinking from it constantly, like one of the drunks who littered the city streets.
If that was what he had to do, then that was what he would do, but he didn’t like it. Soon enough, people would realise what the Cup did and would covet it for themselves. Pulling the strings from the shadows was starting to look like a much more attractive option again.
He returned to his desk and wrote instructions for the court genealogists to draw up a list of potential successors for Boudain. That could be compiled quickly, and he could have his agents investigate each one to help him identify which might be potential candidates, and
which potential threats.
That done, he signed documents to provide the funds to pay Luther for the mercenaries he had hired for the Order. He didn’t like bringing in people he hadn’t had time to screen for the qualities he wanted, but for the time being, he needed to replace the dead to give the Order the appearance of being an effective force.
Anyone who was any use had been sent out with the new marshall, Vachon, to deal with the dragon crisis once and for all. That left only a couple of dozen novices at the Priory who could shape any magic. If the sentiment in the city turned bad again—which Amaury fully expected it would—the Priory could easily be overrun and its occupants slaughtered. If he lost them, he would have to restart the Order from scratch, which would set them back years.
A stack of outstanding execution warrants were sitting on the corner of his desk, waiting for his signature. Chief amongst them were the king’s former privy councillors, Canet, Marchant, and Renaud. Amaury drummed his fingers on his desk as he considered them. To kill them off now might be too great a shock, and hint that there were mala fides involved in the king’s incapacitation, which at present was not suspected—a state of affairs he wished to continue. He didn’t like the idea of letting the three men draw breath any longer than was absolutely necessary, but having them discreetly killed at a later time might make more sense. There had been enough upheaval already, without starting a campaign against the king’s supporters.
The people he’d chosen as replacements for the privy council needed to be briefed on their duties—another task to add to his ever-growing list. He felt a flutter of panic. What had he gotten himself into? For a moment, he wondered if there was any way out of it, if he could undo what he had done to the king and put him back on his throne. Get everything back to the way it was, where he could plan and wield influence from the shadows.
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