Servant of the Crown

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  “I didn’t know if you were alive or dead,” Val said. “I didn’t even know how I’d find out.”

  “I was going to call on you as soon as I got the chance. How’s life with old Hubert? He’s a good sort, if a bit old-fashioned. I learned so much from him back in the day.”

  “He’s dead,” Val blurted out.

  “Come again?”

  “He died some weeks ago.”

  Gill frowned with confusion. “What did you do?” He realised they were still standing at the doorway. “Come, let’s get a seat. Innkeep! Two mugs of your morning-brew coffee!”

  “I’m here on an errand,” Val said. “It won’t take a second.”

  “Of course,” Gill said. He wasn’t entirely surprised that Val had found himself a job. He was an enterprising and determined lad, as his getting Gill to take him on as his squire had shown. “I’ll wait for you at the table. Come join me when you’re done.”

  Val nodded eagerly and Gill took a seat. He allowed his mind to return to his problem and watched Val approach the bar while anticipating the invigorating effects of the Wounded Lion’s morning brew. It gave a kick to the system that would enliven even the most tired mind and was the saviour of many an Academy student in the run-up to exam time. Hopefully it would provide him the focus he needed to come up with a workable solution.

  There was something decidedly odd about the way Val was behaving, almost as though he was acting out a pantomime of carrying on in as suspicious a manner as he could manage. At first Gill didn’t think too much of it; after all, the lad had come from the stable at the Black Drake and had been squire to someone who rarely observed the niceties. Gill reckoned it would take Val a while to feel comfortable on the inside looking out, rather than on the outside looking in. When he saw the lad pass the innkeeper a small scroll sealed in the anonymous black wax of the Intelligenciers, Gill nearly threw up.

  He drummed his fingers with agitation as he did his best to pretend he wasn’t watching Val conclude his exchange. What had the lad gotten himself into? Once the scroll was handed over, Val visibly relaxed, then came to join Gill. The coffees arrived a moment later, and Gill took as much of the hot liquid into his mouth in one go as he could manage. The warmth coursed through him and helped him relax.

  “So,” Gill said, “if old Hubert has gone to the gods, what have you been doing?”

  “I found myself a new tutor,” Val said proudly. “Hugo dal Ruisseau Noir.”

  He explained what had happened since he had reached Mirabay; nothing about the story even hinted at where the note sealed with black wax had come from. Other than this new fencing tutor, dal Ruisseau Noir, Val didn’t seem to have had any worthwhile interactions with anyone in the city. How did a lad like him get caught up in Intelligencier business after such a short time in the city? In the end, he was left with no option but to ask.

  “Val, I couldn’t help but notice you passing a note to the innkeeper.”

  “Oh, that?” Val said, blushing enough to confirm that he was about to lie. “I deliver messages for a few businessmen. It doesn’t pay much, but it’s enough to keep me going.”

  “The black wax the note was sealed with. Do you know what that signifies?”

  Val narrowed his eyes, then shook his head.

  “That’s the Intelligencier seal,” Gill said. “Interfering or tampering with it is an instant death sentence. Only the intended recipient is allowed to open it. Even handling it without proper authority can get you killed. Where did you get it?”

  “I … I really can’t say.”

  Gill nodded slowly. The truth was, it was none of his business, but he didn’t like to think the lad had gotten into something over his head. “If you’re in trouble, I’ll do my best to help you. I’d like to think you can trust me. Not many men can say they’ve faced down dragons together.”

  Val chewed his lip for a moment. “There are people in the city who are concerned for the king.”

  “I heard he was taken ill.”

  Val shook his head. “That’s not what I heard,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I’ve heard that there’s nothing wrong with the king, that the Prince Bishop is behind this whole magic thing, and threw the king into the dungeons when Boudain tried to stop him. There are people looking into it.” He smiled with conspiratorial glee. “I’m helping.”

  Gill leaned back into his chair and thought for a moment. “And these people plan to do what, exactly?”

  Val shrugged. “I don’t know that. Not yet. But I suppose they’re going to free the king, and put him back on his rightful throne.”

  “Easier said than done,” Gill said. “That’s a dangerous business to be in. Are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?”

  Val looked sheepish. “No. No, I don’t, but I’m in it now, and it feels like the right thing to do. If the Prince Bishop has overthrown the king, someone has to stop him. What right do I have to expect someone else to do that for me? I’m here. I’m involved. What other option is there?”

  Gill nodded slowly. It was a noble sentiment, and he could see some of his own youthful attitude in Val. However, he’d learned the hard way that noble sentiments were often a slippery path to disaster. However, this might be the opportunity Gill had been looking for.

  “Can I ask how you got into this?”

  “It’s a long story,” Val said. “One that I’d rather not go into.”

  Gill took another mouthful of coffee and wiped his moustache. If these people Val had taken up with were trying to get at Amaury, they might prove useful allies. He couldn’t trust anyone without a vested interest in this, and if they were trying to restore the king to his rightful place, perhaps he could tag along for the ride and snatch the Cups when the time was right. Assuming they were in any way competent. The few conspiracy groups he’d helped stamp out when in the Royal Guard were little more than drinking clubs of idiots with grand ideas, big mouths, and no ability. At the very least, they might provide a more subtle distraction than having Pharadon torch part of the city.

  “I’d like to meet this group,” Gill said.

  Val looked panicked.

  “It’s nothing untoward,” Gill said. “I think that our interests could be aligned, and we might be of assistance to one another.”

  His words did little to settle the lad. Gill knew that Val had said far more than his new friends would be happy with, and it would be difficult to progress along this avenue without him suffering some loss of esteem. Still, perhaps it would show what a forward-thinking good judge of character he was. Gill smiled to himself. Unlikely.

  Solène walked in and Pharadon appeared a moment later. Each day that went by, his human appearance became more and more natural; Gill couldn’t see any flaws in his appearance. There might be hundreds, thousands of dragons living amongst people, without anyone knowing. It was a sobering thought, but at least if they could turn into human form, they were enlightened, and unlikely to go on a rampage of flame and slaughter.

  “You might remember Solène,” Gill said, as his companions approached. “She stayed at the Black Drake with me. This other handsome fellow is our new comrade, Pharadon.” For a moment Gill considered going into greater detail, then thought better of it. “Everyone, this is Val, my erstwhile squire. I think he may be able to help us.”

  CHAPTER

  9

  Val refused to take all three of them to meet his contact, and was clearly uncomfortable having Gill with him without having first discussed it with his mysterious confederates. Gill didn’t like pressuring him into it, but he reckoned it would be for the best in the long run. He didn’t want to hang about.

  The walk from the Wounded Lion was shorter than Guillot expected; despite what Val had told him about his new tutor, Gill was surprised to find that their destination was a fencing salon. In Guillot’s experience, political agitators tended to be of a more cerebral nature, frequenting coffeehouses and reading rooms more often than training venues. H
owever, it appeared that Val’s new fencing master was one of the conspirators. Judging by that wax seal, he was also likely an Intelligencier. Dangerous men to be involved with, Gill thought, but needs must.

  An Intelligencier wasn’t likely to support a ruler who was trying to reinstitute magic, given that their primary purpose was to prevent the scourge of sorcery from ever rearing its head again. Access to their network was exactly what Gill needed, but he’d have to play his hand very carefully. They were likely to turn on him, Solène, and Pharadon if they learned the truth.

  In the salon, he was presented with one man overseeing two students working their way through the positions—the series of guards that all trainee swordsmen practised daily until they were perfect in form and had become second nature.

  The maestro, whom Gill took to be dal Ruisseau Noir, frowned as soon as his gaze fell on Gill. He drew himself up and immediately dismissed his students. “That will be enough for today, boys. I’ll see you at the same time tomorrow.”

  Awkward silence prevailed while the two young men packed up their practice blades and left the salon. All the while, their instructor watched Guillot carefully. Gill returned his gaze steadily, but the man was inscrutable. When the door finally closed behind the two students, the man spoke. To Val.

  “Who is this?” he asked.

  “This is my former lord, Guillot dal Villerauvais.”

  “Why did you bring him here?” The lean, somewhat foppish-looking man studied Gill. “I’ve heard of you, sir. I can’t imagine you’ve come for instruction.”

  “Do I get an introduction?” Gill said, his temper tickled by the man’s condescending tone.

  “Of course. Banneret of the White Hugo dal Ruisseau Noir,” he said, confirming Gill’s assumption of his identity. He gave a curt banneret’s salute, which Gill returned.

  “I’m not here for instruction,” Gill said. “I’m here to make a proposal. I think we may be able to help one another.”

  Dal Ruisseau Noir cast Val a filthy look, but the lad just shrugged. Gill hoped his new tutor wasn’t one to bear a grudge.

  “Really?” he said, then turned a hard gaze on Val. “I worried that I’d made a mistake telling you anything. Who else have you spoken with?”

  “I’ve not spoken with anyone,” Val said. “Anyone else.”

  “He’s a good lad,” Gill said. “He didn’t tell me anything that would get you in trouble, and spoke only because he knows he can trust me. I’m no friend to the Prince Bishop. You’d not have to ask many questions to find that out.”

  Dal Ruisseau Noir nodded slowly. “Your proposal?”

  “We both want the same thing. The king back on the throne, and the Prince Bishop gone. I suggest we join forces.”

  “Tired of slaying dragons?”

  “You’ve heard of me?”

  “Everyone has. I’d also heard you were dead.”

  “Wishful thinking on the Prince Bishop’s part, I expect,” Gill said.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “The Wounded Lion.”

  Dal Ruisseau Noir smiled at the name. It seemed most Academy graduates had fond memories of the place.

  “How many people do you bring to the equation?”

  “There are three of us. All competent. A mix of useful skills and knowledge. I’m not going to be any more specific than that for now.”

  “That’s reasonable,” dal Ruisseau Noir said. “I’ll take your proposal to my friends. We’ll be in touch.”

  * * *

  The city’s atmosphere felt even more oppressive to Gill, now that he was entering into a conspiracy against the country’s current ruler. Gill had to hand it to Amaury—if the king hadn’t really fallen ill, the Prince Bishop had a lot of nerve. And even more ambition. Perhaps he thought that with the Cup’s power, he could do whatever he liked. It was a frightening thought. Guillot could only hope dal Ruisseau Noir’s people could bring something useful to the party.

  When he got back to the Wounded Lion, he updated the others on what had happened. Since he wasn’t sure what to make of dal Ruisseau Noir, he painted as neutral a picture as he could. He’d shown himself to be a poor judge of character before—tending to assume the worst—so he reckoned it was likely that any opinion he formed now would be wrong.

  They didn’t have to wait long for an answer. One of the inn’s errand boys knocked on Guillot’s door to let him know he had a visitor. There was always the danger that they had been found out, that the “visitor” was a detachment of the City Watch or, worst-case scenario, a unit of Intelligenciers. Gill didn’t think either was likely, but put his sword belt on before going down, nonetheless.

  Dal Ruisseau Noir was waiting for him in the inn’s taproom, alone, when Gill got downstairs. The familiarity of the Wounded Lion was comforting, but today he knew he couldn’t lower his guard.

  “I didn’t expect to see you so soon,” Gill said.

  Dal Ruisseau Noir gave the innkeeper a knowing nod, and gestured to a table in the corner of the otherwise empty room.

  “This is an urgent situation, so my friends made themselves available immediately to discuss your proposal.”

  Gill nodded and sat.

  “One of my friends was able to fill me in a little more on your history, and also gave me some information on one of your friends, Solène of Bastelle-Loiron. She was in the Prince Bishop’s Order of the Golden Spur for a time, was she not?”

  Gill nodded. There was no point in lying—dal Ruisseau Noir already knew the answer.

  “Do you know what her role there was?”

  That sounded like a genuine question—after all, not all the Spurriers were mages. Gill was glad he had his sword. Dal Ruisseau Noir had introduced himself as a Banneret of the White—if it came to a fight, it wouldn’t be an easy one. “Researcher, I believe. She wasn’t there long.”

  “A researcher?”

  “To the best of my knowledge. You’d have to ask her for the specifics.”

  “I’ll be sure to,” dal Ruisseau Noir said. “The other member of your party, Pharadon—I could find out nothing about him, which is unusual, but no matter.”

  Gill shrugged. If confirmation was needed, he now had it. Dal Ruisseau Noir was an Intelligencier. There had always been rumours that the Intelligenciers maintained a network of agents and spies in undercover roles throughout Mirabay, in an effort to spot and head off trouble before it got started. Magic wasn’t the only thing they kept an eye on.

  “Pharadon is handy in a fight and has brains to burn. We fought dragons together in the provinces. I trust him in this implicitly.”

  Dal Ruisseau Noir looked at him suspiciously.

  “I’ll have to take your word on that, for now,” he finally said.

  “How very kind of you,” Gill said.

  “The king is being confined within the palace at the Prince Bishop’s order, but that’s all we know,” dal Ruisseau Noir said. “The place is locked up pretty tight and our attempts to get in have been rebuffed. If all is as we fear, then I suspect the king will be put to death as soon as the Prince Bishop has things in the palace under control.”

  “Do you’ve reason to believe he doesn’t?”

  Dal Ruisseau Noir shrugged. “There are a lot of competing factions among the nobility. No man is safe on the throne, tyrant or not. It’ll take him time to pull his supporters into line and put enough of a fright into the rest to keep quiet for the time being.”

  “So we need to move fast,” Gill said, glad that the conspirators’ plans were in line with his needs. He wanted to hear the extent of their aims before revealing his own, however, particularly as he was wondering why the Intelligenciers were so willing to ally themselves with relative unknowns. As flattering as it was to consider, Gill very much doubted it was due to his reputation.

  “Ideally, yes. I don’t think the king has long to live.”

  “And the Prince Bishop? What do you intend for him?”

  “For the time being, we c
ouldn’t care less. I’m confident the Prince Bishop will get what’s coming to him. My priority is to get the king to safety, where plans to restore him to the throne can be put into place.”

  “Might this not offer the perfect opportunity to kill two birds with one stone?”

  “If the chance presents itself, we’d be fools not to take it, but the priority remains to rescue the king. We do not take any risks with his life.”

  “Agreed,” Gill said, meaning it. At heart, he was and always would be a servant of the Crown. “What’s your plan to get the king out?”

  “We have people in the palace now, trying to determine His Majesty’s location. It’s tricky, as the Prince Bishop has long maintained a network of spies there, but we’ve made progress. I hope to have a location by nightfall. We’ll have to be ready to move quickly.”

  Gill nodded. Dal Ruisseau Noir wasn’t messing around. It was fast, assertive action, but there wouldn’t be much time to prepare. High risk. High rewards.

  “I’ll make sure my people are ready. Have you worked out how we’ll be getting into the palace?”

  “We have people looking into options in that regard also.”

  “I might be of help in that regard. An old quarry shaft runs down through the hill to the river’s edge. It’s been there since before the palace was built.”

  “It was sealed shut with steel panelling a number of years ago,” dal Ruisseau Noir said.

  “I was still there when that happened. Some of the Silver Circle used it to bring women into the palace. One of the ladies—I think she was a friend of Charlot’s—got a little familiar with the Duke of Fontonoy in front of his wife, the old king’s sister. The princess kicked up a stink. Everyone at the palace knew about the passageway, guards included. They’d been using it to sneak stuff in for years too, but the old king needed to keep his sister happy, hence the steel barrier bedded in concrete, and the instant drop in pox and drunkenness amongst the palace guard.”