Servant of the Crown

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  She smiled and nodded. “Untouched. The last of its kind. Other than that, as best as I was able to tell, it works the way you think it does. You just have to drink from it. And all your dreams become reality.”

  The Prince Bishop’s eyes widened in delight, then narrowed. “You’re certain? Certain that this is how it works?”

  The intensity of his delivery made her doubt herself. She shrugged. “I think so.”

  “That’s not good enough,” he said. “This is the last one? You said this is the last one.”

  She nodded. “That’s what the dragon said in the temple.”

  “It spoke?”

  “Well, yes. It was in human form at that point.”

  “Astonishing,” the Prince Bishop said. “But if this is the last one, I can’t take the risk of wasting it.” His voice rose. “I need to know for certain. I need to know the correct way to use it. This Cup might be the answer to everything. I can’t waste it.”

  He paced across the office to the window and stared out into the darkness, tugging at his goatee in agitation. After a moment he turned back to her. “Tell me about the temple. What did you see?”

  “It was incredible. Ancient, yet perfectly preserved. That would be because of the magic, I suppose. The whole place was filled with sculptures and covered with inscriptions.”

  “Inscriptions. Were you able to read any of them?”

  “Of course not. I couldn’t even tell you what language they were in.”

  “Couldn’t you use your limited magical ability to decipher them?”

  She smiled wryly, the dig at her disappointing magical talents not going unnoticed. She wondered if he would ever get over it, but supposed the wound must be particularly sore now, after she had delivered the news of his new protégé’s betrayal. It seemed that he was to be ever disappointed by those he placed his hopes in.

  “No,” she said. “I’ve always directed my ‘limited magical ability’ toward things that are useful to me. I’ve never included millennia-dead languages on that list.”

  The Prince Bishop let out a breath with a deep sigh, then walked over to his desk and slumped into the chair. In that moment, Ysabeau regretted the attitude she had adopted, and wanted nothing more than to console her father. It felt as though there was a gulf between them, one she could never hope to cross. In any event, she knew that consolation was not what he desired.

  “It’s possible that there was more detailed information there on how the cups were used. Probable.”

  He fixed his gaze on her. “I need you to go back. Right away. I’m sure the danger has passed by now, so you’ll be free to carry out a more thorough investigation. I’ll have some scribes and linguists from the university accompany you, to copy the inscriptions and start working on translations.”

  Ysabeau gritted her teeth. She hadn’t even taken the time to have a drink of water, let alone the lavish meal, hot bath, and ten hours of sleep she’d promised herself during the exhausting ride back from the temple. She’d been running on empty for hours, and it was only having the end in sight that had kept her going.

  “Take a room at Bauchard’s and get some rest,” the Prince Bishop said. “I’ll need a little time to get the team I have in mind organised. Naturally you can put it on my tab.”

  “Naturally,” she repeated. There was no asking. He gave his command, and expected it to be followed. No other man alive spoke to her like that, treated her like that. Still, he was her father, and had been there for her when she had most needed him. She smiled and tried to relax. He was ordering her to Bauchard’s, a place of luxury, and she was so tired.

  “I’ll send word when I have everything in place.” He stared at her with that expectant look he used to indicate that it was time to leave. Obedient, Ysabeau stood and headed for the door.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” he said.

  She realised she was still holding the Cup. She lifted it and allowed her tired gaze to dwell on it a moment.

  “I think you should leave it here,” the Prince Bishop said. “For safekeeping.”

  “Of course, Father,” Ysabeau said. She placed the Cup on his desk, rather than into his outstretched hand, and left. As soon as the door closed behind her, she realised she had forgotten to ask him about the odd mood in the city. Conversations with the Prince Bishop were usually like that—dealing only with the things he wanted to deal with. At this point, she was so tired she didn’t really care anymore.

  CHAPTER

  6

  Gill led his little band around the city walls to St. Boudain’s Gate, on the western side of the city, named after a king who was more interested in matters spiritual than temporal. As poor a reputation as he had as a ruler, the funds he diverted into the church were sufficient for his beatification, and he would be remembered as St. Boudain, rather than Boudain the Feckless, which was perhaps more appropriate. Gill had always taken odd pleasure in looking behind the reputations of the great and good of Mirabaya, as though to confirm to himself over and over that his cynicism was justified.

  “Think we’ll have any problems?” Solène said, as they approached the guarded gateway.

  “No,” Gill said. “I doubt it. Maybe be ready to gallop for safety, just in case.”

  “Confident then,” Solène said.

  He shrugged. “You never can tell. The last lot looked a bit jumpy. If they’re on alert, it’s possible word will have spread and these guards will be looking for us. I doubt it, though.”

  “What do we do when we get in?” Solène said.

  “Let’s cross one bridge at a time, shall we?” Gill said. The truth was, he had no idea. Loath though he was to admit it, he reckoned they’d lost the Cup as soon as their quarry reached the city gate. In all likelihood, it was already in Amaury’s possession. He didn’t want to say so, though. He knew how important the Cup was to their dragon-in-human-clothing comrade. Best let him find out they had failed by himself, so any anger could be directed elsewhere. Angry dragons were something Gill had had his fill of. He much preferred them when they were playing nice.

  He studied Pharadon as surreptitiously as he could. Though the dragon’s human disguise appeared perfect—apart from when he tried a challenging facial expression, like smiling—Gill worried that there was a flaw somewhere. An errant horn or a patch of scales that a particularly vigilant guard would spot. He supposed that the phrase “vigilant guard” was something of an oxymoron. Most of them were bored witless and counting the minutes until they could go back to barracks or home to their families. Nevertheless, every so often you got one who was eager to impress, new to the job or looking to make rank.

  They reached the gate. On the scale of attentiveness, these guards seemed to be at the lower middle. They were stopping people, but only asking where they had come from. They were paying a little more than lip service to their duty, but not much.

  “Where from?” the guard said.

  “Trelain,” Gill said, immediately wondering if he should have said somewhere else.

  “See any dragons?”

  Gill chuckled. “No. Not a one.”

  “Move on.”

  Gill gave a salute of thanks and urged his horse forward. He wondered how the guard would have reacted had he learned that he was staring at a dragon even as he asked the question.

  They passed through the gate without further interruption, and Gill was immediately hit by the sensation of foreboding he had every time he entered the city. His best and worst memories were here. Courting Auroré in the palace gardens and theatres, losing her in childbirth in the townhouse they had owned near the palace. Fighting for his life in the judicial arena. Having his banner torn to shreds and handed to him as the mark of ultimate disgrace. As he thought on it, it became impossible to see the best memories for the worst. He hated Mirabay, and every visit was one too many.

  Worse, this time it felt as though the entire city was in mourning. Mourning with every city watchman out on duty. They were eve
rywhere; he hadn’t even realised there were so many members of the Watch.

  “Something strange is going on,” Gill said. “I’ve never seen the city like this.”

  “What do you mean?” Solène said.

  “I’m not sure.” Gill turned to a passer-by. “Excuse me, has something happened?”

  “Piss off.” The person kept going without missing a step.

  “Not very friendly,” Pharadon said.

  “Welcome to Mirabay,” Gill said. “Perhaps everyone would be better off if your kind burned this place to the ground.”

  “Except the people that got burned to death,” Solène said.

  Gill instantly felt ashamed. Considering that that was exactly what had happened to his villagers in Villerauvais, the flippant remark had been tasteless. “I shouldn’t have said that. Let’s try to find that Cup. Pharadon, can you sense it?”

  “I can, but barely. There’s so much energy here. All the people. Quite amazing. Not nearly as strong as at the temple, but still. The Cup is some distance away, in that direction.” He pointed.

  “The palace,” Gill said grimly.

  “That is bad?” Pharadon said.

  “It’s not good.”

  “It’s been delivered to the man who covets it?”

  “Possibly,” Gill said, unsure how the dragon would take the news. “But he might not have used it.”

  “He hasn’t. Even against all the background noise, I can tell that much.”

  “Then there’s still time,” Solène said.

  Getting into the palace would be nearly impossible. Getting their hands on something as important as the Cup? It might as well not even exist. Was he being too pessimistic? “You know more about all of this than I do, Solène. What are our chances here?”

  “The Prince Bishop has placed a lot of importance on this. I’m not sure he’ll want to use it until he’s certain he knows how.”

  “When will that be?”

  She grimaced. “Probably now. I think the thief might have heard Pharadon and me talking. That would have told her all he needs to know.”

  Gill took a deep breath and started to think about their next steps. As pessimistic as he was, there was something in him that wouldn’t allow him to give up. He wasn’t sure if it was some sort of innate desire for justice, or if he simply didn’t want Amaury possessing the power the Cup could confer.

  “It’s no good, sitting here on our horses trying to work things out. Let’s find somewhere warm with decent food so we can rest up a little. I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted and starving. If Amaury hasn’t used the Cup by now, we might have a little breathing space. In any event, trying to rush into the palace to take it back will just get us all killed.”

  * * *

  Without the unlimited funds he’d had during his last visit to Mirabay, when he’d been on the Prince Bishop’s tab, staying at Bauchard’s again wasn’t an option. There were a number of other reputable inns about the city, however.

  The Wounded Lion was tucked away on a quiet street near the Academy. Nondescript, clean and cheap, it was popular with young men coming to the city to take the Academy entrance examinations. Gill had stayed there many years before for that very purpose; when they entered, not only did the warmth of the fire and the smell of baking greet him, so too did a wave of nostalgia. Everything about the place reminded him of a time when life had seemed like a great adventure and the future had offered nothing but opportunity.

  For a moment he was taken back to that time. This was where he’d first met Amaury. They’d both dreamed of getting into the Academy. Amaury had been the best blade Gill had encountered up to that point, and they’d quickly identified their usefulness to one another as training partners. Their first sparring session had been in the Wounded Lion’s stable yard. Their last had been in the city’s main duelling arena, during the Competition.

  That fateful day, he felt certain now, had set in motion the chain of events that had brought Gill most of his misfortune. Of course, he had still been required to make a great number of bad decisions along the way. Why do I have to have so many bloody memories of this shitty city, he thought.

  “Are you all right?” Solène said.

  “Yes, fine. Just a few old memories rearing their ugly heads. Probably should have picked somewhere else to stay, but we’re here now. I’ll see to rooms and have some food sent over, if you and Pharadon want to relax by the fire.”

  The young woman nodded gratefully, leaving Gill to try and chase the demons from his head as he went to the innkeeper’s desk.

  “Three rooms, please,” Gill said. “My friends and I would like some food and drink.”

  The innkeeper nodded and smiled. “Your name, sir?” he asked, preparing to make notes in his ledger.

  “Richard dal Bereau,” Guillot said, borrowing the name of a nobleman two seigneuries over from Villerauvais. All things considered, there was no way Gill was comfortable giving his real name, but given the odd mood in the city, he wanted his lie to be plausible. Hopefully this would withstand any scrutiny for as long as he needed. It was only then that Gill noticed how quiet the inn was. Even though it wasn’t the right time of year for the Academy exams, usually plenty of people would stay at the Wounded Lion, many of them Academy hopefuls, in the city to train with one of Mirabay’s many fencing masters.

  “Not many people around,” Gill said as casually as he could. “I have to admit I picked up on a bit of a strange atmosphere when we got to the city. Has something happened?”

  “Oh,” the innkeeper said. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard. The king was taken seriously ill about a week ago. The news has only just gotten out. The Prince Bishop has stepped in as regent. It’s all very peculiar, particularly coming so soon after his announcement about this magical order—” He fell silent, looking suddenly concerned.

  “Don’t worry,” Gill said. “I assure you, we’re strangers to the city, only just arrived.”

  The innkeeper smiled genially. “All I’ll say is, I recommend you keep to yourself during your visit. I suspect turbulent times lie in store, so you’d be best completing your business and getting home. It’s not a welcoming place for those who don’t know their way around.”

  Gill raised his eyebrows. “Thanks for the warning. We’ll be careful. Any word on the king’s health?”

  “I really don’t know very much, sir. Only that he was taken very gravely ill. The citizens were already discontented with the Prince Bishop’s announcement, but for their king to be at death’s door, and so young? It’s not the type of instability the city needs right now.”

  “No city ever reacts well to the illness of a monarch,” Gill said. He could remember hearing news of all the riots during the final couple of years of the old king’s rule. At the time, it had felt like justice. In truth, it still did. The old bastard had treated Gill abominably, no doubt with Amaury’s encouragement.

  He returned to the others, who had taken a table by the fire, and relayed the news.

  “What does that mean for us?” Solène said.

  Worry was clear on her face. Considering all she had seen and done over the past weeks, the fact that the Prince Bishop frightened her said a lot. He frightened Gill, too.

  “Opportunities and problems,” Gill said. “On the one hand, there’s no longer anyone to veto what Amaury does. Without the king keeping him in check, he’s free to do as he likes. That could cause us problems, if we get caught.

  “On the other hand, such a huge disturbance means things will be pretty chaotic up at the palace, and that represents our opportunity. There’ll never be a more dangerous time for us to do what we need to do, but I doubt we’ll ever have a better chance at success. I’ll head out in the morning to take a look at the lay of the land. Until then, I think we could all do with a good night’s sleep.”

  CHAPTER

  7

  Val had to quickly learn the routine of life at Maestro dal Ruisseau Noir’s salon. His hours
of tuition were intermingled with the classes taken by the Maestro’s paying clients, and his day was always split by a short trip to the Wounded Lion to fetch a pie and flagon of small beer for the Maestro.

  He mopped the floors between clients, and after even a few days his hands had become permanently scented by the fine oil the training blades were coated with after every use. Dal Ruisseau Noir appeared to be happy with his service, rarely commenting on any shortcomings in Val’s work, and was proving to be an excellent swordsman and tutor.

  The Maestro struck Val as being very much what Gill would have referred to as a “peacock” and seemed cut from the same cloth as the last peacock Val had met, Didier dal Beausoleil. Beausoleil had proved to be made from a much higher grade of cloth than most men Val had encountered and he hoped dal Ruisseau Noir would be the same. The man was a fine swordsman, with a muscular and athletic physique, something he chose to hide underneath the clothing of a dandy. Val saw similarly dressed men all about the city; they appeared to think that swords were a decorative accessory, rather than a tool by which a man might make his living. Val wasn’t sure why dal Ruisseau Noir did this—perhaps to affect an air of affluence in front of prospective clients.

  Val’s skills had notably improved in his three days at the salon; he felt that he had a natural talent for the discipline, even if he did say so himself. One of the benefits of watching other students was comparing himself to them. Like him, most of dal Ruisseau Noir’s clients were young men training for their entrance exam, and despite the fact that he had far less training and tuition under his belt, he wasn’t all that far behind them, and was gaining with each day.

  He reckoned it was all about determination. Most of the other students were rich boys; the sons of aristocrats and wealthy merchants. Val had no family. While they all realised that entry to the Academy wasn’t a given, that they had to work hard for it, none of them had quite the edge that Val had. They’d never been hungry for anything in their lives. None of them had spent days on end shovelling horse shit and sleeping in a stable. He reckoned the threat of going back to that pushed him to succeed.