So this is what I missed out on when my military career was taken from me, Amaury thought, as he watched the hive of activity that filled the Priory’s courtyard. A line of wagons were being filled with victuals, weapons, and anything else that might be useful on a dragon-hunting expedition. It was exciting to see people moving about, filled with a sense of purpose and adventure. The thought of the life he might have had reminded him of his injury, and of the dull ache that was starting to return. The treatments didn’t seem to last as long as they once had, although that might be due to the fact that the Order’s best healers had died in recent weeks. Soon enough he would have others who were far better, but he didn’t expect he’d need them by then.
Vachon was striding across the square toward Amaury, barking orders to his men as he came. Though his role was still new to him, it looked like he had things well in hand. Dal Drezony was nowhere to be seen, likely off sulking somewhere at the changed character of the Order since the arrival of Amaury’s new hires. Too bad, but the days of quiet academic study were over. If they were to take their place in the world and carry out the role Amaury had in mind for them, they needed people with steel in them, who were willing to dirty their hands to get things done.
“How are preparations going?” Amaury said as Vachon neared.
“Well,” the burly man said, moderating his tone only slightly now that he was speaking to his commander. “We’re all but ready to depart. All I need is your order.”
“There are some matters yet to resolve,” Amaury said. “I’m not sending you out until I have all the information we need to slay this beast.” In truth, the Cup was the only thing he was waiting on, and a pigeon had informed him that morning that it was on its way. He tried not to dwell on that for too long—he had been disappointed before. Better to wait until it was in his hands.
“Remain in a state of readiness. This expedition is as much an exercise in winning the hearts of the people as it is in slaying a dragon. For that, timing plays a bigger part.”
“Can’t put the entire city to the sword, I suppose,” Vachon said.
Amaury let out a chuckle, but wasn’t at all sure Vachon had been joking.
“When I give the order,” Amaury said, “you’ll need to be able to march within the hour. Will you be able to do that?”
“We’ll be ready. We’ll march out of the city looking every bit the glorious heroes you need us to be.”
Guillot’s face was stuck to the table when he woke. His eyes were dry, and the lids protested as he tried to draw them open. The light seared through his head, setting off a bell clapper inside his skull. His mouth was as dry as his eyes, and it took a moment to separate his tongue from the inside of his cheek. He sat in a half stupor for a moment, then vomited. He managed to turn his head so that the liquid contents of his stomach splattered onto the bloodstained floor. He spat sour bile, then sat up and tried to take stock.
The first thing to work out was where he was. He pushed through the cloud shrouding his memory until he could recall Cabham coming into the tavern. The tavern in Venne. He remembered what happened next, which explained the blood. His heart sank when he remembered what happened after that, which explained the vomit. And the empty bottles covering the table. And the thundering headache. Gill took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. What had he been thinking? As his anger with himself increased, so too did the violence with which the clapper in his head bounced off the sides of his skull.
He looked around, turning his head slowly so as to avoid the worst of the clapper’s wrath. There was no one else around. He vaguely recalled Val and Barnot fencing with sticks, up and down the length of the bar, but wasn’t sure if he had imagined it. If his present state wasn’t reason enough to give up drinking for good, he didn’t know what was. There were many good reasons to stop. They were the reasons he had stopped. Why had he allowed himself to start again? He felt like crying in frustration.
He stood up as gently as he could and walked to the bar to see if there was any water to be had. His hand brushed against his hip, and something felt odd. His head was so muddled that he had to concentrate on the feeling—the sense that he had forgotten something, or that something was missing. He concentrated on it as best he could, feeling like his thought channels were clogged with wool and that there was something trying to smash its way out of his head.
He closed his eyes and did his best not to panic when he realised that the Cup was gone. He found a pitcher of water and took a long drink, then vomited most of it back up. He was going to have to give Gaufre quite a bit of coin to make up for the mess they’d caused. Assuming he still had his purse. He checked, and it was there, the momentary relief quashed by the knowledge that he would have far preferred for it to be gone, rather than the Cup. He sipped more water and struggled to remember. There had been someone else with them. A strange fellow. Oddly wise, like a professor at the Academy, but built like one of the masters of swords. François. There was no sign of him, nor of Barnot or Val, for that matter. They might have been sleeping it off somewhere, but he needed to find them. He was clinging to the thin hope that one of them might have the Cup.
Val was snoring contentedly on his straw mattress in the room that he had once shared with Beausoleil and Cabham, but that was now all his. A trail of dribble extended from the corner of his mouth, and Gill suspected that Val would feel even worse than he did when he woke.
Walking back down the stairs, Guillot made for the front door. The dim light in the taproom had hurt his head. The full light of day made him want to crawl into a dark corner and die. He stood in the doorway for what seemed like an age, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The village was quiet. He thought it probably looked much like it must have before the dragons drew in all the hopeful swordsmen from the surrounding regions.
When he felt as though his head could take it, he ventured out. He took a few steps, walked a little, trying to find some refreshment in the cool morning air. There was a horse trough filled with water next to the inn, and Gill strongly considered dunking his head, but prioritised his search for Barnot. He only had to reach the side alley to find him. The old soldier lay in the small lane to the side of the inn, a maroon stain of dried blood spread about him. Gill’s heart twisted with grief. He knelt next to his old friend and checked him over out of a forlorn hope, but the man’s body was cold. He had been dead for hours. There was a hole in his chest where, from the look of it, someone had twisted a dagger. This was not an opportunistic wound. It was one intended to kill. There was no sign of the Cup.
The helpful stranger. François. It could only have been he who had taken the Cup. How had he known what it was? It didn’t look valuable, and Gill was certain he hadn’t talked about it. But Cabham had. If he was willing to die in the attempt to get it, François must have thought it was worth having. Gill swore. If the man had taken it and killed Barnot, he was likely hours away by now.
It took a moment for the full ramifications of that to hit Gill. There was still a dragon out there, and to have any chance of killing it, he needed the Cup. He hadn’t just let himself down when he’d accepted that first drink. He had let down every single person who would lose their life to the beast. He vomited more water, then dry-retched until he thought his insides were going to come out. It was Villerauvais all over again. Could he not even learn his lessons the hard way?
He went back to the horse trough, plunged his head in, and held it there, his head upside down, bubbles coming out of his nose and tickling his chin. He contemplated staying there until he had rid the world of his failings, but knew that wasn’t the answer. He allowed himself to topple backwards until he was sitting on his behind, water running from his face and hair and soaking his clothes.
“Refreshing?”
He looked up and saw Edine standing in the sunlight.
“Someone murdered my friend last night,” he said.
Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open.
“I think I know who it was,” Gill said, “but he’ll be long gone by now.”
“I’m sorry. No one’s ever been murdered here before. I don’t know what to say.”
Gill shrugged. “It was a bad night for the village, then. Three men came at us in the tavern last night. We killed them.”
“I heard. Gaufre isn’t pleased.”
“I’ll pay for the damage and clean-up.”
“Do you think that had anything to do with your friend?”
“No. That was Cabham. We took care of him and the men he had with him. The murderer was someone else. He helped us against Cabham. He’s long gone by now.”
“I’ll talk to the vicar and have your friend taken care of.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
She hesitated before speaking again. “I can understand the need to let loose a little when you’re doing such dangerous work. All the more so when your success has come at a heavy price. The people are frightened. All their hope rests on you. It won’t do them any good to see you like this.”
“I’m sorry,” Gill said. “I’ll get inside and clean myself up.”