‘I shook my head, still angry for them after all these years. Aaron was one of the finest initiates that Order ever saw. Baptiste their greatest smith. I looked at what these two had built here, at the dark closing in all around us, and I marvelled San Michon had ever turned their backs on these men. And of all things, over love.
‘We meandered on, Aaron’s arm around Baptiste’s waist as the blackthumb proudly showed me his forge and a small glassworks beside it. We arrived at a long storehouse laden with supplies: dried foodstocks, large barrels of vodka and wood alcohol from their distillery, smaller barrels marked with black crosses. Dior finally finished fussing with the dogs, returned to my side. Looking about the storehouse, she wrinkled her nose.
‘“… What’s that smell?”
‘“Yellowwater and nightsoil.” Aaron pointed to a wooden shed across from the dog pens. “We farm that too.”
‘The girl looked at Aaron as if he were moonstouched. “You’re farming piss and shit.”
‘“For the salpêtre,” I realized.
‘Aaron nodded, drumming his fingers on the stack of smaller barrels. “Old Seraph Talon’s chymistrie lessons weren’t wasted on me, brother. We’ve sulphur from the mines near Beaufort. And charcoal aplenty.”
‘Dior simply looked baffled, but I found myself grinning. Looking closer at the smaller barrels, I realized they weren’t marked with crosses, but with the twin scythes of Mahné, the Angel of Death. “You cheeky bastards are making your own black ignis.”
‘“For years now.” Aaron took in the ch?teau with a sweep of his hand: the armed soldiers, the engineering works, the baying dogs, the good, thick stone. “As I say, woe betide our Prince of Forever if he seeks to ruck up these skirts.”
‘I looked about the town, breathing the smoke, listening to the laughter and bustle, the hymn of metal on metal, and I allowed myself a small smile. It’d been a bloody journey to Aveléne, sure and true. And it was still a good trek up the Mère to San Michon. But it seemed we’d found a kind of sanctuary. Here at last, we might finally be safe.’
The Last Silversaint leaned back and took a long pull from his bottle of wine.
The historian continued writing in his book.
‘You should have fucking known better?’ Jean-Fran?ois murmured.
Gabriel sighed. ‘I should’ve fucking known better.’
XV
SUNSHINE AND POURING RAIN
‘EVERY WOBBLY CHAIR and crooked table in the mont had been dragged into the hall for the feast. Piecemeal utensils laid on patchwork tablecloths. Cracked crockery and mismatched tankards. Save the sorry guards upon the walls, most of Aveléne turned out that night.
‘I could see familles in the hall, little children, even a few newborn babes, and again, I was stricken with the thought that I’d brought evil to this door. But once the meal began, I forgot the taste of guilt a moment and simply let myself breathe. As Baptiste had said, there was little cause for celebration those nights, and though folk had no clue as to why, still they came, feasting on rabbit stew, mountains of button mushrooms, and hot potato bread. I knew not the secret, but whoever worked the keep’s kitchens was a sorcerer – I even went back for a second helping of spuds.
‘A trio of minstrels began belting out merry tunes, and the floor was cleared for dancing. Dior sat at my right side, her plate empty, her belly full. Some poor sod was busy trying to clean the bloodstains out of the clothes I’d bought her, and Dior had been offered a dress to wear. But instead, she’d borrowed an old frockcoat from Aaron. That alone told me that for all the warmth and merriment, she was still ill at ease. Dior wore that coat like armour, hair dragged down over her face. She was also well into her third glass of Baptiste’s homebrew vodka.
‘“Go easy on that stuff,” I warned. “It’s got a kick like a lovesick mule.”
‘“I like mules,” the girl smirked.
‘“Fine, don’t blame me if your head’s splitting come the dawn.”
‘“Ariiiiiight, old man,” she sang, flipping me the Fathers.
‘“I keep telling you, I’m only thirty-two.”
‘“Could’ve fooled me with that beard, Grandpapa.”
‘I scowled, scruffing at my road whiskers. “I told you, I lost my razor.”
‘“Well, find another, you look like a robber’s dog.” She raised her cup and grinned. “Would your wife let you get away with a monstrosity like that?”
‘“No, Astrid hated it,” I smiled. “She used to call my moustache a heresy.”
‘Dior screwed up her nose. “You had a moustache?”
‘“Not after she called it that.”
‘Dior laughed as I poured myself another glass.
‘“That was one of my wife’s many talents, see. She always knew just the right thing to say to get her way. That woman had me wrapped around her little finger, and it only got worse when Patience learned how to do it, too. She took after her mother, that one, sure and true. One look into those eyes, and I’d melt like springtime snow.”
‘I laughed to myself, shaking my head. But as I knocked back another cup, I saw Dior was sucking her lip, looking at me twice-strangely.
‘“… What?”
‘“Might I beg this dance, mademoiselle?”
‘The pair of us broke our staring contest as Baptiste swept into a low bow before us. Dior blinked at the smithy, rubbing at the bruises on her face. “… Me?”
‘“If it does not offend?” The smith gifted the girl a smile that would’ve melted the Mère. “My heart belongs to another, Mlle Lachance. But he’s not the jealous sort. And no flower so divine should be left to wilt in the corner.”
‘Baptiste’s dark eyes sparkled with gleeful mischief as he proffered his hand. The crowd cheered as the music about us shifted pitch, the minstrels quickened their pace. But Dior glanced to me and shook her head. “Perhaps later.”
‘“You’re certain?” the big man asked, astounded his smile had failed.
‘“Oui,” she nodded. “Merci, Baptiste. Later, I promise.”
‘“As you like it, mademoiselle. But I shall hold you to that vow.” The blackthumb swept into another bow and retired. I saw him grab another lass’s hand, waving to Aaron as he swept her out onto the floor. The dancers swayed and seethed across the boards, all the room clapping in time.
‘“You don’t like to dance?” I asked Dior.
‘“I don’t know how,” she admitted. “Not many galas in the gutters of Lashaame.”
‘“I’ll teach you, then,” I declared, holding out my hand. “It’ll be good practice.”
‘“Practice for what?”
‘“At root, dancing and swordplay are one and the same.”
‘Dior blinked as slow realization dawned. She glanced down to Ashdrinker on my hip, and she whooped, planting a swift kiss on my cheek.
‘“You’re a good man, Gabriel de León.”
‘“I’m a bastard is what I am. I’m just your kind of bastard.”