Servant of the Crown

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  Dal Ruisseau Noir was barking orders to the tavern keeper. Water, towels—hot, cold, damp, and dry—seemingly anything he could think of to keep the king comfortable. There was still a continuing discussion on how they were going to proceed, whether the physician would try some conventional treatments first, or if Solène would lead the way. Despite what magic promised, it was proving difficult to convince everyone that it was their best option.

  Feeling of little use and keenly aware that while the king was getting all this attention, poor Val was waiting for a send-off that befitted his great courage, Gill left the tavern. He collected the lad’s body from the shed they’d stored it in the night before; ignoring the smell that was starting to grow strong, Gill carried him to the church.

  A small yard to the side of the church held a dozen or so graves marked with headstones. Rural and urban communities alike tended to cremate their dead, unless the person was of some significance. Most of these stones probably belonged to former seigneurs—those who didn’t have a crypt at their manor. There was room for Val, and there were plenty of soldiers idling around who’d be glad of a coin to help dig the hole. Gill pounded on the weathered wooden door and waited for the churchman. In a place this small, the clergyman was likely no more than a deacon.

  For a soldier, even a church this modest was a potential target for theft. There was always a bit of silver plate or a gold chalice to be had, so it was no surprise that whoever was inside was reluctant to open the door. Gill pounded on it again but there was still no reply.

  “I’m here to buy funeral rites,” Gill shouted. “I have coin. I’m not here to cause trouble.”

  If there was anyone in there, Gill reckoned they’d need a few moments to consider what he’d said. While it didn’t appear as though the army was causing any problems, they hadn’t been there long, by all accounts, so there was still plenty of time for that. A billeted army was rarely a positive thing for a village’s residents. The most they could hope for was that the troops would leave before stealing or destroying too much. He supposed that if he’d already been tarred with that brush, he might as well take advantage of it.

  “I’m happy to pay for the rites,” he shouted. “But if I have to kick in this door, I’m not paying for repairs.”

  That seemed to do the trick, as a moment later he heard the scratch of a bolt being drawn. The door creaked open and a man in stained vestments—white, with a powder-blue trim—peered out. He looked at Gill suspiciously, but relaxed when he saw Val’s body. An odd thing to make someone relax, Gill thought.

  “Your son?” the deacon said.

  “Squire,” Gill said. “I want him buried. There’s a nice spot over there.”

  “We only bury our—”

  “Buried,” Gill said. “I’ll pay you three crowns, three times what the rites should cost. I can have some soldiers dig the hole for you. All I need is space in your yard, and the rites.”

  They said charity started with the church, but Gill reckoned greed did too. Still, there was no point expecting churchmen to be better than everyone else when they were led by a man like Amaury. The promise of three gold coins was enough to convince the deacon. Gill would have to rustle them up from somewhere. His purse had gone astray at some point, likely while in the river. Considering all that he had done, he reckoned he had more than three crowns owing to him at that point, and he was determined Val’s funeral would be properly paid for.

  “That spot, you say?” He pointed.

  Gill nodded.

  “That won’t be a problem. You’ll have the hole dug?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Bring your squire in. I’ll see that he’s prepared and ready.”

  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 hi
m.

  “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?

  Every block, line, and beam in the assemblage creaked and groaned as though on the verge of giving way. The cage hovered a handspan above the ground as the beasts of burden rallied themselves for another effort. The men in the chamber were silent, speaking only in harsh whispers when absolutely necessary. Even though the creature had remained asleep after all the manhandling it had been subjected to, they were terrified of waking it.

  Ysabeau had to remind herself to breathe as the oxen pulled again, jerking the cage up to head level. It swung gently from side to side. With each swing, she cringed, waiting for one of the beams to be tugged from true, to snap. What magic kept the beast in slumber? It had to be incredibly powerful, like the torrent of energy that swirled around the temple, invisible to all but her and Hangdog. The Fount was relentless in its efforts to force its way in. It was like having someone banging constantly on your front door, shouting and raging and demanding entry—there was no way to ignore it. She wondered if Hangdog felt it too.

  She would be glad to be out of this place. As she grew ever more fatigued, the Fount’s energy became increasingly imposing. If she hit her breaking point, she was dead. She had seen some of the Order’s initiates burn themselves out, in the early days of magical experimentation, and had no desire to experience it firsthand.

  She wondered if she was a fool to try and capture this dragon. It was the type of overreach she’d always been careful to avoid. No matter how smoothly things went, she couldn’t shake the sense of impending doom. The creature looked so huge and powerful; the iron bars containing it looked like twigs. If it woke, it could burst out and slaughter them all in an instant. Added to that was the difficulty of continuing to maintain the cave illusion, which had given her a ferocious headache and the sensation that every muscle in her body had been gently broiled for an hour or two. Still, the rewards of a coup like this, she thought.

  The cage jerked up again. In the distance, she could hear the drover’s voice, cussing and goading the oxen forward. If the draft animals saw what they were hauling out of the hole, she reckoned they’d be on the far side of the county before they could be herded up again. Fear was such a wonderful motivator.

  She watched a moment longer, then decided there was little to be gained by standing there. If things went wrong, there would be enough noise to alert her to the fact. She wandered back down to the main chamber and had one last look around; since she controlled it, the illusion did not impede her vision. The temple truly was a magnificent place, and she wondered what discoveries the academics would make over the coming weeks as they dug into the material they’d gathered.

  Unbeknownst to them, Ysabeau had been giving them gentle top-ups of energy to keep them going, but she didn’t have enough left in her to keep that up now. They were going to come down hard when it wore off, but by then, they’d be back in Mirabay and the scholars would be someone else’s problem.

  She wondered what else might lie hidden in the temple, waiting to be discovered. They’d found several additional passageways, but all stopped after only a few paces, blocked by stone walls that looked no different from the rest of the temple’s construction. Still, they hinted that there might be other chambers, patiently waiting to reveal their secrets.

  Focussing her mind, Ysabeau tried to view the outline of the Fount to see if she could spot any voids behind it—the Fount usually lined surfaces, a handy fact that had allowed her to discover more than one hidden room over the years. All she could see was the raging swirl of blue energy, and she had to instantly close her mind to it before it overwhelmed her. Holding it back was becoming almost impossible. It was time to go.

  She walked around the edge of the room, giving the magnificent art a final viewing. Even if there was no great and important message being passed down through the mists of time, the aesthetic value of them was beyond measure. To think they must have been created so long ago, perhaps even before the Empire had left the shores of Vellin-Ilora, was astonishing.

  Something glittered on the ground, catching her eye. She walked over and saw it was a gold coin. Her first thought was that it must have been as ancient as the temple, perhaps bearing the visage of some long-forgotten king. Picking it up, she was disappointed to see none other than the present king’s father, making the coin only a few decades old at most. One of the villagers must have dropped it when they were working on the cage. She popped the coin into her purse. Their loss. My gain.

  She returned to the entrance
chamber, hopeful that the most nerve-wracking part of the job was complete.

  * * *

  Amaury felt like a child in a sweetshop. Anything he put his mind to, he could do. The power was at once both exhilarating and terrifying. He had all Kayte dal Drezony’s portents of doom bouncing around in his head: he could burn himself out; too much power, too quickly. All that sort of nonsense. The only problem was, it no longer felt like nonsense. He could feel the power.

  To him, the Fount was no longer a trickling stream but a deluge. After he had drunk from the Cup, it had been hours before the world had lost its blue, coruscating glow. There was a time when it had taken every ounce of concentration he had to see it. Now it took effort to ignore.

  The magic he’d cast on Gill had taken a lot out of him. His magical grapple with Solène, more still. That was the only thing that had allowed her to get away. When she had released her grip on him, Amaury had been more exhausted than he’d ever felt before. He’d collapsed, lying unconscious for a time. That had been deeply troubling. Dal Drezony’s lectures on magical burnout echoed in his mind. Even now, he could feel the aftereffects. His body ached and he had no energy or motivation to do anything. Still, it had been an incredible application of force, and all things considered, he was none the worse for it.

  He was sure these were things he could overcome with time, practice, and experience. Like anything else, he was sure, it needed training to develop, but he found himself longing for a guiding hand. It was a shame dal Drezony had become too great a problem to be allowed to live. She had made herself an expert in magical safety and had known more about the dangers of burnout, and the countless other side effects of excessive magic use, than anyone else alive. That was a safety net he would have been very glad of at that moment, but he was an intelligent man. A prudent and careful one, too, if a little impatient at times. He was confident he could work out what his limits were and avoid putting himself in any real danger. Fatigue, plus aches and pains, he could deal with. The reward was more than worth it.