Servant of the Crown

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  “I’ve heard the story. I didn’t think it was true.”

  “Oh, it’s true all right.” Gill smiled, realising that was the first time he had entertained a fond thought of his time in the Silver Circle in quite some time.

  “I don’t see how that solves our problem. Getting through that door is impossible.”

  Bringing up the topic of magic in front of an Intelligencier was not something a smart person did. When there was likely a second Intelligencier tending a bar close by, it was an even worse idea. Nonetheless, he couldn’t think of any other way to get through six feet of engineered steel.

  “I think I may have a way for us to deal with that.”

  Dal Ruisseau Noir looked at him quizzically for a moment, but evidently decided not to pursue the thought, for he said, “And you? What do you hope to gain out of all of this?”

  Gill had thought about this since they’d first met. There was no need for dal Ruisseau Noir to know about the Cups. “I have an old score with Amaury, and the time has come to settle it. We’ll likely provide perfect distractions for one another.”

  Dal Ruisseau Noir nodded slowly. “Yes, I can see how that might work.” He held out his hand.

  Gill shook it.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Ysabeau never questioned her employers’ desires, so long as she was free to determine the most effective method of bringing them about. She wouldn’t tell them how to negotiate trade deals or manage their estates, so never expected them to tell her how to disappear a person who was vexing them. That her father felt the need to instruct her on every minute detail was tedious, and insulting. She’d survived, and thrived, on her own for years, both before and after they had discovered one another.

  The team he had cobbled together for her was motley to say the least. It was composed of three academics who looked like they had never been on horseback before and three members of the Spurriers for security. The scholars were clearly not thrilled by having to venture into the wilds of the provinces, and the Spurriers were clearly new inductees—only one had an actual uniform.

  That one had some magical talent, which might be needed to decipher the inscriptions, but Ysabeau didn’t have too much confidence in his powers, given his appearance.

  He was tall and skinny, with a nose too large for his face, and was topped with lank, mousy hair. He had a hangdog look about him, and Ysabeau could only hope that her father hadn’t been scraping the bottom of the barrel when he recruited him. If she wanted to get through this mission quickly, effectively, and without burning herself out playing with types of magic she knew nothing about, she’d need him.

  The Spurrier her father sent to Bauchard’s with them to collect her had made introductions, but she had not been long out of a very deep sleep and now couldn’t claim to remember any of them. As they rode away from the city, she called to Hangdog.

  “You,” she said. “Can you shape rejuvenation spells?”

  He looked back at her. “I am Sergeant Pur—”

  “I don’t care. Answer my question.”

  “Yes. I can.”

  She could tell her attitude had put him out, but she didn’t care about his name. She wanted to get this job done and dusted as quickly as she could, so she could get her very worthwhile reward. “I don’t plan on stopping until we get there. I want you to keep all our horses fit and rested. Us too, if anyone needs it. I doubt our three learned friends over there will last the distance without a little help.”

  “When should I start?”

  “I just told you to,” she said, but knew her anger was partly with herself. She should never have come back to Mirabay. She had plenty of money and could have set herself up nicely in any number of places. Instead she was racing to an ancient temple on virtually no sleep. For the second time in just a few days.

  There was no sign that her pursuers were waiting for her outside the city, although she hadn’t expected there to be. They were after the Cup. It occurred to her that in her tiredness, and because she resented the way her father had controlled her for the short time she was in the city, she hadn’t thought to tell him that she had been actively pursued. It was an oversight, but she was sure that with all his power, three people wouldn’t pose him much of a problem.

  * * *

  “The Counts of Aubin and Chabris have both declared against your regency. They’re in the process of raising their levies and calling in whatever favours they can.”

  Amaury stood at the window in his office, listening to the report from his minister of state and looking down on the empty garden. It had been some time since he had seen anyone other than the gardeners in it, and he suspected that word had finally spread that he had a vantage point on what most had hitherto considered a secret getaway within the palace. It seemed his watchful gaze could make the serene beauty of the garden toxic. He didn’t know if he should be disappointed or proud. He turned to face the minister, a man substantially older than Amaury who had given his entire life to service of the Crown. He still possessed razor-sharp faculties and had done nothing to make Amaury question his loyalty. He seemed to have swallowed the story Amaury had offered to explain the king’s condition, and had received advancement as a result.

  “How many men are they likely to be able to raise?”

  “I can’t say for certain. It’s been many years since either of them mustered their levies.”

  Amaury took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “And the likelihood of them uniting against me?”

  “There’s no love lost between them, and I expect their rival claims will only drive the wedge between them deeper. The Count of Savin remains an unknown and could tip the scales one way or the other.”

  “Tell me about Savin, then,” Amaury said. Might it be too much to hope that the extended royal family hated one another so much they’d destroy their armies fighting for prominence before ever reaching his walls? It wouldn’t be the first time in Mirabaya’s history.

  “He’s something of an unknown,” the minister said. “He’s never been to court and has shown no interest in politics.”

  “What does he do with his time?” Amaury said.

  “Hawking, hunting, managing his estates. He soldiered for a while, but he gave that up about a decade ago.”

  Amaury nodded thoughtfully. There wasn’t enough to worry about. Yet. He had plenty of more pressing problems and couldn’t shake off the feeling that he had his hands tied behind his back. He had the object he had coveted for so long, yet felt he couldn’t use it.

  Why was that? He had a strong indication of how it worked, and what he needed to do, but still couldn’t bring himself to drink from it. He was worried—would he ever have enough information?

  He made a resolution with himself that he would use it once Ysabeau got back, irrespective of what new information she brought him. It was as much use to him sitting in his pocket as if he wasted it. He couldn’t live much longer on the promise of a better future. Amaury wanted it now.

  “What of the city? I’m sure all the little schemers in the coffeehouses are delighting in the current situation.”

  “There are reports of unrest, but the increased presence of the City Watch has kept any trouble off the streets. In that regard, Watch Commander Mensiac is taking to his new role well, but has asked that you bolster some of his patrols with members of the Order.”

  “Out of the question,” Amaury said. “I don’t want the Order to be seen as an instrument of social control. That’s our absolute last resort.”

  “I think that’s a wise move, your Grace,” the minister said.

  Amaury nodded, quenching his irritated frustration. Of course it was a wise move. That was why he made it. He wasn’t fool enough to think people would accept magic if the wielders of it were seen as a force of oppression. Sick children cured, injuries healed, the reduction of the pain, suffering, and misery that life in a city like Mirabay brought those at its lower levels—that was what would make the mobs of Mir
abay see the value in magic. People were motivated by self-interest. He would make sure everyone knew magic was in their best interest.

  “That will be all for this morning,” Amaury said. “Tell my clerk to send in my next appointment.”

  Amaury returned to the seat behind his desk. There was nothing worth seeing out that window anymore. His next appointment was dressed in the cream robes of the Order, although she wore a black, hooded cloak over them. Travelling the streets in Spurrier cream was not the thing to do these days.

  This was Zehra Kargha, the Order’s new marshall. Amaury was coming dangerously close to losing count of how many of the Order’s senior officers had been replaced in the last few months. Dal Drezony, Leverre, Vachon, among others. It was surprising how much the rapid changes in personnel had altered the Order’s character.

  The new marshall was something of an interesting proposition. A Darvarosian mercenary, she’d impressed the Prince Bishop during their few previous dealings, and when the position became available, once Ysabeau reported that Gustav Vachon had met an untimely end, Amaury had decided to offer her the job.

  Kargha wasn’t one for talking, so sat there silently, glowering in that foreign way of hers. Amaury wasn’t used to that, and as amusing as the novelty was, he felt as though it put him on the back foot in a way he didn’t usually experience.

  “I know the soft approach isn’t your normal one,” Amaury said when he was unable to bear the silence any longer. “But that is what I need you to do, for now. I will be appointing a new seneschal and chancellor in due course, and they will take care of the Order’s charitable and social functions, but for now you are the only command-level officer of the Order. I need you to organise and manage clinics throughout the city, for the treatment of the sick and injured. The Order’s corps of magical physicians has lost many of its more talented and experienced personnel recently, but those who remain are more than capable of dealing with non-life-threatening cases.”

  She eyed him suspiciously but said nothing. If she hadn’t spoken Imperial to him in the past, he would have wondered if she could understand him.

  Eventually she shifted in her chair and spoke, her accent rich and her voice sonorous. “This is not a task I expected to be given.”

  “And it’s not one I expect you to carry out for long. Merely until I’ve had the chance to replace the other command-level roles. That of marshall is most important, so was the one I sought to fill first.”

  “Clinics for the sick?” she said.

  She had a hard face, and Amaury didn’t reckon a good bedside manner was one of her talents. Still, needs must. “Clinics for the sick,” he said.

  “How many?”

  “As many as the Order can accommodate. This is a campaign to win the support of the people.”

  She nodded. “Fine. I’ll do it … until you find someone more suited.”

  “There are other projects I need you to oversee for the time being. Water treatment, food preservation, things like that. The Order’s remaining mages all know what to do, they just need direction. The details are all in this file.” He slid a purple folder across his desk to her.

  Kargha picked it up, gave him a nod, and left. Amaury couldn’t quite believe it. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been treated with such casualness—no bows, no flattery, no obsequiousness. Luther, the mercenary fixer who had originally put them in contact, had said she was a princess. Although Darvarosian royalty was almost as common as Mirabayan aristocracy, they had an attitude, particularly toward those they viewed as being of a lower social rank. She’d need to be good at her intended role, when the time came. If not … He shook his head. He’d lost enough commanders already. Killing another one who was making his life difficult wasn’t going to aid his cause. Not for the time being, at least.

  CHAPTER

  11

  Six of them stood over a roughly drawn map of the palace that had been laid out on the floor of dal Ruisseau Noir’s salon: Gill, Solène, Pharadon, the salon master, Val, and another man—who had the intimidating and mysterious look of an Intelligencier who wanted to look intimidating and mysterious, rather than utterly anonymous, as Intelligenciers usually did.

  Gill’s initial reaction to the small, and not at all merry, band was “Is that it?,” but he kept the thought to himself. It quickly became obvious the Intelligenciers had suffered badly in the days following the coup. Their official structure had been all but wiped out—all that remained were some clandestine elements that had already been operating in the city. He had to admire their resolve. There were few groups who would remain true to their mission after the beating they’d taken.

  Dal Ruisseau Noir knelt and pointed to what Gill recognised as the Tower of Forgetting, where high-level nobles were imprisoned—and forgotten about. The only one Gill had ever seen leave was carried out in a nondescript wooden crate.

  “This is where the king is being held,” dal Ruisseau Noir said. “We’ve confirmed that he is indeed taken ill, so that wasn’t simply propaganda on the Prince Bishop’s part. Quite severely ill by all accounts, perhaps to the point of being completely incapacitated, but he’s still alive.

  “The main advantage we have is that we’re infiltrating a palace rather than a fortress. If the king were being held in the castle, our chances of success would be nonexistent. As it is, we have only two options for gaining access to the palace,” dal Ruisseau Noir continued. “Our man on the inside can do his best to get us into the complex through the front gate and into the palace itself through one of the service entrances.

  “We can try this as a group or individually. While moving as a group might on its face attract more attention, staff enter the palace in this fashion several times a day, and it reduces the number of opportunities for discovery at checkpoints.”

  “Makes sense,” Gill said. He kept casting obvious sidelong glances at the other man, hoping he might get an introduction. During the wars, he had sometimes been infiltrated behind enemy lines for whatever purpose, but he had always at least known who the men he was fighting next to were. All the cloak-and-dagger stuff the Intelligenciers went on with seemed like a little much. Still, they were moving forward with such a pace, they were going to be ahead of any information of their plans, which was reassuring.

  “The alternative,” dal Ruisseau Noir said, “is here.” He pointed to the quarry shaft. “Until now, we thought this access point to be impassable. That no longer seems to be the case.” He looked up at Gill.

  “Ah, yes. It’s a steel panel that was concreted into the passage shaft. It’s thick—at least three feet, I think. The engineers said at the time there was no military technology that could breach it. They said it was more impenetrable than the city walls.” He admitted, “Perhaps I was being hasty in saying it was an option.”

  Dal Ruisseau Noir looked at Solène, then at Gill. “We know what she is, and we also know that the magic jar has been opened, and the lid lost. There will be much discussion amongst my superiors about how we interact with magic in future.” He turned his attention back to Solène. “But for now, our sole remit is to rescue the king. On another day, perhaps we will be adversaries, but not today. I would be grateful for whatever assistance you can provide.”

  Solène chewed her lip for a moment. “Do we only get one shot at this, or can we try your plan if I can’t get through the barrier?”

  Dal Ruisseau Noir shrugged. “That depends. How much noise will you make trying to get through the barrier?”

  Watching carefully, Gill could see a determined look come over her face. He knew that she didn’t like to back down from a challenge, and now that he had placed the idea, she was trying to work out if she could actually pull it off.

  “Possibly none,” she said. “Magic doesn’t tend to make any noise. The effect it causes does sometimes, but not the magic itself.” She nodded. “Probably none.”

  “There’s no reason we’d be seen from the palace getting to the shaft’s entrance,�
�� Gill said. “We can take punts up the river and disguise ourselves as fishermen. There’ll be plenty of other people out on the river. If it goes wrong, we can jump back in our boats and try the other way.”

  “That could work,” dal Ruisseau Noir said. “We’ll need to organise boats and clothes.” He took a notepad and pencil from his tunic pocket and scribbled something down. He tore it off and handed it to Val. “Go to this address and speak to Louis. He’ll deliver the clothing we’ll need to look the part. Then go to the south docks, pier four, and ask for Gaston the Hook. You’ll know why he’s called that when you see him. He’ll arrange the boat. Then back here right away. Understand?”

  Val nodded and was gone. It felt odd to Gill, watching someone else give orders to his former squire. Val hadn’t been in his service long, but long enough that Gill felt a proprietary interest. He felt bad, seeing the lad still in a position of danger, all the while trying to do his best and what he thought was right. If there was any justice in the world, Val would be studying under a solid swordmaster, working his way toward his Academy entrance examinations. Instead he was way in over his head in matters a lad his age should barely be able to dream up, let alone take part in. There was no getting away from it now, though.

  “We’ve covered the getting-in-the-door part,” Gill said. “What comes next? How do you propose we move through the palace and get to the Tower of Forgetting?”

  “By the time we’re inside, it will be close to eight bells in the morning. The servants change shift then, having served breakfast. There’ll be a lot of people moving around, and it will be easy for us to get lost in the crowd. Our man inside indicates the king is pretty popular with the staff, the Prince Bishop considerably less so. He’s had senior people in the household arrested, and everyone’s scared. They’re keeping their heads down and looking out for themselves. We should be able to get by without too much trouble.”

  “Unless some little rat who wants to win the Prince Bishop’s favour spots us,” Gill said.