The Bandit King h-2

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Merún, like me, had not recovered fully. The Damarsene were routed, harried for the border by Irion di Markui and an army of disparate parts—angry peasants, the troops of the mountain province, and those of d’Orlaans’s host who took advantage of the amnesty granted to them did they serve the Hedgewitch Queen. So much I had been told, and some little I could guess—the Conte di Siguerre tarried with the Queen, as did Adrien di Cinfiliet, to begin the work of rebuilding. Why she stayed in Merún was a small mystery, until I hit upon the thought that a victorious entry into the Citté took some little time to prepare. Such an entry would be necessary, both for the theater of the gesture and to put paid to d’Orlaans’s claims.

  Of d’Orlaans there was no word uttered to me. Tieris merely looked pained and said he did not know, and he would not ask for fear his grandfather would give him a lashing. Tieris was called into the Queen’s presence once a day, like Beadris, to offer a report on me. He was not given lee to ask questions, and Vianne made no reply to any question I sent with him to beg an answer.

  I did not like that.

  Rivertraffic had resumed; there were refugees to care for and the evacuated to return to their families and homes—if such homes were left standing, that is, for almost half of Merún had barely ceased smoking. And yet there was an air of festival in the city. Though the Dispuriee had been ravaged, the harvest in other places had been generous. And the plague? The sickness of fever and boiling, vomiting blood?

  Vanished overnight. No new sickness was reported, and deaths from its touch had ceased in the Citté, at least. Every province that had declared for Vianne had been free of its depredations, and it appeared those offering fealty to d’Orlaans were chastened.

  Temples were full of those offering in thanksgiving and those seeking news of lost loved ones. The weather was fine, an estivalle-faus, as such an after-harvest lull was named, and this was attributed to the Hedgewitch Queen’s intercession with the Blessed.

  I did not think Vianne likely to be amused by such rumors.

  Instead of the small circular room, she was now ensconced in the Keep’s high, drafty main hall. Some attempt had been made to freshen the room, to clean the cobwebs and free the ancient tapestries of dust. The dais had been hung with crimson, and the Guard, both Old and New, were much in evidence, red-sashed and sober with their hands to their rapiers. The huge fireplace had been unblocked and a blaze set in it took much of the damp chill from the air, though the massive doors to the entry-hall stood open and the Keep’s front was thrown wide to welcome supplicants and those who had business with or reports to give the Queen.

  Tieris accompanied me up the middle of the main hall, hurrying as my stride lengthened. I had exercised myself as much as Beadris had allowed, and some little bit more. At least I had not been chained while I did so.

  A great chair had been found and wrapped with scarlet cloth, and Vianne was upon it, her head tilted as she listened to the Harbormaster, who looked far more at ease now. Jierre was in attendance next to her, standing precisely where the Captain of her Guard should. To one side, behind a table stacked with paper, Conte di Siguerre questioned a bedraggled nobleman with a doffed hat. The man looked damp and wary; I stored up his features and forgot him, for on Vianne’s other side Adrien di Cinfiliet was deep in discussion with Adersahl di Parmecy and a group of Shirlstrienne bandits and hard-faced young Navarrin bloods in their dark, high-collared doublets, the X-shaped device of their High God blazoned in white on their chests. Their thin rapiers hung easy at their sides, their hats held wide-sweeping feathers, and their foreign tones rose and fell in a murmur of easy power. Theirs is a rolling language, at odds with their harsh land. Some scholars hold tis related to d’Arquitaine, but I do not know. Tis an easy enough language to learn.

  Not like Pruzian.

  Fridrich van Harkke lurked behind Vianne’s chair. He seemed ill at ease, though I doubted anyone else could tell. He kept to the shadows under the hangings, and his gaze flickered through the hall. The Knife did not look overjoyed to see me, though he reserved most of his attention for di Cinfiliet.

  My palms were damp. My throat was dry. My father’s signet was a chill lump, tucked under my doublet on its thin fine chain.

  I could not bring myself to take the Heir’s signet from my finger.

  The Aryx rang softly with light, and I felt it. My steps slowed. I approached her throne—for such it was; she made it so—and allowed myself to look at her.

  Wine-red velvet laced over silk, the oversleeves cut away and the undersleeves coming to points on the backs of her hands. Her hair, braided in the style of di Rocancheil, glowing in the mellow glowstone light. Globes of witchlight hung lazily above the crowd—twas a Court in miniature, again, and she its beating heart. Her ear-drops were rubies and beaten silver, and a gleam on her left hand was the copper marriage-ring.

  Why does she still wear it?

  My heart twisted on itself. Perhaps Beadris was wrong and it would wrench itself free through the scar. If it did, who would mourn my passing?

  Would she?

  The dark circles under her eyes had lessened. She was not so gaunt. The burning of her gaze was unabated, but her mouth was not set in a grim line. Instead, she smiled as Jierre made a point, touching his finger to his palm as he listed something for her. The Harbormaster nodded, his gaze fixed on her face. She considered for a few moments after Jierre finished, then softly spoke. The Harbormaster bowed, begged leave to withdraw, and she granted it with a nod. He hurried away, brushing past me, and the Queen of Arquitaine looked upon me coolly, lifting her chin slightly.

  “Consort,” she greeted me, and a roaring filled my head.

  She had not renounced me yet.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  I went to one knee, slowly, and rose. “Your Majesty.” At least I sounded steady. The noise inside my skull receded as I concentrated, fiercely, on not toppling and making a fool of myself. “I am gladdened to be in your presence again.”

  She did not smile. Instead, she watched me gravely, and did not invite me to approach. “I am gladdened that you are recovered. I… feared for you.”

  What use could there be in sweetening me so? Or had she truly feared for me? “I am sorry to have caused you grief.” In any way. Will you believe that?

  The weight of gazes upon us was familiar. At Court, I would never have spoken to her even this much. An uneasiness touched the space between my shoulder blades.

  “I was also grieved to learn of your father’s passing.” Had she paled?

  “I thank you for your pains.” Meaningless words. Why here, Vianne? Why before everyone? Is it because you do not trust me, were we to speak privately? Is it that you think I will force my way into your chambers again?

  Would I blame her for such a fear? No. I had richly proven myself a vilhain many times over. I had little idea of how to even begin to be a man she might not fear.

  Adrien di Cinfiliet was watching, his pale eyes narrowed. He was still weathered, and the arrogance of a nobleman was still evident even as he merely stood there. It grated on me, and I sought not to look upon him.

  Vianne shifted slightly, her hands resting prettily-clasped upon her knee. Her spine was absolutely straight. “I am to enter the Citté soon.” Clear and low, and a hush had fallen over the hall. “There will be a coronation in the Ladytemple. It would please me, were you to attend.”

  A Temple. Did she think to renounce me before she was crowned? Publicly, and in no uncertain terms?

  “If it would please you, I will attend.” Here is my throat, Vianne. Drive the knife in, should you wish it. “Command me, my Queen, and it will be done.”

  A flush rose in her cheeks, died away. Left her even paler, and the shape of her lashes against her cheekbones as she blinked sent a thin Sievillein rapier through me, as if one of the Navarrin had plunged his blade through my freshly healed scar.

  “We go forth at tomorrow’s nooning, then.” A small, private smile, and she glanced up and
to her left.

  Adrien di Cinfiliet’s gaze met hers. His expression did not change, but he did straighten slightly. Vianne quickly looked away, and the smile vanished as if it had never been born.

  “Rest well, chivalier,” she told me, and I was dismissed. I did not even beg leave to go. Nor did I bow. I turned on my heel and Tieris di Siguerre followed in my wake until I gained the wretched, ruined rose garden I remembered from my second night in this accursed heap of stone. And when I snarled at him to leave me be, for the sake of the Blessed, he did.

  * * *

  That night I was to pass in quarters more befitting the Consort—dusty and ancient, to be sure, but at least there was a sitting room. And a high narrow window. It looked down upon a disused bailey, weeds forcing their way up between cracking paving-stones. Tieris led me to it after a dinner I observed a stony silence through, taken in a dining-hall full of draughts and faint sour smells. He stiffly bade me a restful sleep.

  I considered running him through.

  I had no more than glanced out the window and thought of the drop to the stones below when a knock sounded at the sitting-room door. I thought it Tieris come back and said not a word, for the curses that rose to my lips were fit to scorch the air itself.

  The knob turned, and I strode for the door, ready to flay the intruder with a cutting remark or two.

  Vianne closed the door and sighed, rubbing delicately at the bridge of her nose. She turned to face me; I had halted near an ancient, tumbledown, brocaded sopha that had perhaps last seen use before the turn of the centuriad.

  “I crave your pardon, sieur,” she said softly. As if she needed to, from me. “I—”

  “Are you well?” My hands knotted themselves into fists. “Are you safe? Who guards your door? Your food, is it tested for poison? What of d’Orlaans?”

  She winced, clasped her hands before her. It had taken on the quality of a habitual movement, and I do not know if anyone else would have remarked how tightly her fingers clenched one another. The Aryx, glowing, gave a softer light to her face. The rest of us seemed to have aged, lines graving themselves through our faces—but she did not. Or perhaps I did not see any brushing of Time’s feathers upon her, because I looked so closely.

  “I am well enough. Relieved, in more ways than one. There is summat I would speak on, Captain, and I—”

  “Captain. For how much longer? By the Blessed, Vianne. Call me Tristan or nothing at all. I will not have this distance.”

  “Oh, you will not have it?” Her chin lifted slightly. “And what Tristan d’Arcenne will not have should be my northneedle, aye? I shall address you as I see fit, sieur. You will grant me that, at least, for the remainder of the time we must endure each other.”

  “Endure?” So she did mean to cast me off. I did not blame her, and yet…

  No. Please. Vianne, no.

  “You are the Baron d’Arcenne now.” Her fingers tensed, tighter and tighter. She seemed fair to bruise herself. “And… sieur, I crave your pardon. I came to tell you Timrothe d’Orlaans has disappeared.”

  I froze. My wits raced.

  Di Dienjuste, half-drawing his rapier as I burst in the door. Overplaying his sympathy for me, and paying her every attention. Of course. Of course.

  What had d’Orlaans promised him? Perhaps Vianne herself, though I could not see d’Orlaans dangling the prize he had reserved for himself before a mere chivalier. Most likely the reward was some tidbit or two to repair the family Dienjuste’s noble poverty. How had we not seen?

  How had I not sensed the danger?

  The urge to swear vilely passed through me in a scorching tide. “Di Dienjuste.” My rapier-hilt was cold as ice under my fingertips. “He was too nervous. I would lay odds he sought to kidnap you. And likely twas he who found di Tatancourt and—”

  “Di Tatancourt?” One eyebrow raised. The look she wore would make a man spill every secret he owned, merely for the joy of feeling her undivided attention for a few moments longer. “I see.”

  “The Messenger was alive when I left him, Vianne.” The words were ash in my mouth. “I do not expect you to believe me.”

  “I find I may believe much of what you tell me, at least now.” Was it resignation in her tone? “And it would not have served your purposes to kill him, Captain.” Yet her slim shoulders came up, the familiar movement of a burden laid upon them. The velvet and silk rustled. Bergaime and spice and green hedgewitchery, a breath of her scent reaching me over the dust and sharpish rot of the Keep. “I do not lay Divris di Tatancourt at your door.”

  “What do you lay at my door, m’chri?” Tell me. I must know. If it is to be the worst, at least let it be from your hand. Please.

  “You won the trial of combat. In the eyes of the law, in the eyes of Arquitaine and the Blessed, you are innocent of the King’s murder.”

  I do not care. “What of your eyes? They are all that concern me, Vianne. What you would have of me is all that concerns me.”

  She unclasped her hands, finger by finger. Shook them out delicately, a pretty Court-trained mannerism. “It matters little what I think, Captain. Soon we will be free of each other, and no doubt you will be relieved at the event.”

  Ice in my vitals. What would she do if I laid hands upon her? If she struggled, if she screamed…

  “Vianne.” Hoarsely, now.

  “I brought you this news myself, privately, because I do not wish you hunting d’Orlaans. He will be attended to. I wish you to return to Arcenne.” She turned away.

  A cry rose within me. Was suppressed. The ice was all through me.

  Her hand on the knob. “Do you hear me?” She addressed the door as if it were my face, earnestly. Softly. “Do you?”

  “I hear,” I croaked.

  A slight turn of her head, as if she wished to glance over her shoulder. Dry-eyed, pale, and utterly lost to me. “Tristan.” Her lips, shaping my name. “Believe me when I say this: I wish you to live.”

  A rustling, a quiet step, a brush of her skirts, a click… and she was gone.

  She wished me to live. Oh, aye. I’d no doubt she did.

  After all, there could be no greater revenge.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The Citté is the heart of Arquitaine. Under the slopes of Mont di Cienne the Palais gleams, white and gold and sprawling, the mark of each reign stamped in its corridors and passages. Below it, in the cup that the River Airenne threads a long silver ribbon through, the Citté throbs and pulses. Biscuit-colored stone, roofs of slate and red tile and wood, the Ladytemple’s dome and the twisting streets that can confuse even a lifelong inhabitant; the Quartier Montarmête and the Pleasure District, the quays and the bridges, the glitter of Court and the ragged poverty of the beggars. The Citté, built where the Blessed demanded, the city of our gods and our hope. The plague had run rife through it, and those who lined its streets to welcome their Queen no doubt were too happy to be spared to think of the chaos hosting an army would cause.

  She wore white, and rode my mother’s well-traveled white palfrey. The gentle mare looked near to expiring with satisfaction, glossy-brushed and oiled, red silk ribbons tied in her mane and tail, tiny silver bells jingling on her reins and decking the saddle, so that the Hedgewitch Queen rode on a wave of music. You could not hear the sweet sound, though, for the crowds roared fit to drown even the thinking inside a man’s skull.

  Adrien di Cinfiliet rode beside her, tall on a nasty-tempered white stallion, also in spotless white. Without a hat, the blue-black sheen to his hair threw back the sun, and they made a pretty picture indeed.

  Arran stepped high and proud; I rode with the Conte di Siguerre and Jierre di Yspres at the head of the Guard. The survivors of the Old Guard, worn and wounded but grinning hugely and in fresh uniforms, were given pride-of-place. The New Guard caught the thrown flowers—where the blooms were found that showered our path, I do not know.

  After us in procession rode the Navarrin and the bandits of the Shirlstrienne, and then the d�
��Arquitaine army itself. The peasants had begun to trickle away home; d’Orlaans’s pardoned troops marched behind the Mountain Army, as twas called. The amnestied marched under the black banner of penitence. After the coronation they would be granted the right to bear a device again. The long snake of humanity took a day to file into the Citté, and the cheering never abated.

  The Ladytemple greeted us the morning after our entrance, while the dregs of the procession were still winding into the city. I do not know if Vianne slept—we were quartered not in the Palais, for she would not enter it until crowned, but at the edge of the Pleasure District in the P’tipalais d’Orlaans, the vast, traditional house Timrothe the Accursed—for so they had named him now, with characteristic desire to bite the author of their suffering—had inhabited while the brother of King Henri.

  She is old, the Ladytemple, built when places of worship were full of sharp spires instead of the softer shapes later generations fancied. Her stone is dark, and the vast round window over her wide, never-closed doors is named the Rosaille. A great sorcery is contained within it, and the glass shifts color according to its own whims. During the quiet observance at dawn or dusk, when all in the vicinity of l’Dama hold their tongue and breath, you may hear the tiny bits of glass shifting and clicking, a dry song of power.

  The inside was packed with nobility of the sword and the robe. Songs have been written of the Hedgewitch Queen, how she paused in the courtyard and knelt, silent, for twelve long peals of the Ladytemple’s great bell. How she rose gracefully, a silver-eyed man at her side. How she climbed the steps into the Ladytemple and was greeted with absolute silence.

  The Consort strode behind her. One woman, two men, treading with the measured ceremonial gait observed for the most solemn of Court occasions. Step, pause; step, pause. The Aryx sang, the Rosaille answering and the Great Bell overhead trembling with reverberations. The crowd elbow-to-elbow, the heat of massed bodies causing sweat; twas crowded too tight within to draw a poniard. Those of the sword, the descendants of the Angoulême’s noble companions, removed their hats as she drew abreast of them. Those of the robe were already hatless, and breathless beside. Later they would begin to play the games of privilege and position at Court. Later they would jostle, and she would need a shield. Later, those who still owed d’Orlaans some loyalty might prove troublesome, and I? Would I be admitted into her presence? Would I be able to guard her from afar?