The Bandit King h-2

by Lilith Saintcrow

Or, perhaps, happy.

  Divris di Tatancourt was d’Arquitaine, a foreigner, and a nobleman to boot. But he was welcomed at the R’mini fire. Their women, shy and sloe-eyed, hung back, clicking their tongues. The men crowded him, and one heavyset older fellow with a red sash, a gold earring, and a dagger at his ample waist clapped di Tatancourt on the shoulder and offered him a tankard of something. Twas probably rhuma, their fiery liquor, and the Messenger took a draught with good grace. They engaged in close conversation while the rest of the company went about the evening business of dinner and tending to the camp and livestock.

  Among them, I was… myself, Vianne whispered in my memory. We had been together in the dark, my hand on her hip and her breath soft at my shoulder. They did not care for the Aryx, or d’Orlaans, or anything else. I was simply V’na. And right glad of it I was, too.

  I cast about for a better place to observe them from. Though the Gieron was filling as the army arrived, plenty of the buildings were unfit for habitation—so the unoccupied cottage I made my way into was a perfect vantage point. I watched through the slats nailed over a rotting, cavernous window, exhaling softly to remind myself to keep calm. It could mean nothing.

  Of course it means something. Vianne traveled with the R’mini. And di Tatancourt owes her his life; else d’Orlaans’s killspell would have taken him to the afterworld in short order.

  Considering that the killspell had been intended for me, there was a certain symmetry to events. I spared a grim smile at the thought.

  Di Tatancourt was taken into a red and blue-painted wagon, the headman followed. The rest of the R’mini, chattering and laughing in their strange spiked language, were a whirl of color and firelight. They favor dark reds and bright blues, greens and splashes of charm-cleaned white, gold at neck and throat and ears, and the women sometimes sport thin golden rings at the nose. The gold flashed against dark skin and dark hair—their coloring has an undertone of red instead of the d’Arquitaine blue. An old word for them was noiruse, the Black-Red. For all that, they treat their children well. Any youngling is prized among them. There are stories of orphans taken into their wagons, but I do not know the truth of such.

  I waited, and watched.

  When di Tatancourt reappeared, he was pale and shaken. He stepped heavily down from the wagon, and the headman—for such, I had deduced, he absolutely was, the leader of their little company—leaned out, cupped his hand near his mouth, and continued speaking in a low, fierce tone.

  The Messenger shook his head. He had a leather satchel. He was even paler, too, and almost staggered.

  I do not know enough about what would frighten this man.

  Vianne had spent hours closeted with him, questioning him of Court. Some of her questions I could see the logic behind; others, not so much. And after I had been dragged off a-donjon, no doubt she had spent much time with him as well, laying her plans.

  My hands shook.

  Calm yourself. Anger serves nothing.

  I wanted to burst forth from my lair and catch him, beat every living shred of information out of his quivering body, and finish by sliding a knife between his ribs. My savagery did not shock me.

  The fact that my self-control was so thin did. So I breathed, soft and slow. Would I turn into Chivalier di Kassath in the old courtsongs, so jealous of his d’mselle he slew a man for simply sighing as she passed?

  The songs never said what the d’mselle thought of this, beyond one very pretty refrain—oh, my love, give me room to breathe.

  I winced inwardly. Watched the headman of the R’mini land on solid earth, clapping di Tatancourt on the shoulder again. As he might brace up one of his compatriots who had suffered a misfortune. He said something else, and the Messenger made a wry face, hitching the leather dispatch bag higher on his other shoulder. He answered in Arquitaine, and I caught the words the Queen.

  The headman laughed, kissed his fingertips, and Divris di Tatancourt swept him a bow. Then, his shoulders no less hunched and his step no less hurried and nervous, the Messenger left the circle of R’mini firelight, plunging back into the dark.

  And I followed.

  * * *

  I chose the place with care—dark alley mouths, a ramshackle narrow street at the edge of the Gieron, very few avenues of escape. My doublet looped over my arm and my dagger ready, I waited for him—this was the best approach to the Keep if he wished to pass unremarked. Of course, he could be an idiot, and take another route.

  I did not think him quite an idiot. Merely unpracticed. It takes a certain skill to move about a city at night without drawing attention. The trick is not to act with confidence, but with the correct amount of furtiveness for the street or alley in which you find yourself.

  His step echoed against the brick paving. A crowd would have meant I had to kill him—I would have had to work close, slip the knife into a kidney, and take the bag while he fell. It was the tenebrous time just on the edge of full night, where dusk fills every corner with far more shadow than midnight. It is a golden time for secret meetings, assassinations, thievery, rifling a corpse’s pockets.

  The doublet was intended as a baffle against knifeplay, but di Tatancourt, with a nobleman’s instinct, reached for his rapier instead of the far-more-practical dagger. So it was over his head with the doublet, the rapier singing as it was struck from his hand and hit brick paving, a ringing blow to maze his wits, and the dispatch bag’s strap cut. It was in my possession in a trice, and I kicked him twice while he was on the ground, simply to disorient him and keep him down. Snatching the doublet up, avoiding his thrashing, I was tempted to say summat but quelled the urge.

  I stepped back, and it was only the long habit of watching one’s enemy even while he is aground and helpless that saved me. For I saw him lift the diabolical thing, and dove aside before it spoke with a demieri di sorce’s belching roar. The ball went wide, I vanished into the alley, and Divris di Tatancourt was left with his rapier, his Navarrin pistolerro, and his wounded pride.

  Whatever was in the bag would tell me much. But however he explained his bruises would tell me even more.

  Chapter Twenty

  I burst into my father’s study, and Irion di Markui half-rose, his hand to his rapier-hilt. My father outright bolted to his feet, his hair ruffled, and di Dienjuste, by the window-casement, whirled and actually half-drew. A curious expression crossed his flushed features, but I was in too much a hurry to grant it much thought.

  “War is upon us.” I tossed the dispatch bag onto a table choked with other paper. “The Damarsene have invaded; the next few dispatches will be full of their thundering. She is bound for the Field d’Or, to treat with d’Orlaans. We must move. Tonight. Now.”

  “How did you—” di Dienjuste began, and for a moment his knees actually loosened. I did not blame him; the news was dire.

  Irion di Markui, his seamed face grave, scooped up the dispatch bag with the speed of a man half his age. He had beaten my father to the table by at least a swordlength. He noted the slit in the tough leather strap with a raised eyebrow, opened it with gnarled fingers, and pulled forth a handful of papers.

  Of course I had kept some few of them in reserve. Of the ones I left, their seals—each bearing the imprint of the Aryx—were broken. I had not time or patience for delicate measures.

  “These just arrived?” My father leaned over di Markui’s shoulder. I saw the gray in his hair had gathered strength, and the lines on his face had whittled themselves deeper.

  For the first time in my memory, my father looked old.

  “After a fashion.” Do not ask me such things now. “The Damarsene have officially invaded. Sieging us was merely a feint—no wonder they only sent some thousands from border provinces to aid d’Orlaans. They have taken the Dispuriee, all the way to Diljonne and Reimelles. The Citté is preparing for siege. D’Orlaans is holding them, but not for long. He wishes the Aryx, and m’d’mselle the Queen wishes Arquitaine freed of invaders.”

  “Her will alone shou
ld have held the borders for a time,” Markui muttered. “The Aryx—”

  Perhaps she has not taken another Consort. It matters little. I have not hopped from foot to foot with impatience since I was eleven years old, but I was near to it now. “There is no time to waste. Every man we have gathered must march to Arquitaine’s defense.” And it will strengthen her hand immeasurably to have an army of her own.

  My father glanced at di Markui. A long, considering look, two old campaigners hearing the trumpet again, speaking without words.

  If Jierre had been here, and not likely to run me through, I could have had the small sour comfort of the same wordless communication. Or if Vianne had not hied herself forth to do Blessed only knew what.

  Impatience rose hot and deadly under my breastbone. “Have you not heard me? The Damarsene are serious this time. No more tribute, no more being fobbed off by alliance or promises of marriage between Houses. They seek to swallow us whole, for Arquitaine’s strength is occupied with civil war. Whether d’Orlaans seeks to kill us or they do, we will be just as dead. We can fight him, or we can fight the Damarsene—we cannot fight both, and we cannot afford to let them ravage each other on Arquitaine soil. Not while the Queen is bound for d’Orlaans. She has decided; we are to execute.”

  My father sighed. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, his shoulders sagging for a brief moment. “Yes. Blessed guard us. What times to live in.”

  “Sieurs.” Di Dienjuste, flushed with excitement, approached the table. “There is much to be done. We should perhaps summon the others? I think di Falterne and di Rivieri went a-taverning…”

  “A-whoring, you mean,” di Markui rumbled. “Siguerre’s asleep. D’Anton is probably dicing with the Guards.”

  “Wake them, fetch them, drag them from a doxy’s bed if you must.” My father’s shoulders snapped back into their usual rigidity. “Di Dienjuste, fetch the commanders. Tristan, come make some sense of this with me. Irion, old friend, do you wake Siguerre—”

  “One last ride for tired horses.” Irion di Markui’s dark eyes flashed. For a bare few moments he seemed younger than all of us. “Blessed guide us.”

  My heart hammered. I sought to calm myself. Vianne, stepping into d’Orlaans’s clutches with only a bare half-dozen of her Guard to protect her. Too soft to do what must be done, faced with utter ruthlessness, playing for her life but hobbled by her very decency. The false King would eat her alive, or the Damarsene would kill her to put an end to the threat she posed them.

  Not if I reach her in time. The urge to be gone, riding a horse to ribbons, boiled in me.

  Di Dienjuste skidded from the room, di Markui hard on his heels. The fire crackled and snapped, and a slight breeze came in through the open window, ruffling the papers on the table.

  “Gather your Guard,” my father said, gathering the papers and beginning to organize them, glancing briefly at each one. “I will arrange matters here. You ride for the Field d’Or, and for the sake of the Blessed, ride hard. Tell none in Arcenne where you are bound.”

  The words opened a Tiberian mirror-box inside my head, light flashing through its interior and illuminating several things at once.

  Had I misjudged him? Did he know of the treason breathing among his friends? “Père.” Perhaps I sounded strange, for he paused, examining me. “There is treachery even here in Arcenne. I have been told—”

  He waved one sword-callused hand, and the spots of age on the back of it were suddenly apparent. “Did you think I did not know? Patience is often the better bait to root out such things, but we no longer have time. I have my own methods, and shall use them.” A single lift of his graying eyebrow. “I shall give your farewell to your mother. Go now, and go with my blessing.”

  My jaw fair threatened to drop. Even when I had gone to Court, he had never unbent so much as to grant me a blessing.

  He must have seen my surprise, for he laughed. It was a small, bitter sound. “I have not dealt well with you, Tristan. It does not matter. Attend the Queen, and do take care. I like not the thought of your mother’s grief, should you… should anything happen. To my… my son.”

  Should I have stayed? Sometimes I think so. Yet at that moment I was simply glad to be set free, and to have a direction, a road that would lead me to my Vianne. I saluted him, one Captain to another, and was in the hall before I realized I was running.

  * * *

  The large grays the Guard rides are precious. Their fields are near Tiberius’s palace at Vienciai, south and west of the Citté and under d’Orlaans’s control. So Arran was the only one of their proud number to ride out; the nascent Guard rode their own beasts. Most were of high quality, since a nobleman should know to take care with his horseflesh. But they were motley, and we had no uniforms. I would be hard-pressed to remember a sorrier-looking group of noble younglings, sober with the import of their mission and frightened to death of failure or dishonor.

  Sieurs et chivalieri, we ride to the aid of the Queen of Arquitaine, I had informed them in the barracks, a few of them retrieved bleary-eyed from the fleshpots of the Quartier Salieu.

  If you have any doubt of your desire to be of Her Majesty’s Guard, now is the time to express it. Any man may stay behind—there is no shame in deciding, now, that you would rather not hurry toward death. From the moment we ride forth, you are expected to comport yourself as a nobleman and a Queen’s Guard, and any man who does not will feel my wrath.

  I was slightly gratified to see no few of them blanch openly at the prospect.

  We left Arcenne three hours after I stole Divris di Tatancourt’s dispatch bag; I had no lee to worry of the Messenger and his fate. No doubt he would return to the Keep bearing interesting bruises.

  The dark was still summer-soft, but with an edge of chill; the Road was cracked and broken from the siege. For the first hour it was a steady jogtrot, the horses warming themselves. Then I murmured to the lieutenants I had chosen—Tieris di Siguerre, the Conte’s grandson, and Antolan di Sarciere et Vantroche—and the ride began in earnest.

  There are songs written about the Ride of the New Guard. None of them come close. I will say this for those younger sons of the Angoulême: Once they passed the gates of Arcenne, they rode uncomplaining, at a pace that punished mere flesh and bone, and they deserve every burst of melodic effort a minstrel can scrape together.

  Two Arcenne hedgewitches rode with us, both broad peasant men unused to the saddle. To them fell the task of charming injuries and stretching the endurance of both man and beast. They started the ride with wide shoulders and bellies straining at their shirts; they ended it gaunt as the sleepless noblemen, their belts taken in notch by notch as we passed over Road and countryside as a burning dream through the mind of a fevered woman.

  We did not gallop, though the temptation to do so beat in my chest like a Sea Countries clock-tower. Jogtrot and canter, cooling and resting the horses just enough, husbanding our strength as much as we dared. Fifty men and two hedgewitches—a pittance of a Guard. Henri’s had been three hundred strong, and I their leader. Now a bare half-dozen of them were left, a frail fence around my Vianne, and they would likely try to separate me from my liver on sight.

  We requisitioned what we needed from large holdings or towns on our way, meeting little resistance, as we largely paid in good coin for what we took—when necessary, that is. Rumor ran rife, and I am certain no few of those who provisioned us thought us a troupe of bandits fleeing d’Orlaans’s dragoons. Haggard men with Court sorcery and finemetal blades are not to be trifled with, in any circumstance, and I was not overgracious.

  Those days are burned into my dreams. Jingle of tack, the rhythm of hooves, creak of saddle, exhausted breathing of man and horse alike, Arran’s back like a coracle on an unsteady sea, and the rasping. Rasp of stubble, rasp of leather, rasp of exhaustion against the nerves. The peasant men chanting, their throats dry and their eyes rheumy, one of them passing his hands over a horse’s swollen leg, the injury retreating from a burst of gre
en-scented hedgewitchery. Clerion di Hanvrault asleep in the saddle, swaying dangerously before Tieris di Siguerre woke him with a curse and a clout, Tespre and Luc d’Archim, brothers, sometimes singing snatches of courtsong when they had the breath. Antolan di Sarciere reporting on our supplies in a monotone, half-asleep on his feet but still sharp-eyed, his cheeks rough and thinning almost as one watched.

  And I? I rode. That was all.

  We took the north and eastron route past Bourdanneau, a city and region famed for its bright garnet wine and loyal to Irion di Markui. I had decided not to press too close to the middle of Arcenne held by d’Orlaans, and I deemed it the route with the best Roads; also, I thought it likely we might catch Vianne and her small group. For the R’mini who had brought the dispatches had recently come from very near Santie-di-Sorce, where the sea breathes inland and the famous cheeses are ripened in salt-crusted caves.

  We struck inland on the great curve to Doitiers, and there the Roads became clogged with refugees. The Damarsene pressed hard, held at Diljonne and Reimelles at great cost. They burned as they came, and the border provinces, already ravaged by plague, were now scarred by rapine and fire. Citte d’Arquitaine was choked with those fleeing, d’Orlaans and his dragoons turning from the work of tax collection and squeezing every drop of the harvest to the more pressing problem of holding a line against the wolves of Damar. Reimelles had not yet fallen, but twas only a matter of time. An amnesty had been declared—any bandit or rebel, no matter how shameful, was offered a clean escutcheon if he came to the aid of d’Orlaans’s army, and the Hedgewitch Queen, as she was called, had been seen riding hither and yon, rallying the fainthearted.

  I worried much on this account, until we reached the warren of Chauvignienne and I heard she was said to have flax-golden hair, instead of Vianne’s dark curls. Rumor, the false mistress, was merely working her mischief.

  Peasants fleeing, their carts piled high and creaking; also, bloody and bandaged men, having had their fill of war already, trudging for the south and west with no real thought but to escape. The Damarsene’s reputation—and the fact that their army contained several Pruzian companies with their fire-breathing siege engines, their high horsehair-crested helms, their black armor and their refusal to retreat—only added to the general terror. There were even wild tales of Far Rus mercenaries, Polis and Hese-Arburg vassal companies come to feast on the bones their lords threw.