Dragonslayer (The Dragonslayer)

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  “That sounds like murder to me,” Leverre said, his voice full of indignation.

  “You love your country, Felix?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “The country needs the Order, even if they don’t know it yet. The Order needs to get the credit for slaying the dragon.”

  “Why? No one knows anything about the dragon. If they learn everything after the fact, why will they care who killed it?”

  “I haven’t come to this decision lightly. Gill and I were once closer than brothers. Statecraft is an ugly business, and sometimes hard decisions and sacrifices need to be made. You can be sure the Estranzans and Humberlanders are investigating magic. We know the Usurper of Ostia employed an eastern mage. We will be carved up between our neighbours if we do not have our own mages—you of all people should agree with me on that.”

  Leverre nodded, but Amaury could see he was very uncomfortable. “I realise it goes against the principles of honour all bannerets hold true. Don’t forget, I’m a banneret too.” Amaury forced himself not to squirm at how fake he sounded. Honour among bannerets was about as common as honour among thieves, but Leverre seemed to view it as a tenet by which a banneret should live his life. “Being the marshall of the Order means you need to set aside those romantic notions for the harsh practicalities of the world. Can I rely on you to do it?”

  Leverre remained motionless, and Amaury started to worry.

  Eventually, Leverre slowly nodded his head. “If the dragon doesn’t manage it—” He paused and grimaced. “I’ll see that it’s done.”

  Amaury leaned forward on his desk and fixed his gaze on Leverre. “Be sure that you do.”

  CHAPTER

  17

  Guillot woke the next morning with a long list of things that still needed to be done buzzing around in his head. He had spent the previous afternoon acquiring many of the things he thought he might need, beginning with new boots, gloves, a suit of clothes, and a good oilskin coat—he didn’t want bad weather to get him before the dragon did. He still needed a suit of armour. He had no idea how he would obtain that in the time available, as they had agreed to depart the city the following morning.

  He felt he was neglecting Solène, but he had too much to do and she had her own preparations to make, since she intended to accept the Prince Bishop’s offer. They breakfasted together briefly, then went their separate ways for the day.

  It was possible to get pre-made armour, but there was nothing worse than spending long hours in a suit that didn’t quite fit properly. Nonetheless, that would be the best he could do right now. There was no way he was hunting a dragon without a comforting layer of steel between him and its claws. He had left sundry matters like horses, provisions, and suchlike to the Prince Bishop’s people. It was easy stuff and Leverre had seemed solid, so Gill wasn’t worried. But armour, he had to take care of himself.

  In keeping with tradition, the Chevaliers of the Silver Circle were all given a fine suit of heavy armour. There was one with Guillot’s name on it rusting somewhere, but he had no idea where—he had left it in the city after fighting his judicial duel and departing for Villerauvais. He’d regretted leaving it behind—it was worth a fortune. If he’d sold it, it would have paid for renovations to the old manor house in Villerauvais, or for the replanting of the vineyards.

  Armour might ultimately be useless against the dragon, but the old Chevaliers had worn something similar, so it might just stop him from getting killed. Not to mention, a fine suit of armour would add a substantial amount to the Prince Bishop’s bill.

  Whatever a person wanted could be found in Mirabay. A concentration of so much wealth drew merchants from every corner of the world. The finest bakers, drapers, jewellers, and smiths resided there. Craftspeople of a skill to rival those of any city, even those of Ostenheim, said by many to be the centre of the world.

  There was a smith whom everyone of importance used for their armour in the old days—Jauré. Only he made armour for the Silver Circle, overseeing every step from smelting the ore to the final piece of filigree. He likely had something in stock that Guillot could use, and it was almost certain to cost a small fortune. Guillot walked through the city toward Jauré’s workshop, trying not to remember the times he had been happy in Mirabay, when Auroré had been alive and life seemed like a great adventure that would never end. The memory was difficult to shake and brought him no joy. Too much had changed. Too many dreams had been shattered.

  The workshop looked much as Guillot remembered, more like an expensive tailor’s shop than a smith’s. It sat on a street of refined-looking shops catering to the wealthy—goldsmiths, silversmiths, gem cutters, tailors, and spirits merchants. Elaborately painted signs announced each business, and he knew a person could drain a family fortune before reaching the end of the street. Jauré’s front wall was lined with lead-camed windows of expensive, crystal-clear glass, allowing everything on the inside to be seen with almost no distortion. The front room was wood-panelled, carpeted, and filled with leather couches, while the walls were decorated with armour sketches by the master himself, mounted in gilt frames. He walked in, feeling sick to his stomach, remembering his first appointment to be fitted after being inducted to the Silver Circle. The loss was more pronounced when he revisited familiar places. He craved something to dull the pain. Wine, Ruripathian whisky, anything that would cloud his head enough to shroud the memories.

  “Good afternoon, my Lord,” the young clerk said, coming to greet him. “How may I help?”

  In an establishment such as that, it was always assumed the customer was a lord. Few others could afford the prices, and the wealthy burgesses had no need for armour—they were too busy making money to entertain notions of getting themselves killed for king and country. Even the Prince Bishop would notice the stomach punch to his purse a purchase at Jauré’s would bring. As cheering a thought as that was, it did little to ease Guillot’s melancholy.

  “I believe you might be expecting me. My name is Guillot dal Villerauvais. I’m here for a harness.”

  “Of course, my Lord. We got word that you’d be calling. The maestro has worked through the night to modify something based on the old measurements we have for you in our records. I’ll make some updates and pass them over to Maestro Jauré. He’ll further refine the plates, and then you’ll need to return this evening for a final fitting. All being well, the harness will be ready for your departure in the morning.”

  The assistant pulled a measuring tape from a pocket in his apron and set about taking Guillot’s measurements. He amended the page several times, making an affirming grunt each time he did. “Not so far removed from what they were,” the clerk said. “A little less on the shoulders, a little more on the waist, but it’s not at all bad. It’s not often a gentleman can say that after more than a decade.”

  “I appreciate the flattery,” Guillot said, finally breaking into a smile, “but I can see what you’re writing down.”

  The clerk gave a sheepish smile. “No man is immune to the passing years, and it really is far better than we usually see. I’ll bring these measurements to Maestro Jauré, but I suspect he’ll wish to speak to you before you go. If you’d care to wait, it shouldn’t take long. Can I offer you a glass of wine?”

  “Yes, please,” Guillot said, the words tumbling from his mouth before he had the chance to consider them. Although it was early, many noblemen took a glass or two of watered wine with their breakfasts. Moreover, a tipsy customer would likely spend more than originally intended. He felt his mouth water and his heart quicken. Then he thought of Jeanne’s disapproving glare and swallowed hard. “Actually, it’s a little early for me. I don’t need anything.”

  The clerk gave him a nod and disappeared through a door. Guillot wondered if it was too much to hope that Jauré had something that would fit him outright. Armour was such a personal thing—particularly armour of this quality and expense—so the smiths didn’t tend to keep very much in stock, ready to have minor alt
erations made.

  The clerk reappeared with another man, whom Guillot recognised as Maestro Jauré himself. He had aged some; his formerly grey, cropped hair was now resolutely white, but he still had the broad, defined shoulders of a man who beat metal for a living.

  “Banneret of the White dal Villerauvais, I’m honoured that you’ve returned to my smithy,” the master armourer said.

  “There wasn’t anywhere else I’d consider,” Guillot said. “Although I can’t help but feel bad for the trouble so hurried a piece of work must be causing you.”

  Jauré smiled genially, then gave Guillot an appraising look. “Far from it—it’s rare that I find myself challenged these days and I have to admit I’m enjoying the test immensely. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised. I had something remarkably close to your needs in stock, so it’s simply been a case of reshaping in a few places. The suit was made for the Duke of Fontonoy. Indeed, he was due to collect it the day after the duel in which he was killed.”

  Guillot nodded. If it had been made for a duke, the armour would be of excellent quality. It would also be ridiculously expensive.

  “The suit is among the finest I’ve made. The duke’s heir doesn’t want it. He didn’t even go to the Academy.” Jauré gave a disapproving shake of his head.

  “Might I see it?” If it fit, there was no way Guillot would refuse it. If he had to face a dragon, he wanted to do it wearing a suit of Jauré’s armour, even one designed for the garish tastes of a court dandy.

  “This way, my Lord,” Jauré said, leading him into the back room.

  The armour was the first thing Guillot saw, arranged on a wooden mannequin. It was shining steel with a dark filigree that rimmed the edges of each plate.

  “Finest steel with blackened silver filigree,” Jauré said.

  “The duke had particularly fine taste,” Guillot said, genuinely meaning it. He didn’t have the imagination for such things, but if he were to have a suit made for him, it would have been this one. It was far more to his taste than his previous suit, filigreed as it had been with the Silver Circle’s imagery.

  “If it’s convenient, we can do a test fitting now? Between that and the measurements we’ve taken, I think it will save you a return visit this evening.”

  Guillot nodded and stepped forward, lifting his arms to allow Jauré and his clerk to start putting the pieces on him. They worked with practised efficiency, but Guillot grimaced every so often when he was pinched by a plate that did not quite fit. With everything on, Guillot had to work hard to breathe. Although the armour was well balanced, it placed weight on his chest and shoulders, which were more accustomed to inactivity than burden. This had nothing to do with an ill fit or poor craftsmanship and everything to do with his prolonged idleness. Certainly only a few days of wearing the armour would change that, but that meant he needed to wear it for the whole journey if he hoped to be used to it by the time he faced the dragon. That he would be riding out to his almost certain death in discomfort was not at all a warming thought.

  Jauré went around the suit, making marks on the steel with a wax pencil. He took a step back and looked the suit over for a moment before attacking once more with his pencil.

  Eventually he stopped. “I think that should do it. There’s not much to be done, and considering the time constraints, I think it will work out better than could have been hoped. I will have it delivered to your inn first thing in the morning.”

  * * *

  Guillot had no idea what kind of tools were required for dragon-slaying, but he didn’t reckon his Competition sword was up to the job. It was perfectly suited for its intended purpose—duelling—but he wouldn’t take it onto the battlefield against armoured opponents and he certainly wouldn’t use it to attack a dragon. No, he’d bring his old family sword—Mourning—with its broader, general-purpose blade. The blade was old—very old—and might have seen use in the days when his ancestor was alleged to have been a dragonslayer. Still, he didn’t think that by itself, that sword would be enough.

  He would need weapons that could be used at greater distance. He feared that if he was close enough to use his sword, he might already be halfway down the beast’s gullet. He had no great skill with a bow, so that seemed pointless—hopefully one of Leverre’s people would be able to fill that need, either with a real bow or some sort of magical one. If Solène could knock men out without laying a hand on them, perhaps someone from the Prince Bishop’s order would be able to knock the dragon out of the sky, leaving Guillot with the job of finishing it off.

  That seemed too much to hope for, however, and he didn’t want to turn up at the dragon’s lair wishing he had something he hadn’t thought to bring. In the past, he had encountered few problems that lance or sword couldn’t put right, but the most important element was not the weapon, but rather the arm wielding it. Unless he practised and regained some of his ability, he would be a lamb to the slaughter. How to do that without revealing that he was a burnt-out old hacker was going to be tricky.

  As he walked away from Jauré’s, he considered what he would need in a lance. It would have to be modified from the type used against a horseman. Something more akin to a belek spear might fit the bill. The work would be easy enough, and wouldn’t take long, and he knew of a pole turner who made tournament lances. The weapon would need to be long enough to keep him out of reach of claws and teeth, stiff enough that he could drive it home true, and barbed to make sure it caused the maximum amount of damage. That he was walking along contemplating how best to kill a dragon continued to amaze him.

  CHAPTER

  18

  The air felt crisp the next morning when Guillot got up, the heat of the day having yet to fill it with all the smells of the city. The sky was pale blue and the sun was only moments from breaking the horizon when he looked out of his bedroom window. There was time for a good breakfast, and then they would leave. To slay a dragon. He shook his head, allowing himself a smile. Still such a ridiculous notion, one that brought amusement rather than fear. He knew that would change, however, and sooner than he might like.

  When he got downstairs, Jauré and an assistant were waiting to greet him. It didn’t look like either of them had slept, suggesting that the armourer’s declaration that only a few changes needed to be made had been something of an understatement. Guillot would have felt guilty were it not for the amount Jauré was likely to charge.

  “My Lord dal Villerauvais,” Jauré said. “Your harness is ready. I’d like to check the fit. We’ve arranged for the use of a room here.”

  “Please do,” Guillot said, following Jauré and his assistant into a private coffee room.

  Jauré and his assistant unwrapped their greased-paper parcels, carefully placing the pieces of the armour on the large coffee table—not out of fear of scratching the table, but rather of marring the mirror finish on the highly polished metal. Such care seemed a daft thing to Guillot, considering the plate would have three hells bashed out of it if used for its intended purpose. He supposed few who purchased armour from Jauré’s wore it for anything other than ceremonial purposes. That did not change the fact that it was the best, and that in Jauré’s steel he was more likely to survive his mission.

  “Before I start,” Jauré said, “I want to say how much I admire your bravery, and what an honour it is that you have chosen me to make your harness. These are terrifying, unimaginable days, and every Mirabayan is lucky to have a man like you to protect us.”

  Guillot looked at him, puzzled, then spotted the morning’s news sheet, left on the coffee table for guests to read. The headline said everything he needed to know. Word of the dragon had reached the city, and it had been announced that he was going to kill it. Gill felt sick. That news could only have come from one place. What could Amaury hope to gain from letting it out?

  Jauré’s assistant, clearly an expert in dressing an armoured man, manhandled Guillot into a more receptive pose, then got to work. The cuisses went on first, overlapping ho
rizontal plates that covered his thighs from waist to knee. The assistant secured the pieces with soft leather straps. The cuirass was next, its tassets—the metal plate skirts at its bottom—draped over the thigh armour, ensuring no attacking blade, tooth, or claw could find a way to flesh. The cuirass was made of the same overlapping plates as the cuisses, allowing a remarkable range of movement while still providing superb protection. The assistant tugged on the fixing straps, then looked at his master.

  Jauré stroked his moustache and studied the problem. Guillot took a deep breath, but it did nothing to impress the old armourer. “Perhaps it might be best to skip breakfast this morning,” Jauré said. “There was only so much we could do in the time we had. Perhaps skip it tomorrow also.”

  Guillot almost said something smart in retort, but Jauré spoke again.

  “And the day after.”

  Though he remained silent, Guillot was as determined as ever to enjoy the bounty of Bauchard’s kitchen once more before leaving the city. Pauldrons, gorget, and helmet finished the suit, all of which thankfully fit. He didn’t think a few skipped meals would make his head any smaller.

  “Move around a little,” Jauré said. “Try to get through the full range of movement to see if there is any restriction or pinching.”

  Guillot did, delighted at how easily the overlapping steel plates moved over each other, and how light the whole suit felt. The subtle alterations made it feel like far less of a burden than it had the previous day. Although it felt a little tight around his gut, he had a hard time noticing any reason to skip a few meals. “It’s superb. As though it was made for me.”

  “A tailored suit is unlikely to fit much better,” Jauré said. “Unless there’s anything else, my Lord, I think the armour is as perfect a fit as we can hope for.”