Servant of the Crown Read online

  Those boys were sent here by their fathers. Val had worked for years toward getting to this position because he wanted it, not because someone else told him it was what he should do. He was champing at the bit for dal Ruisseau Noir to allow him to spar with one of the other students. Until he tested himself, he wouldn’t really know for sure.

  Until then, all he could do was work as diligently as he could, and practise in every spare moment. He still had a long way to go, and a finite amount of time to get there. At moments it seemed like a monumental, nearly overwhelming, task, but he supposed it was no different from a huge pile of horse manure—you could only clear it one shovel-load at a time.

  Not that he’d touched a shovel in weeks. Now it was a mop—which he was using at that moment to wipe the sweat off the salon’s mirror-polished wooden floor—or a lunch pail. His reward was that he got to hold a sword. Even if it all went wrong, that experience could never be taken away from him. It was enough to bring a smile to his face.

  “What’s got you so cheerful?” dal Ruisseau Noir said, appearing out of the changing room at the rear of the salon. “Menial labour is supposed to drain the soul.”

  “Might be menial,” Val said. “But it’s better than shovelling shit.”

  Dal Ruisseau Noir raised his eyebrows and nodded. “That it is. A fine way to look at it. Anyhow, no time to discuss philosophy, I’ve some errands to attend. I’ll be back late, so lock up when you leave. Unless, of course, you’re planning on staying here tonight. Again.” He gave Val a knowing smile.

  Val had been staying there for a few days now. Although he wasn’t even close, yet, to running out of money, he reckoned it was foolish to keep spending it on an inn if he didn’t have to. After the first day of their agreement, dal Ruisseau Noir had given Val a key so he could lock up if leaving after the Maestro. The idea of sleeping there to save a few coins had occurred to Val almost immediately.

  He’d been careful. Each morning he rose early, washed in the small dressing room at the back of the hall, packed up his few belongings and spare clothes, and left the salon before the Maestro arrived. He’d take a slow walk around the block, and arrive shortly before his appointed hour, to demonstrate his diligence. Dal Ruisseau Noir hadn’t shown any inkling that he knew what Val was up to before now, and Val wondered what had given him away. Had the gift of the key been a veiled invitation? Swordsmen were supposed to be proud and haughty, and the offer of charity was not something an aspiring banneret should ever contemplate.

  “I…” Val said.

  “Good thinking, if you ask me,” dal Ruisseau Noir said. “Wish I’d thought of it myself. Better to have someone here at night to keep the burglars away. What with the city in such a miasma, the ne’er-do-wells are out in force.” He doffed his hat at Val. “I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

  He left before Val had the opportunity to respond. The young man stood there for a moment, not quite believing that his worry about discovery had been so easily dealt with, then shrugged and got back to his mopping.

  * * *

  Val woke with a start and looked around. There was nothing to see in the pitch-dark salon. None of the light from the magelamps in the street reached the salon’s windows, so the darkness was total. There was a thud on the door and Val was instantly reminded of what dal Ruisseau Noir had said about having someone there to deter burglars.

  There was another thud. He lay deathly still in his bedroll on the wooden floor, and tried to decide what to do. Should he make noise in the hope of scaring whoever it was away? Should he sneak over to the weapons locker as quietly as possible, arm himself, and surprise the intruder?

  Another thud was followed by a whisper. “Let me in.”

  It was dal Ruisseau Noir. Despite the darkness, Val easily found the door and opened it. The Maestro stumbled in. Was he drunk? Dal Ruisseau Noir turned and shut the door, gasping as he locked it again. There was pain in the sound.

  “Are you all right?” Val said.

  “Be a good lad and fetch the medicines chest from the closet,” dal Ruisseau Noir said.

  It was too dark and his surroundings too unfamiliar for Val to do that without light, so he bumbled around for a moment until he found and lit the lamp he kept by his bed.

  “Shield the light,” dal Ruisseau Noir said. “Keep it from the windows.”

  Val obeyed the odd command, pulling down the small shutter on the lamp so only a narrow beam of light escaped. He hurried to the closet and searched out the medicines chest. Injuries were an occupational hazard in a fencing salon, so dal Ruisseau Noir kept a selection of the handiest supplies available, from bandages of various shapes and sizes to numbing ointments. There was even needle and gut to stitch deeper wounds shut.

  He pulled the chest out, balanced the lamp on top, and carried the lot to where dal Ruisseau Noir leaned against the wall. The light flashed across him for a second, long enough for Val to notice that the Maestro was wearing different clothes than those he had gone out in.

  “What’s happened?” Val said, as dal Ruisseau Noir bent down stiffly and opened the chest. “Were you attacked?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” He took a swath of bandage out, then rummaged through the jars of ointment. “Shine that light over here a moment.”

  Val did as he was asked.

  “Ah, here we are.” He took out the jar and made to open it, but could not grip the lid tightly. He seemed weak on one side. “You wouldn’t mind, would you?” he said, holding out the jar.

  Taking it, Val opened the jar with ease, then offered it to his employer. Dal Ruisseau Noir tore open the left side of his tunic before scooping a daub of ointment from the jar. Val strained to see what lay beneath the torn-open tunic but glimpsed only the glisten of blood in the meagre lamplight. His eyes widened; was dal Ruisseau Noir moonlighting on the Black Carpet?

  The Black Carpet was the name given to illegal duelling, where the combat was carried out on a black mat, or black-painted floor. Regular competitive duels were fought with blunted blades, and scored by “touches.” On the Black Carpet, sharp blades were used, and duels were scored by blood-letting cuts. They often ended with the death of one of the duellists. The black floor was intended to hide the stains of spilled blood.

  Val wondered what might have drawn dal Ruisseau Noir to the Black Carpet. For some men, it signalled that they’d hit rock bottom. Fortunes were gambled on the Black Carpet, and it was an easy way to make serious money if you were good enough, or lucky enough. But there was another reason to duel on the Black Carpet: for the excitement of it. For some, sport duelling could never match the thrill of the real thing. It was said to be addictive, but Val wasn’t sure that would ever make sense to him. He’d seen men die and be badly injured, and there was nothing about the experience he would choose to repeat without very good reason. A bit of excitement wasn’t nearly enough.

  Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, Val asked, “What actually happened?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  Val shrugged, but realised dal Ruisseau Noir probably couldn’t see the gesture. “I think so.”

  “A man cut me. It happens from time to time. Comes with the job.”

  Val frowned, then uttered the dirty words. “The Black Carpet?”

  Dal Ruisseau Noir let out a laugh, then gasped in pain. “No, not the Black Carpet. Nothing like that. I’ll tell you someday, I promise, but now’s not the best time.”

  He turned his attention back to dabbing ointment on the wound. There was a hammering on the salon’s door and dal Ruisseau Noir hissed a curse.

  “Shall I answer that?” Val said.

  Dal Ruisseau Noir shook his head, then reached over and doused the lamp. There was more pounding on the door, then a shout.

  “It’s the Watch. We’ve seen the light. We know someone’s in there. Open up.”

  Dal Ruisseau Noir swore again. He grabbed Val by the shoulder. “Answer it,” he whispered. “Pretend you were asleep. You
’re here alone. There’s been no one else here since the end of classes yesterday. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good lad. Tell them you’re coming, then count to thirty.”

  “Just a moment!” Val said, then started his count in a whisper.

  Dal Ruisseau Noir stole away into the darkness, moving with such remarkable silence that after he had gone a few paces, it was as though he was no longer there.

  Val finished his count and made a theatrical amount of noise as he went to the door so that dal Ruisseau Noir knew he was moving. He unlocked the door and cracked it open.

  “Who’s there?” he said.

  “City Watch, and we’d ask you the same thing?”

  Two men in the jerkins and steel helmets of the City Watch stood in the doorway, holding a large watchman’s lamp that filled the little alcove of the door with harsh yellow light.

  “I’m the caretaker,” Val said.

  “Has anyone come in here?”

  “People come in here all the time,” Val said. “It’s a fencing salon.”

  “Don’t get smart with me, lad, or I’ll tan the hide on your arse. Has anyone come in here in the last few minutes?”

  “No, of course not,” Val said. “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. I was asleep, but the door was locked, and all the windows are bolted shut.”

  The watchman held up his lantern, allowing the light to flood into the salon. Val’s heart leapt into his throat as he looked over his shoulder to see what the illumination had revealed. But for the medicine chest and Val’s small lamp, the salon was empty. Dal Ruisseau Noir was nowhere to be seen.

  “See,” Val said. “I’m here on my own.”

  The watchman surveyed the room a moment longer, then nodded his head. “Make sure the door is locked after we leave. The streets aren’t safe at the moment.”

  “Thanks,” Val said.

  “Sorry to have disturbed you,” the watchman said grudgingly.

  Val shut the door, locked it, then returned to his lamp and turned it up enough to see the whole salon. There was indeed no trace of dal Ruisseau Noir—not even a drop of blood. He wasn’t so gullible as to call out for dal Ruisseau Noir, and from the stealthy way he had disappeared into the night, Val reckoned his tutor was well versed in how long he needed to delay before it was safe to reveal himself again.

  * * *

  When dal Ruisseau Noir walked into the salon the next morning, it was as though the events of the previous night had not happened. Val waited awhile for him to bring it up, but when it was clear he intended to let the matter lie, Val approached him at the end of one of their hour-long sessions.

  “Is now a good time to tell me what happened last night?” Val said. He knew he was pushing the boundaries of their short-lived association, but he had lied to the City Watch for this man, so felt that dal Ruisseau Noir owed him an answer.

  “I’d prefer not to,” dal Ruisseau Noir said, “but I suppose you’re involved now. I’m sure you’ve heard about the king taking ill, and the Prince Bishop’s announcement a bit before that?”

  Val nodded his head. It was a strange thing—everyone knew about it, but no one seemed to want to talk about it.

  “Well, there are those who think it all a little convenient that the Prince Bishop announces something so profound as the use of magic, and then the king—a fit and healthy young man—falls ill, leaving the Prince Bishop to take over control of the state as regent. I happen to be one of those people.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you stumbled in here in the middle of the night with a wound.”

  “No. No, I suppose it doesn’t, does it.” Dal Ruisseau Noir scratched his clean-shaven chin. “I reckon if you were working for him, you’d already have enough on me by now to put me on the headsman’s block.”

  “Working for who?”

  “The Prince Bishop, of course.”

  Val couldn’t help but laugh. It struck him as ridiculous that he might be thought a spy. It was flattering, though. “I don’t work for him. I’ve never even seen him.”

  “Well, like I said. Anyway, I don’t believe the king has taken ill. I think the Prince Bishop arrested him, threw him in a cell, and is in the process of stealing his throne. I went up to the palace last night to take a look for myself.” He gestured to his waist, where his wound was concealed by his tunic. “As I’m sure you’ve worked out, I got caught.”

  Even to Val, undertaking such an action alone seemed foolishly dangerous. What could dal Ruisseau Noir hope to achieve against the might of the most powerful man in Mirabaya?

  “I know what you’re thinking,” dal Ruisseau Noir said, with that affected, casual wave of his hand that made him look like an idle dandy. “What can one man hope to achieve in the face of such opposition?”

  Val nodded and dal Ruisseau Noir laughed.

  “I wasn’t alone last night. I’m afraid that I’m not going to tell you any more than that, however. Still, seeing as you’re in on part of the secret, I’m going to ask you to do something for me.”

  He took a scroll from his tunic and handed it to Val. A small blob of black wax sealed it shut, but there was no crest impression on the seal, as Val would have expected. “Will you deliver this for me?”

  “Where do I need to take it?”

  CHAPTER

  8

  Gill got up early the next morning, eager to take a look around on his own and get a better sense of the mood in the city. For the most part he was hoping for inspiration as to how they could get into the palace. He had spent plenty of time there as an active member of the Silver Circle, and hoped a stroll around some familiar landmarks might jog his memory of some of the palace’s secrets. With his hood pulled up to minimise the unlikely chance he would be recognised after five years in the provinces, he wandered toward the palace.

  It was an old building, and old buildings always had entrances and passageways that had been forgotten, or were known only to a few. He had spent enough time sneaking women in to see the old king behind his wife’s back, not to mention the legion of mistresses who were marched in and out of the quarters of his Silver Circle comrades, to know this. The hidden doors he knew of were out of sight, rather than secret. If the head of the palace guard was worth his pay, they’d all be patrolled pretty regularly.

  The old quarry shaft left over from the palace’s construction was the obvious way to try to sneak in, but it had been pretty comprehensively sealed up not long before Gill’s departure from Mirabay in disgrace. He recalled the engineers saying there was no way it could be breached. Of course, they hadn’t had access to the most powerful natural mage seen in centuries. He wondered if Solène would be able to do anything with it, and added the idea to his mental list.

  Even if he could get into the palace and as far as Amaury’s office, he still had to take the Cup from the Prince Bishop. Both Cups, in fact. He didn’t have a problem with that—a reckoning between Gill and Amaury was long overdue and he relished the prospect. If he had to kill Amaury to get the Cup away from him, all the better.

  He reckoned something of such importance would be with the Prince Bishop at all times. All he had to do was get to Amaury before the man finally decided to use the Cup. Ordinarily, the easiest thing to do would be wait for him to be out and about, somewhere Gill could get to him without too much security. A few sell-swords, or a little magical distraction from Solène, and Gill would have the singular pleasure of prising the Cup from Amaury’s cooling dead fingers.

  Sadly, from the look of the palace, that plan didn’t have a chance. In all his time there—even after the many attempts on the old king’s life—Gill had never seen such a heavy, visible presence of the palace guard. If Amaury had locked his gates so securely, there was no way he planned to come out any time soon. Certainly not before he’d used the Cup. While he was holed up safe in there, sending his underlings out into danger, he could take his time
. Amaury was many things, but he wasn’t stupid. If they wanted the Cup, they’d have to go in and take it. That was going to bring with it a whole world of problems.

  Determination was all well and good, but it didn’t get him into the palace, or to Amaury. He wondered if there was anyone in the city he could call on for help. No one sprang to mind, although it did remind him that Val was in the city somewhere. He wondered how the lad was progressing. Perhaps, if things went well, when all this was over, he could call on the youngster.

  As he walked back to the Wounded Lion, he racked his brains for any old associate, legitimate or otherwise, who might be of use. There were sell-swords, smugglers, and thieves who had crossed his path over the years, whose services could be had for coin, but after Barnot’s betrayal, he felt it prudent to avoid them.

  By the time he got back, the only idea he’d come up with was to have Pharadon turn into a dragon and torch something to draw troops away. He paused in the doorway and thought about it more. He’d have to move fast while Pharadon was doing his thing. An attack like that would only encourage Amaury to use the Cup. Gill shook his head and he was filing that away as a last resort when he realised there was someone behind him trying to get in.

  He stepped into the Wounded Lion, apologised to the person he’d blocked, and only then looked to see who it was. Val. He did a double take, to confirm it really was who he thought it was.

  “Val?” The worried look on the boy’s face added years to him. It wasn’t what he expected if Val was living and studying with Hubert dal Volenne, and Gill wondered what had happened.

  Val looked at Gill with suspicion. For an instant his face hardened, but as soon as recognition reached his brain, he smiled.

  “Gill?”

  “Not too loud, lad,” Gill said. What happened next came as a complete surprise. Val threw his arms around the older man and gave him a hug. Guillot didn’t know how to react. He gave Val an awkward pat on the back. “It’s good to see you too.”