Servant of the Crown

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  The army had a quartermaster of sorts. Gill knew the type, having encountered many of them with levy forces over the years. When the call to raise levies came, they were the men sent into their lord’s armoury to dig out all the weapons and armour that had been dumped there the last time the levy came home. The more diligent lords—who were few, in Gill’s experience—would have everything repaired, sharpened, and oiled, in anticipation of their next use, whenever that might be. Most would leave the gear to rot, knowing they wouldn’t be the poor sods relying on it in the next fight.

  What was serviceable in this quartermaster’s care had probably been handed out long ago. The only saving grace was that no farmer-turned-soldier was going to be given a rapier—he’d be as likely to hurt himself with it as an enemy—so Gill was hopeful there’d be one he could have the blacksmith tweak to his tastes.

  The quartermaster and his assistant were busy working on what was left in their meagre inventory when Gill got there. A quick look confirmed that he might be in luck with a sword, but as for armour, he could forget about it. Metal plate in a battle was always a comfort against the threat of the arrow or blade that you didn’t see coming. He’d feel naked in only borrowed tunic and britches.

  As the quartermaster approached, Gill gave him a hopeful smile.

  “What have you got left?”

  “What do you need?”

  Gill shrugged. “Everything.” He realised the borrowed clothes he was wearing made him look much like any of the other levy men. “I’m a banneret.”

  “You’re in luck, then. We have some side swords you can look over. Only leather cuirasses left, though.”

  “I’ll take what I can get,” Gill said. “The swords?”

  The quartermaster rummaged in a hay-filled wooden crate, withdrawing three scabbardless side swords. He laid them down on the trestle-and-plank table for Gill’s scrutiny. None of them were rusty, but that was about all he could say in their favour on first glance. The plain, three-ringed hilt design was of a fashion that displayed their age. They were old—probably out of style even in his father’s time.

  Failing the demands of fashion was one thing; far more important was the question of whether they’d survive their first meeting with another blade. He picked each one up, hefted it, and studied each blade, making mental notes as he went, adding up the pros and cons. In the end, one emerged as a clear leader. There were fewer flaws in the steelwork, and the weight was closer to what Gill was comfortable with. He wouldn’t win any style awards in the officers’ mess with it, given its guard of roughly welded bars, but he reckoned it would hold up when it counted.

  “What about the cuirass?” Gill said.

  The quartermaster’s assistant appeared from the red-clothed stores tent with two mouldering cuirasses of leather that looked like they had been stored in a damp pool. His skin crawled at the thought of wearing either of them, and he couldn’t see them being much protection. He gave a curt shake of his head.

  “I’ll take the sword,” he said. “Thanks for your help.”

  Sword in hand, Gill headed for the blacksmith. The blade needed some work, and the balance wasn’t quite right. The closer he could get it to what he liked, the better, but he didn’t expect a man who spent most of his time making iron fittings and horseshoes to be able to work wonders on it.

  The smithy was built of stone and slate, and open to the elements at the front. Heat radiated out from the forge, the glowing coals concealed underneath a black and grey crust of ash and charcoal. The blacksmith sat next to a sharpening wheel with a spearhead in his hands. There was a pile of similar points on either side of him—one sharp, one blunt, Gill guessed.

  “I need some help with a blade,” he said.

  The smith looked up from the metal head he was holding against the rotating whetstone. He stopped pressing the pedals, and the wheel slowly came to a halt.

  “It’ll have to wait,” the smith said.

  “This isn’t on the army’s bill,” Gill said. “I’ll pay for it myself.”

  The smith looked at him with tired eyes. He’d probably been sharpening blades and shoeing horses nonstop since the army had arrived. Likely he hadn’t seen a penny for his troubles, and was being motivated by the fear of saying no and the hope of being paid before the army left.

  “What needs doing?”

  “I’d like to take some length off the blade, rework the balance.”

  “I’m not a bladesmith,” the smith said.

  “It’s not difficult work. I can guide you.” Gill picked up a wax pencil from the smith’s workbench and took his guard with the sword. He tried a cut and a thrust, pulling into a parry and back to guard after each one. That done, he made a mark on the blade, half a handspan from the tip.

  “Cut it clean there, and rework the tip into a spearpoint, just like you’re doing with those.”

  The smith nodded, staring at the sword. Gill stuck out his index finger and rested the blade on it, moving the sword backward and forward until he found its balance point. It was a little too far toward the tip for his liking, but the trimming and reshaping might solve that. He made another mark.

  “This is where I want the balance to be,” Gill said. “If the tip work doesn’t bring it back far enough, add a little lead to the pommel. It’s no great beauty anyway. Will a crown cover the work?”

  The smith nodded. Gill knew it would cover the work three times over, but he wanted this prioritised, and a grateful smith did better work than a resentful one.

  Gill smiled. “I’ll be right back.”

  Gill wandered through the village in search of the Count of Savin. It was conspicuously devoid of villagers. Other than a few of the braver businesspeople who had ventured out in the hope of making some money out of the situation they found themselves in, it seemed everyone was shut up in their homes, unwilling to come out. Gill really couldn’t blame them, and hoped that would be enough to keep them safe if the worst happened.

  It didn’t take him long to find Savin, leaning against a fence and chatting with three of his lords. They stopped as soon as they spotted Gill, making him doubly curious about what they’d been saying. Savin had the look of a man stuck with a horse he hadn’t wanted to buy. Now he was caught in that uncertain place, trying to decide whether to keep it and make the best of a bad situation, or sell it at a loss for whatever he could get.

  “My Lord Savin,” Gill said, with as much geniality as he could muster. “I find myself in need of some financial assistance.”

  Savin frowned at him.

  “Our flight from the city being such, I was dispossessed of all things and don’t fancy going into a battle without a few comforts.”

  The count’s frown turned to irritation. “Give him some money,” he said.

  None of his lords made to reach for their purses. After a moment, Savin pulled a purse from the belt of the closest man and tossed it to Gill, ignoring the look of indignation on the lord’s face. Gill caught the bag one-handed and smiled.

  “Consider it a gift from the Crown,” Savin said.

  Gill nodded his thanks, but knew damn well that every expense the count incurred—and more, plus interest—would be presented to the royal treasurer for repayment the moment the king was back on his throne. Thus enriched, Gill returned to the smith, who had resumed his work on the spearpoints.

  Rummaging through the purse, Guillot could see why Savin’s lord had been annoyed. It looked like he’d been gifted the man’s full campaign float—at least twenty crowns in various denominations. An unskilled worker might make one crown a day if they were well paid. Gill reckoned two were more than enough for the smith, adding a margin of generosity for the rush.

  He tossed two crowns to the smith, who dropped the spear tip he was working on to catch them.

  “I’m obliged, Lord,” the man said, then got up and went to the workbench, where Gill had left the sword. “The wax mark for the cut?”

  Gill nodded, and the smith took a saw and
made short work of the blade. It looked odd with a square tip. He immediately took a file to it and started working the cut end back into a point. It wasn’t the ideal way to make a blade, and meant that softer metal at the blade’s core would be exposed, but Gill reckoned he’d fare better with a weapon that felt good in his hand, even if the edge on its tip didn’t last quite as long as usual. On a cheaper, munitions-grade blade such as this one, the difference would be less pronounced than on a sword made by a master bladesmith anyway.

  The roughing-out done, the smith presented the sword for inspection. Guillot looked it over; judging by the colour of the metal, not too much of the softer core material had been exposed—one of the benefits of cheaper construction. As he had expected, the balance point had moved back, and already the weapon felt better in his hand. However, there was still room for improvement.

  “Round off the transition into the tip a little more,” Gill said. “Then I think we’ll need to add a touch of weight to the pommel.”

  The smith got to work with the file again, pausing every few strokes for Gill’s input, until it had the shape he was looking for. He tested the balance again, and reckoned it wouldn’t take much more to get it right.

  The smith drilled a small hole into the pommel, then melted some lead, which he poured into the hole. Once it had cooled, Gill tested the sword. It took a second filling of lead before it felt right. He made a few more cuts with the sword. Satisfied that it was as good as he could hope for, he gave the smith another crown for his efforts. It was time to return to the council of war to discuss what further preparations could be made.

  CHAPTER

  24

  Tresonne had rustled up enough tarpaulin to completely cover the cage for the journey back to Mirabay. Exhausted though she was, Ysabeau’s concern that the dragon might wake in transit was enough to motivate her to continue using magic—both hers and Hangdog’s—to speed their return journey. As soon as they got back to Mirabay, the dragon would be someone else’s problem, but the credit would remain with her.

  When they reached the city gates, they discovered that the cage was too large to get through the city gate. More, the sight of two great ox wagons trundling along in tandem, pulled by teams of straining beasts and blocking the entire road, was too much to ignore. The guards stepped across the road, blocking the path.

  “Who seeks to enter the city?” one of them asked.

  “Agents of the Prince Bishop, Regent of Mirabaya.”

  “What’s on the carts?”

  Ysabeau smirked. “Best take a look for yourselves. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  The guards looked at one another, then one walked forward. He cast Ysabeau a nervous look before approaching the covered cage, halberd in hand. Grasping the tarpaulin, he cast furtive looks at his fellow guards.

  Everyone now gathered around the city gate was watching the goings-on, wondering what was under that cover. Ysabeau wondered if any of them could guess. She couldn’t wait to see how they reacted.

  Lifting the tarp and peering into the cage, the guard let out a loud gasp and fell back on his arse. He dropped his halberd and scrambled back, away from the cage. Ysabeau let out a cackle, as amused by his reaction as by the fact that he was the only one who had seen what was in there. Everyone else had to speculate based on his terrified reaction; she found their consternation delicious.

  “Anyone else want to take a peek?”

  There were no volunteers.

  She turned to Hangdog. “Go to the palace and tell my fa—the Prince Bishop that I’ve returned to the city with everything he requested.”

  Hangdog seemed only too happy to get back into the city, and most likely to get as far away from her as he could.

  “Take these three with you,” she said as an afterthought, and pointed to the three academics, who looked equally delighted to have returned to Mirabay. After they disappeared through the gate, Ysabeau smiled at the guards.

  The fallen man was back on his feet and whispering furiously at his comrades. The colour drained from their faces.

  “Is it really?” one of them said to Ysabeau.

  “Why don’t you find out for yourself?” She gestured to the tarpaulin.

  From his expression, she could tell he was trying to balance his desire to see a real live dragon against the danger of losing a hand, or perhaps a whole arm. Of course, the dragon was still asleep. It hadn’t so much as budged the whole way back to the city. Were it not for the sporadic twitching of its nostrils, or the regular rise and fall of its chest, she would have thought it was dead. She’d given up wondering what was wrong with it, or why it slept. Soon enough, it wouldn’t be her problem anymore.

  The problem that remained, however, was getting the cage through the gate. It wasn’t like they could lead it through on a leash, like a puppy. What about using the same method they had to get the cage out of the temple? Ysabeau looked up at the battlements, towering overhead. The wall was high—at least twice as high as they had to deal with at the temple, perhaps more. There would be far stronger and more sophisticated equipment available at the docks, but even still, it was a big obstacle. Perhaps floating it upriver and into the city would be the best approach. Still, that would be someone else’s decision to make.

  She wondered if they might be able to widen the gate, or if that would bring down this whole section of the wall. Her father’s engineers would probably be able to come up with a solution. Best to leave them to it.

  Ysabeau was surprised by how quickly her father arrived. She also thought it odd that he was dressed as an ordinary man rather than in his vestments and that his hair appeared to be dyed—she almost didn’t recognise him. Had the city become so dangerous that he was required to wear a disguise when out in the open? He had four other “ordinary men” with him, but they all had the look of mercenaries. She raised an eyebrow when she saw him, but a quick shake of his head dispossessed her of the idea of asking any questions.

  “Is he telling the truth?” the Prince Bishop said.

  There was only one person he could be talking about. She smiled.

  “If he’s talking about that,” she said, nodding toward the cage, “then yes, he is.”

  “Gods alive.”

  The Prince Bishop dismounted, handed his reins to one of his men, and walked toward the cage. When he lifted the tarpaulin, his reaction was far more measured than the guard’s.

  “I can’t say I ever thought to see this,” the Prince Bishop said. “Is it alive?”

  His voice was firm, but it sounded forced to Ysabeau. “As best I can tell,” she said.

  “What’s wrong with it? Why doesn’t it move?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Ysabeau said. “Perhaps it’s hibernating?”

  The Prince Bishop nodded. “Yes. Perhaps.” He looked from the cage to the gate, then back again. “Getting it through the gate’s going to be a problem,” he said.

  “I thought that myself,” Ysabeau replied. “But it’s not my problem.” She flashed her father a winning smile, then urged her horse forward and into the city.

  * * *

  Amaury didn’t like how relieved he felt once he was back inside the palace walls. That meant he had to admit to himself how concerned he was about the situation outside. As unsettling as these realisations were, they didn’t detract from his excitement at what Ysabeau had brought him. A real, live dragon. Caged and slumbering. It was beyond the realm of his imagination, and he had always prided himself on his ability to think big. The prestige it would bring was immense—enough, perhaps, to soften the blow of having let the king slip from his grasp. The satisfaction he had felt at preventing Gill from taking the Cup soured completely once he had realised the attempt was merely a distraction from the actual mission. Dal Villerauvais, it seemed, had more artifice than Amaury had ever given him credit for.

  Word was yet to get out that the king was no longer in the city, but it would. Soon. The news could be dismissed as misinforma
tion for a time, but eventually it would be undeniable. Considering how angry the citizens already were, he might be better off admitting it from the get-go, and trying to twist the information to his advantage, painting those who had taken the king as traitors.

  The dragon had come just at the right time—Divine Fortune showing that perhaps she still did favour him. Showing the people this great trophy was the perfect thing with which to grab their attention, and distract them from everything else that was going on. At that moment the beast was being brought downriver to a site where it was to be loaded onto a barge for transport into the city. With three armies roaming the countryside, he wasn’t going to risk disassembling part of the city wall, no matter how much value the prize might bring.

  It hadn’t taken him long to work out what to do with the creature—there was an old duelling arena on Southgate Road that would be a perfect home for it. He could have a sturdy enclosure built to cover the arena floor, leaving plenty of space for his citizens to come and view their great prize. His citizens. He wondered if they’d ever think of him as their liege. Their saviour—for that was what he undoubtedly was. When the Ventish marched south or the Ostians landed on their shores, led by powerful battle mages, the people would ask where the king was and why he was not protecting his people.

  Thanks to Amaury, that day would never come—Mirabaya would have its own battle mages, far more powerful than anything the Ventish or Ostians could come up with. He feared the people would never appreciate the great service he had done them, at so much personal risk and sacrifice.

  He knew that he had come too far to hand power to someone else. If whoever it was had an ounce of sense in their heads, they’d have him thrown in the dungeons as soon as they sat on the throne. There was no longer any question of ruling from the shadows, through a puppet king. Not anymore. In any event, he deserved this. All that he had done, all that he had sacrificed, was to make sure that Mirabaya was strong, and safe. No one else could do that. Only him.