The inn "The Broken Shield" was a pandemonium of betting, spilled ale, and mercenaries boasting about scars they probably got falling down drunk. Geneviève sat in a dark corner, sipping water from a pewter mug (pretending it was gin), with her helm resting on the table. She kept her head down, distractedly cleaning her gorget.
A shadow stretched across the table. It wasn't a drunk. It was a young man, dressed in a tunic of fine linen colored green and yellow, the colors of the Duchy of Quenelles. He had short hair and a martial, yet respectful, demeanor. "May I sit, Sir Gilles?" he asked.
Geneviève looked up, her grey eyes cold as winter. "The wood is free. The air too."
The young man sat. "My name is Reynald. I am the first squire to His Grace, Duke Tancred." Geneviève did not move. "Does the Duke need someone to clean the stables?"
Reynald smiled. "The Duke saw what you did at the market. He saw how you humiliated that dandy without spilling useless blood. And he has heard the rumors coming from Marienburg. Of a knight who stops anchors with a sword." The squire leaned forward, lowering his voice. "You told the guards you bring news of a dark evil. My lord believes you. He has fought the undead all his life. He knows that silence is often the prelude to the scream."
"Then take me to him," said Geneviève, with her gravel voice. "Time is short."
Reynald shook his head. "It is not that simple. Couronne is a nest of vipers. If the Duke received you now, a landless knight with no lineage, the other Dukes would laugh in his face and the King would not listen. They would take you for an apocalyptic madman looking for gold." The boy pointed to the notices hanging on the inn walls. "There is only one way to speak to the gathered Court and force them to listen. The Tournament of the Lily. It starts tomorrow."
Geneviève looked at the poster. "It is a game for peacocks."
"It is the law," corrected Reynald. "The winner of the Tournament receives the 'King's Grace'. He has the right to ask a favor, and the King cannot refuse, provided it does not harm the honor of Bretonnia. If you win, Sir Gilles, you can ask for a full audience. You can force them to look south."
Geneviève reflected. She had killed vampires, trolls, and orcs. Now she had to defeat court etiquette. "Tell your Duke he will have his show," she growled.
The next morning, Geneviève went to the Armorer's Quarter. She had the vampire's gold. And she needed to look like a true noble, not a mercenary in dark, battered armor. She entered the shop of Master Godefroy, the most renowned smith in the city.
"I want armor," said Geneviève, throwing the heavy bag on the counter. "For tournament. But functional for war."
Godefroy, a huge man with arms like trunks, opened the bag. He saw the gold. He saw the gems. "For that amount, milord, I will make you armor that will make you look like the avatar of Gilles le Breton himself."
Geneviève chose a suit of plate armor in the "Milanese" style, with curved and highly polished surfaces to deflect lances, asymmetrical pauldrons (the left one larger for jousting), and a sparrow-beak helm modified to offer better visibility in melee. It wasn't the Gromril steel of the dwarves, but it was the best human steel money could buy. It was shining, heroic, chivalrous. Geneviève had her crest—the Silver Chevron and Three Nails—painted on the parade shield and on the new caparison she bought for Duraz. The dwarf horse, used to black and raw iron, looked almost embarrassed under all that white and silver silk, but the impenetrable barding of Karak-Azgaraz remained underneath.
Finally, the sword. She couldn't use Thrunbor's blade in the tournament. It was too sharp, too lethal. It would have cut the opponents' weapons and perhaps the opponents themselves in half. She bought a Tournament Greatsword. It was a magnificent weapon, with the hilt inlaid with lapis lazuli and the blade of three-layered tempered steel, heavy, balanced to perfection but with the edge slightly blunted for competition rules.
She presented herself at the registration pavilion in the afternoon. The heralds, old men with parchments and long noses, looked at her skeptically. "Sir Gilles... of where?" asked the head herald.
"Of the Mountains," replied Geneviève.
"Crest?"
Geneviève showed the brand new shield. "It is not registered in the Armorial of Couronne."
Geneviève placed on the table the letter of recommendation from King Thorgrim of the Dwarves and the Imperial safe passage signed by the vampire (which looked legitimate). "I have served the Dwarves and the Empire. I am a Knight of the Realm by right of war, not blood. Check the laws, scribe. A man who has killed a giant has the right to joust."
The herald read the Dwarves' letter. No one wanted to argue with Dwarves. And the tournament rules included a clause for "Knights of Proven Valor."
"Very well," sighed the herald, writing the name. "Sir Gilles the Silent. Category: Joust and Foot Melee. May the Lady protect you, for tomorrow you will face the best blades of the kingdom."
That evening, Geneviève did not go to the inn. She stayed in the tent she had pitched at the edge of the tournament field, far from the luxurious pavilions of the dukes. She put on the new armor. It was heavier than the dwarf one, less "alive," but it shone like a mirror. She looked at herself in the reflection of the shield. She no longer saw the peasant girl. She saw a silver knight.
She took the new sword. She made a few practice moves. Slash, parry, thrust. The steel sang. It didn't matter what metal she held; the weapon was her will.
Reynald, the squire, came to visit her one last time, bringing a pitcher of spiced wine. "Tomorrow King Louen Leoncoeur himself will be on the royal box," said the boy, looking with admiration at the glittering equipment. "The first bout is with the lance. If you pass, there will be the melee." He looked Geneviève in the eyes (or rather, into the slit of the helm she never took off). "Sir Gilles... they say the favorite is Baron Odo. He is huge. They say his horse eats raw meat."
Geneviève stroked the muzzle of Duraz, who was crunching a ham bone she had secretly given him. "Mine too," replied the gravel voice, with a shade of dark amusement. "And tomorrow, the Baron will discover that dwarf steel is harder than reputation."
Night fell on Couronne. Thousands of torches lit the city, but on the tournament field reigned a silence charged with tension. Geneviève sat in meditation, sword on her knees. Tomorrow she would not fight to survive. She would fight for a voice. To give a warning to a deaf world. Sir Gilles was ready to take center stage.