Remy had little interest in the attention of the ruling class.

  Their attention, when it came, was never curiosity. It was an appraisal. Calculation. Self-interest dressed as civility. He had learned early that power rarely looked outward without first measuring how something might be used, bent, or neutralized.

  In this city, no, in any city he passed through, he made a habit of avoiding scribes, and those who could afford to hire them. Words written by men with ink and time were far more dangerous than steel. A blade ended a life. Ink preserved it.

  There were, inevitably, traces. A physician here might remember his name. A household there might note his manner of diagnosis, the speed of his hands, the odd familiarity with ailments most men learned only through decades of practice. Some might write him down as capable. As skilled. Perhaps even as unusual.

  But Remy doubted those accounts would ripple far enough to trouble the history he knew.

  The most miserable lesson he had learned while spending time in this era was not cruelty, nor superstition, nor the fragility of life, though all of those were plentiful. It was this: history did not change easily.

  It took a great man to do so, despite what hopeful minds liked to claim.

  Was that pessimism? Perhaps. But experience had worn optimism thin. A great man was not merely competent or well-intentioned. He was a focal point. A convergence. A single voice through which hundreds, sometimes thousands, could speak without realizing it. He became the head because the body already existed, restless and waiting.

  The great man was the spearhead of resolve. Not the shaft. Not the arm. Just the sharpened point. And if driven correctly, that spear could pierce tyrants or shatter peace just as easily.

  History remembered such men. Inked their names carefully. Polished their deeds until edges were lost and motives simplified. To interact with them was to risk being written alongside them, whether one wished it or not.

  Remy had no desire for that kind of permanence.

  So he avoided them. Sidestepped curiosity. Ignored status. Treated subtle threats as background noise. Sir Gaston, to his quiet credit, proved adept at deflecting attention, arguing politely with officials, invoking pilgrimage law, feigning exhaustion, or redirecting inquiries until they grew bored and turned elsewhere. It was a skill as valuable as any sword.

  There was another reason, too.

  The Perennials.

  Experience had taught Remy that their kind introduced complications wherever they surfaced. They bred myths unintentionally. Legends grew around them like mold in damp corners. And legends, once formed, had a habit of finding their way into records. Marginal notes. Monastic chronicles. Travelers’ tales. Eventually, history noticed.

  Most of the Company followed Sir Gaston. Where Remy went, what he did, rarely concerned them unless it affected the road ahead. That separation had been useful more than once.

  Jehan, however, was not pleased.

  She had noticed the preparations immediately. The careful packing. The absence of ceremony. The way Remy avoided explanation without quite refusing it.

  “You are riding off somewhere,” she said, not asking.

  “Yes,” Remy replied.

  “Alone.”

  “For this matter,” he said, “yes.”

  He told her it was business. That he would be gone only long enough to resolve it or die trying.

  The moment the words left his mouth, he knew they were poorly chosen.

  Jehan’s expression tightened. Not with fear exactly, but concern sharpened into focus. She asked what kind of business required such a phrase, what task warranted even the suggestion of death. Remy waved it off, calling it a jest, an attempt at levity.

  She did not smile.

  “Sir Valois,” she said.

  The use of his family name caught his attention at once. She rarely used it. When she did, it meant she was troubled enough to remember that he came from the House of Valois. That he had royal blood. And more importantly, that she was displeased enough to abandon familiarity.

  “I understand that you have many secrets,” she continued, her tone measured, controlled. “Ones you hold dearly. But please do not forget that I am your squire. Your follower. And although we differ, often in opinion, I swore to accompany you to the Holy Lands.”

  “That you did,” Remy said calmly.

  “But—”

  “You are a free woman, Jehan,” he interrupted, not unkindly. “You have secrets of your own you do not wish to speak of. I respect that. Now I ask that you do the same for me, and allow me to do what I intend to do. Alone.”

  She looked at him for a long moment.

  “Is my presence truly unnecessary in this undertaking?”

  “It is,” Remy said. “I hope you understand.”

  Silence stretched between them. The courtyard sounds filtered in faintly. Hooves. Voices. The rustle of leaves.

  Then she spoke again, unexpectedly.

  “Leave your horse.”

  Remy frowned slightly.

  “I am not doubting you,” Jehan said quickly, anticipating his response. “But it would ease my heart if you left your favorite horse in my care. I will convince Sir Gaston to find you another mount. And it is best if you do not ride your destrier Morgan beyond the city. It is too fierce. Too recognizable.”

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  He had several arguments ready. Practical ones. Emotional ones. But she was not looking for debate. She wanted assurance, not logic.

  After a moment, Remy inclined his head.

  “Very well,” he said. “If this will assure you, then I shall let it be so.”

  Relief crossed her face, fleeting but unmistakable.

  “I am grateful,” she said.

  Remy’s departure did not come as swiftly as he had intended.

  The horse delayed him.

  Sir Gaston discovered, through mounting irritation and an ever-thickening stack of documents, that procuring a sturdy, serviceable mount in Constantinople required the consent, acknowledgment, and duplication of approval from a small army of clerks. Each office deferred to another. Each paper demanded a copy. Each copy required a seal. Each seal required verification of the seal before it.

  By the third day, Sir Gaston returned to the courtyard visibly aged by the experience.

  “I have never,” he declared, voice low but vibrating with restrained fury, “encountered such a congregation of mess. They wish to make copies of copies, then make copies of those copies! I understand that this is their way, but their way makes no progress. It leaves behind only a confusing, bloated pile of papers, fattened like a diseased beast!”

  Remy listened without interruption, seated beneath the fig tree as he sorted dried herbs into small cloth bundles. He had expected this. Constantinople survived not by motion, but by layers.

  “But,” Sir Gaston continued, exhaling sharply, “I have the horse. A good one. Strong legs. Calm eyes. It cost more coin than I care to admit.” He paused, then narrowed his gaze. “And you will have to explain to our companions why you possess such wealth, Master Valois. They have begun calling you a Conjurer of Coins.”

  Remy allowed himself a faint smile.

  “It is called connections, Sir Gaston.”

  Sir Gaston sighed, long and theatrical, the sigh of a man too tired to argue with inevitability. His gaze drifted instead to Morgan, who stood a short distance away, head lowered, ears relaxed, obediently following Jehan as she moved about the courtyard.

  “Your horse,” Sir Gaston said, softer now, “has a way of knowing who to trust. Jehan is one of them. She is relentless.”

  “She?” Remy asked mildly. “You are not surprised?”

  “Not particularly,” Sir Gaston replied. “I had my suspicions when we first met her. She is… like La Pucelle. Strong and fierce. I suspect that she was… inspired by her and one of the many women who rode with the Maid of Orleans.”

  The comparison hung in the air, heavy but not careless.

  “Her intentions matter,” Sir Gaston continued, choosing his words with unusual care. “And those intentions are not wicked. They are firm. Reasonable. I think many know what she is or what she might be but many respect it. For her. And for you.”

  Remy glanced up from his work.

  “Why me?”

  Sir Gaston looked at him then, truly looked, his expression weary but not unkind.

  “Sir Lucien,” he said, using the name with deliberate weight, “this is your flaw.”

  Remy stilled.

  “You do not see,” Sir Gaston went on, “that they respect you. No, perhaps you do not wish to see it. Perhaps because you think yourself superior in some ways, ways you truly believe in, you assume that they follow you solely because of me.”

  “Is that not the case?” Remy asked quietly.

  “It is not,” Sir Gaston said without hesitation. “This is one of your flaws, Sir. You think too much. And you feel too little. You distance yourself from us, as if we would fade in time. As if we are… temporary.”

  The words struck closer than Remy expected.

  He did not reply.

  Sir Gaston planted his hands on his hips and stared toward the distant sun, which hung low beyond the tiled roofs of the district.

  “I had a dream once,” the knight said after a moment. “A foolish one, perhaps. I believed there would come a day when our services were no longer required. When knights would walk not for war, but to keep peace. Just that. Peace.”

  He shook his head faintly.

  “As years pass, that dream dies. And even you, whom I consider wise, do not believe that being king, or emperor, or lord will solve this endless war men wage. Out of greed. Out of spite. Out of fear.”

  He turned back to Remy.

  “You are a brave man, Sir. Braver than most. Stronger than most. But you are at times… indifferent.”

  The word landed carefully.

  “Not heartless,” Sir Gaston added. “You care deeply. But it feels as though there is a line one must not cross with you. A boundary you never name, but always enforce.”

  Remy closed the cloth pouch in his hands and set it aside.

  “I thank you for your honesty, Sir Gaston,” he said.

  “You need not thank me for speaking my mind,” Sir Gaston replied. “I have said this before, and I will say it again. I am your loyal subject.”

  “I suppose you are,” Remy sighed, unable to refute the stubborn old knight.

  He rose, brushing dust from his hands, and walked toward the horses. Morgan lifted his head at once, ears flicking forward, but did not move from Jehan’s side. Remy rested a hand briefly against the familiar flank, feeling the steady warmth beneath muscle and hide.

  Then he turned to the new horse, testing the tack, adjusting the straps with practiced ease.

  “I left a chest, Sir Gaston,” Remy said without looking back. “Please procure what we need. Do what must be done with it. I care not if you spend it all.”

  Sir Gaston let out another sigh, this one tinged with reluctant amusement.

  “This,” he said, “is precisely why so many call you a Conjurer of Coins, Sir Lucien. Ah, it matters not. May God bless you. And please… care for yourself.”

  Remy inclined his head.

  He tugged his blue cloak into place, fastening it against the chill air, and lifted his helmet, settling it comfortably. The weight was familiar. Reassuring.

  As he rode out of the manor stables, the city did not mark his passing.

  Constantinople rarely did.

  But Remy felt the shift all the same, the subtle release of tension as walls fell behind him, the widening of the road, the return of uncertainty. The horse beneath him moved steadily, unremarkable, anonymous. That, too, was by design.

  He thought of Sir Gaston’s words as the city receded.

  Of thinking too much.

  Of feeling too little.

  Perhaps they were true. That distance was the only way to endure the coming centuries without becoming entangled in them. Remy had learned long ago that caring too openly invited consequence. History did not reward sentiment. It consumed it.

  Ahead, the road stretched toward matters best handled quietly.

  He adjusted his reins, straightened in the saddle, and rode on.