Servant of the Crown

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  The dragon’s golden eyelids had retracted to reveal two crystal blue eyes that looked like great sparkling sapphires that reflected a flame. They held a captivating depth that made it hard to look away.

  “I…” Ysabeau said. “I … We need to send word to my fa—the Prince Bishop. He’ll want to know about this right away.”

  “Aye, my Lady,” the workman said. He turned to his mates and whispered orders. One of the men headed off with haste, no doubt delighted to be putting distance between himself and the creature of nightmares, contained only by an unfinished cage.

  “How much work is still to be done?” Ysabeau asked. Her heart was racing; her gaze remained locked on those two magnificent eyes. If it got out now, what kind of destruction and mayhem might it cause before they could kill it?

  “One section left, my Lady,” the workman said. “This one here.”

  “Get it finished. Fast.”

  CHAPTER

  30

  “What happens now?” Solène said.

  Guillot shrugged. “The king doesn’t have enough men to march on the city, but with his cousins out of the way”—he did his best not to glance at the body hanging from the tackle beam extending from the gable of the village’s storehouse—“rallying troops to his banner should be easier. Amaury will be trying to do the same, I expect. Not sure how much success he’ll have. Probably some in the environs of the city, but beyond a day’s ride, the king will hold sway. A little time to build his army, then we march.”

  “So it’s war then?”

  Gill looked about and nodded. The village was a hive of activity. The smithy was being extended and any man who had ever swung a smith’s hammer was being drafted to help repair weapons and armour. Heralds had been sent across the country to rally men to the king’s banner, and spies had been dispatched to scout the countryside. Gill still felt drained by the previous day’s battle. The energy that had coursed through his veins took time to wane, and although he had been exhausted when he had finally crawled into bed, the jitters and anxiety left behind—the thousand “what if”s—ensured it was hours before he eventually found sleep.

  “I don’t see any other way,” he said. “All things considered, Amaury isn’t going to apologise and step aside. He knows he’ll swing for what he’s done. If he’s lucky, which judging by Cousin Chabris over there, he’s not likely to be, I expect Amaury will be looking at an extended stay in Mirabay’s dungeons before he’s put out of his misery.”

  Solène grimaced.

  “It’s nothing he doesn’t deserve,” Gill said. “Nothing he hasn’t brought on himself. He’s not a man to feel sympathy for, no matter what you might think he’s done for you.”

  She took a deep breath. “Everything he did for me had a price attached. That much was very obvious.” She glanced at the king, who was standing outside the inn, deep in discussion with Savin and a couple of distinguished-looking men she didn’t know. “I fear there’s another price I’ll have to pay now.”

  “A good king will always see things of value in people,” Gill said, following her gaze. “And exploit them for his own gain. The best you can hope for is that he’ll be generous in return.”

  “Will he want to use me or burn me at the stake?”

  Gill raised an eyebrow. There was nothing flippant about her question.

  “I saw the way the people of Mirabay reacted to the announcement of magic,” Solène said. “The king will have a much easier return if he turns on it.”

  “You saved his life,” Gill said. “That will count for something.”

  “Will it? Or will his memory only last until his next problem needs to be fixed—a problem that I’m part of?”

  “Only if people know that about you,” Gill said. “The first thing I’d be doing, if I were you, is burning any item of cream clothing in my possession.”

  She gestured to her clothes, which, like his, she had borrowed when they reached the village. “This is all I’ve got.”

  He nodded. The reminder of their lack of personal possessions made him wonder again about his swords. The fighting was far from over and he would far rather be walking into it with one of his Telastrian blades, though his altered munitions blade had served him well enough so far. Fetching them from Mirabay didn’t seem like an option.

  “The king owes you his life,” Gill said. “I won’t let him forget that. He’ll ask much of the people around him over the coming days, but he’ll have to remember what they do for him.”

  “I hope so,” Solène said. “I’m going to spend some time with the wounded, see what I can do. The count’s physician will talk me through what he knows of anatomy. I seem to have gotten the hang of doing more good than harm.”

  Gill gave her a reassuring smile, but wasn’t sure who he was trying to reassure. He knew only too well how quickly kings could forget the good service done them.

  “What’s he doing here?” Solène said, looking startled.

  When Gill turned to look, he saw Pharadon, in human form, striding purposefully toward them.

  “I wish I knew,” Gill said, “but something tells me in a few minutes, I’ll wish I didn’t.”

  Pharadon raised a hand in greeting. “I have need of you both, and of your Telastrian sword, Gill.”

  Gill forced a smile. Whatever it was, he was sure it wouldn’t be easy. “I’m afraid I don’t have any Telastrian swords at the moment.”

  Pharadon frowned, the expression far more fluid than it had been the last time Gill had seen it on the dragon’s human face.

  “The blade you carried when we first met?” Pharadon said.

  “At the Wounded Lion, in Mirabay.”

  “Oh,” Pharadon said. “It would be better if you had Telastrian steel.”

  “What is it you need our help with?” Gill said.

  “Of course,” Pharadon said. “I apologise for not making that clear. Venori. No more than a dozen, I think.”

  It was Gill’s turn to frown. He looked at Solène, but she didn’t seem to have any more of a clue than he did.

  “Venori?” he asked.

  Pharadon nodded, then seemed to pick up on Gill’s look of confusion. “You have … demons in human mythology?”

  Gill nodded. He hadn’t thought Pharadon would bear welcome news, but even with all he had witnessed in recent days, Gill’s imagination hadn’t stretched nearly so far as to think demons might be their next problem. Dark creatures of the shadows that fed on newborns and tempted the wicked to ever greater depravity, they featured on the stained-glass windows of nearly every church in the land—hairless, pointed ears, flesh that looked as though it had been charred by the fires of all three hells.

  He described this to Pharadon, who smiled broadly and nodded. “Venori. Demons. Time is of the essence,” he continued. “You’re certain your swords are at the Wounded Lion?”

  “Certain,” Gill said. “Unless they’ve been stolen.”

  “I’ll return with them as quickly as I can,” Pharadon said. “Be ready to leave when I do.”

  “My armour is there too,” Gill said. “It would be great to have it back.”

  Without another word, Pharadon turned on his heel and strode away as purposefully as he had approached.

  Gill gave Solène a bemused look and shrugged. She shrugged back.

  “We’d be delighted to help, of course,” Gill shouted after Pharadon.

  * * *

  “How much is there?” Amaury said, as he surveyed the front of the warehouse, peering out the window of his unmarked carriage.

  “Enough to feed the city for three months, your Grace,” Voclain said.

  “A very good find,” Amaury said. “This will take a great deal of pressure off until we normalise grain shipments. The Vosges has been secured nearly the whole way to the coast. Once that is finished, we will start bringing barges up from the port, but until then, I’ll just be handing the grain to rebels and bandits. These stores will tide us over very nicely. How did you find i
t?”

  Voclain blushed. “I, well, the warehouse is owned by a former business partner of mine.”

  Amaury laughed. “Let me guess, your partnership ended on less than ideal terms?”

  Voclain shrugged.

  “I don’t care about the hows or the whys. All that matters is that we have it. Inform your former business partner that the Crown is requisitioning his stock. I won’t brook any opposition. The city needs this grain, and if the owner refuses to do his patriotic duty and tries to stand in the way, make an example of him. Understand?”

  Voclain nodded. “Perfectly.”

  “Good. Start distributing it to the mills immediately. The flour will have to be kept under guard until it reaches taverns, bakeries, and shops. People won’t believe there’s no food shortage unless they can see plenty of food on the market stalls. We need to make sure they’re kept full. Get to it.”

  Amaury rapped on the roof of the carriage and the carriage rolled off, surrounded by some of Luther’s mercenary hires, dressed in the livery of the Royal Guard. It had been Amaury’s initial intention to put the Order out on the streets, visible as both a carrot and a stick, enforcing the rule of law, but carrying out good works around the city. As he’d mulled over the tactic, he decided that, for the time being, appearing to be the carrot was more important for the Order. There was unrest, which meant there would be violent crackdowns. Far better those actions be taken by men wearing the king’s uniform, rather than that of the Order.

  The captain of Amaury’s bodyguard rode up alongside the carriage’s window. “Back to the palace, my Lord?”

  “No. I want to call in at the clinic on Northgate Road.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise? The farther we get from the palace, the more exposed you are if there’s trouble.”

  “There are plenty of soldiers and watchmen patrolling the streets and there’s a big difference between random acts of destruction and attacking the Lord Protector of Mirabaya and his heavily armed retinue.”

  “I … my Lord, I must counsel against spending any more time out in the city.”

  Amaury wanted nothing more than to go back to the palace and lock every door, but knew he couldn’t win the country that way. He had to be seen making good on the promises that filled every morning’s news sheets. “You have my command,” Amaury said.

  “Aye, my Lord.”

  As the carriage rattled toward its destination, Amaury allowed himself a moment of calm. One by one, the problems he faced were falling before him, as had every other obstacle he had encountered in life. He was reshaping the kingdom to comply with his model of modern efficiency, to be aided by every benefit magic could bring. The more he improved their lives, the more problems he solved, the more likely the people of Mirabaya were to accept the Order—and Amaury as their ruler. In time, perhaps, they might proclaim him king by popular accord.

  The master of the clinic at Northgate Road was a newly promoted novice whom Amaury vaguely recognised from his visits to the Priory—one of the prospective mages dal Drezony had brought in, after the Prince Bishop had adopted a less hands-on approach to running the Order. There were three members of the Order in the clinic, and only five patients.

  “How are they?” Amaury said, redirecting his concern from the venture’s political success to the condition of the patients.

  “They’ll be fine,” the master said. Amaury couldn’t remember his name, and didn’t bother asking. “And far sooner than any of them would have believed. I think one of them would have died if it were not for our help. This is a good thing we’re doing, my Lord. The best thing, I think.”

  Forcing a smile and pointing at one patient, Amaury asked, “What happened to him?”

  “Run over by a cart in the street,” the master said. “Stove his chest in. If the internal injuries hadn’t killed him, the fever it caused would have. Now? He’ll go home tomorrow like it never happened.”

  Amaury nodded. This was the type of success the Order needed. The type of success he needed.

  “You’re doing excellent work,” Amaury said, fixated on how few patients there were. He had ordered that three other clinics be set up around the city, and wondered if they were faring any better.

  “Has it been this … quiet all the time?”

  The master shrugged and nodded. “It will take time before people come to trust us. I’ll be sending two of these patients home in the next couple of hours. They’ll tell their family and friends what we did for them. Then I expect we’ll get far, far busier.”

  Amaury wasn’t as confident as his underling, but hoped he was right. “Keep up the good work.” He returned to his carriage, and gave his next destination to the captain of his guard, who still wore a disapproving expression. The reality was—Amaury knew from personal experience—that if someone wanted to kill you badly enough, they would find a way. Here on the streets, locked away in his office in the palace, it didn’t matter.

  Drinking water in Mirabay was supplied by fountains dotted throughout the city. Amaury’s personal supply was ferried in from natural springs several miles north of the city, as was the practice for most of the nobility and better-off. What came into the city was rarely clear, rarely smelled palatable. As for the taste? He couldn’t say. He’d never dared drink it. Cholera was a regular visitor to the city. Hundreds of people died that horrific death each year, and the traditional methods of keeping the water clean enough to drink were haphazard at best, even when diligently carried out.

  The problem had existed for such a long time that people had accepted it. No king had felt that providing consistently clean water to the citizens was a worthy expenditure. Amaury vaguely recalled the old king making some comment about “letting them drink wine,” or something along those lines, no doubt hoping to maintain the tax revenues he made on the sale of wine. Generations of kings had sat on their thrones in Mirabay, but Amaury would be the man to bring the city clean drinking water.

  His carriage arrived at the water tower in the city’s northwest, into which water was pumped by the endless circling of beasts of burden. They turned a screw that carried the water to the top; the height gave it the force needed to push it out to the dozen or so fountains across the city. It was a miracle of Imperial engineering, a feat that modern engineers struggled to maintain. Hence the often brown, stinking effluent that emerged from the glorious marble fountains.

  A group of men and women were gathered at the aqueduct, all wearing Spurrier cream and gold. This too had been a finely balanced decision. The last thing Amaury needed was the people deciding the sorcerers had poisoned their water. Equally, when spring-fresh, crystal-clear water started flowing from the fountains, he needed the Order to get the credit.

  The mages were purifying the insides of the tower, piping, and aqueduct, stripping away the accumulated filth of centuries without interrupting supply. Conventional methods would have resulted in shortages and months of work. He watched a moment longer—although there really wasn’t anything of interest to see—before ordering the carriage to return to the palace.

  Amaury had only just reached his office’s antechamber when he was approached by a messenger.

  “Your Grace, there’s been word about the king.”

  Amaury frowned and looked about for somewhere they could speak without being overheard. He beckoned for the messenger to follow him into his office, and closed the door behind him.

  The messenger handed Amaury a note. He unfolded it and read. The king had recovered from his injuries and was in full control of his faculties. When this report had been written, Boudain was preparing for a battle against his cousins. That fight was probably over by now; hopefully he would soon receive word of it.

  Amaury nodded slowly. If magic could cause the damage, there was no reason that magic couldn’t undo it. Now that Solène was set against him, Amaury had suspected something like this might come to pass.

  “You know what this message contains?” he said.

  The messen
ger nodded. “I was told of the events it refers to.”

  Amaury nodded. “The king is in league with a very powerful sorceress. Exactly the type of person the Order and I have sought to stop from becoming too powerful. In a word, she has bewitched the king, but I fear the people aren’t ready to hear such disconcerting news. Do you understand?” Amaury placed a hand on the aide’s shoulder in an effort to add sincerity to his words. “You’re privy to some very sensitive information. News will reach the city soon enough, but until then, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this, and news of the sorceress, quiet. I hope to have the problem addressed before it becomes serious.”

  “Of course, your Grace,” the messenger said, delight at being taken into the Prince Bishop’s confidence evident on his face.

  “Good lad,” Amaury said. “Now, I’m sure you’ve plenty of important work to be doing.”

  The messenger nodded, smiled, and went on his way. Amaury watched him go, and wondered how long it would take him to reveal the secret that had just been shared with him. An hour? Two? By sundown it would be out, and would spread like wildfire, as the salacious rumours always did. Exactly as Amaury wanted it to.

  CHAPTER

  31

  “How did you get these?” Gill said, looking over his Telastrian swords—the Competition winner’s blade; the Sword of Honour, for graduating top of his class at the Academy; and, finally, the Blade of the Morning Mist, the old family sword that he had recently learned had once belonged to Valdamar, the famed dragon hunter and member of the Chevaliers of the Silver Circle.

  “It wasn’t so difficult to convince the innkeeper to give me the items he was holding for you.”

  Gill didn’t like the idea that magic could be used to persuade people to do what you wanted, and wondered if you’d be able to tell it was being done to you. He cast Solène a sideways glance. You really did need to trust the good faith of people who could do magic. It was an unsettling thought.