The Bandit King

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Would Vianne watch? She was known to have a weak stomach at Court, always turning away after the first exchange of blows. Yet this iron-backed woman who had left me in a prison cell and was even now playing me against d’Orlaans for a besieged kingdom… she was not the Vianne di Rocancheil I had known. No, this woman surprised me. Intrigued me even more than her softhearted former self.

  Even if I had lost her, I would still die for her.

  But hopefully, not today.

  Garonne di Narborre stepped into the circle. D’Orlaans, waited upon by a group of a half-dozen pages, took a glass goblet of something from one of them and quaffed it. Another, a slim honeyhaired youth in that same sky blue, fanned him with a perfumed paper contraption. But the false King’s gaze never left me, hazel eyes cold and intent, and I braced myself as I drew and saluted, the ruby in the hilt of my sword—my grandfather’s, passed to me at my Coming-of-Age ceremony, for we kept to the old ways in Arcenne—flashing a bloody dart.

  Di Narborre swung his blade twice, whipping the unoffending air, and saluted perfunctorily. We both paced forward, drawing our daggers, and the Black Captain did not bother to hide his sneer.

  * * *

  A rapier is a fine-wrought weapon, and much depends on its temper. But a duel is not merely fought with steel.

  D’Arquitaine rapiers are broader and heavier than the weapons the Sievillein in Navarrin sport with. A filigreed cage for the hand, a whisper-thin blade, Sievellein duels are more dance than deadly. There is a panel of judges, of all things, and the winner is not him left breathing but he whose score outweighs the other’s.

  Cowards.

  A d’Arquitaine rapier also has a shield-cage for the hand, and flexes slightly as it cleaves air or flesh. A nobleman may request l’petitte, which is a duel fought rapier-only, to the first blooding. Most questions of honor are resolved thus.

  But for the Black Captain and me, twas cri di combat. Rapier and dagger, no baffle over the arm, and no cri mirci. No judge but the gods, and no proof but blood admitted to this court.

  “D’Arcenne.” Di Narborre, no sneering now.

  “Di Narborre.” None on my part, either. We were both catspaws, after all. He was a Hand for his liege, and I for mine. Except he had never betrayed d’Orlaans.

  At least, not where any could see.

  He attacked entierce, of course, blade flashing as he tested my defense. Batted aside with contemptuous ease, I moved forward in an oblique line, all uncertainty falling away. First blood was mine, a stripe along his upper arm, he slashed low and wicked with the dagger and I leaned back. Court sorcery crackled as it wove between us, the Aryx singing like wine in my veins. The sorcery to fling light at an enemy’s eyes swiftly opposed with my counterspell, breath coming hard and ribs tearing as sweat wrung from both our foreheads—true combat brings the saltwater much earlier than drill. No respite, blades slitherclashing, quarto, ensiconde, Signelli’s defense and Caparete’s gambit, an overhand cut and I had him against the circle…

  … and I cut away, letting him regain his breath.

  Di Narborre shook sweat from his brow and narrowed his eyes. “That will not buy you quarter, d’Arcenne.”

  We were not merely dueling here. We were playing to the gallery of the army, and Vianne’s Consort could not be seen to be less than honorable. My father would have approved—finally, we were in agreement about appearances. “I need no quarter from your kind,” I spat. “Killing unarmed women has dulled your blade, sieur.”

  I sought to anger him, and half-succeeded. Court sorcery closed in earnest this time, spell and counterspell, savage bits of the Angoulême’s inheritance meant to blind, to lame, to kill. Would he, that survivor of storm-wrack and conqueror of hedgewitch peasants, be shamed of what his noble children had wrought?

  We closed again, and again di Narborre chose the tierce. Caparete’s gambit again, then the reach of the rapier keeping his dagger at bay as he pressed me; we had watched each other duel too many times. Sorcery kindled, I averted the blow but my hip turned momentarily numb, my leg threatening to give as he surged forward with Antorieu’s thrust. The dagger turned it, there was only one possible avenue to salvage my defense and I took it, a fast brutal jab-and-turn I had learned in alleyfighting where the quarters are close and the length of a rapier sometimes a hindrance. It restored the balance, and my hip returned to normalcy—that charm is short-lived, and can be used for a horse as well. If one does not mind killing an innocent animal.

  Shuffling, grit under bootsoles providing traction, the smithy-ringing of a flurry of light, testing blows, both of us panting for breath. A cup of glassy silence descended over our dance. Warmed and loosened, blood dripping from my left arm and a smear of bright crimson on his face and dappling his sleeve, the steel whistling deadly-sweet courtsongs. Another jab for my eyes, a dart of sunlight harnessed and turned to ice, countered as the Aryx passed a thread of melody under my skin.

  Is she watching?

  The space inside the circle crackled and buzzed with stray sorcery. Normally a duel is done in four passes or less, inexperience or brutality forcing an opening. We may have been evenly matched, di Narborre and I—except for the breaking of the duel-circle, d’Orlaans shrieking as his false Aryx burned with unholy radiance. The poison killspell he flung was familiar—it reeked of apples, wet dog, and vileness. He had laid the same spell on Minister Simieri, the day the conspiracy broke loose and Henri met his death on my blade.

  It was faint comfort to finally have the question of just who had sorcelled Simieri answered to my satisfaction.

  The true Aryx matched his cry, a crystal-rimmed goblet singing as it is stroked by a damp fingertip, and the medallion on his chest cracked under the noise. My foot slipped, I lunged, di Narborre attacked again—

  —but not with the tierce. No, he attacked ensiconde, and his blade slid past my guard, punching through muscle and lung, ramming out through the back of my shirt and doublet with a sound like the earth itself breaking in half.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Bubble of warmth on my lips. The blood ran down my chin. I stared at di Narborre, who wore a tight thin smile. My left arm extended, my dagger punching through muscle, slipping between ribs, and I had what seemed an eternity to think, How strange, we are both dead, before the pain began. It broke in my chest, a monstrous egg, and my legs sought to buckle.

  No. Not yet.

  Di Narborre folded, oddly boneless. For a moment I was in the Rose Room again, a King on my sword and the world about to fall to pieces. I twisted the dagger, but my hand was oddly weak.

  The Black Captain’s gaze dimmed. A candle, swiftly carried down a dark corridor. Fading to a spark, then vanishing.

  I cannot die.

  He perhaps thought the same.

  The world tilted. The dagger tore free of my nerveless fingers, buried in his heart. A pity that he had one. None would believe it.

  A high, retching cough spattered more bright blood from my lips. Silence, holding me in vast, feathery, cupped hands.

  I cannot die.

  It was too late.

  I died.

  * * *

  Glare of white light. Bergaime and spice filling my mouth. Slick fabric against my tensed fists, handfuls of scratch-embroidered material. Copper-gummed blood dry on my lips, scabs coating my throat. I tasted blood with every breath of my salvation.

  I was told afterward of Vianne’s cry as di Narborre’s rapier threaded my chest, a needle in the fingers of an enthusiastic sempstress. Of the Aryx’s blaze, a crack of darkness in its heart as the serpents spun, their metal flowing like living scales. Of d’Orlaans’s swift attack after he had called forth the poison killspell, his foul sorcery calling down a blight upon the stones, cracking and scoring them, a line of murderous intent swerving at the last moment, failing as my d’mselle opened herself to the Seal completely.

  There was an orb of brilliance, hung in midair. Silver radiance outshining the harvest-season sunshine. Those who wit
nessed it—and every man afterward told roughly the same tale—found himself on his knees. A great silence, broken only by a rustling, as of a vast wheatfield brushed by the wind’s caressing, invisible fingers. And somehow, every man of d’Orlaans’s army saw Vianne, her arms about me, my head on her silk-draped lap as I choked my last, reaching with bloodstained fingers to touch her cheek.

  Jiserah, some of them breathed, as if that queen among the Blessed had come to earth. Perhaps she had.

  The brilliance shrank, a pinprick of white-scorch intensity, and the rattling whistle of tortured breath echoed amid the rustling. My foolish body jerked, striking out with fists and feet, but Vianne did not flinch.

  A knife of ice through my chest. Bubbling clear fluid spuming from nose and mouth as she rolled me aside, the torrent fouling her skirts. I convulsed, and the force of that seizure cracked me open.

  Mercifully, I remember little of it. Merely the pain, and even that fades. My cheek against cold cracked bluestone, Vianne’s hands strengthless at my shoulders, plucking weakly at my doublet. She tilted back her head and screamed, a cry of utter negation.

  And I… lived.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Weak as a newborn kitten. There was a cup at my lips—broth with bitter herbs; I drank. Sought to grimace at the foulness of whatever medicinal properties the draught had. Cursing, a lake of broth spilling over my face, a familiar voice answering my oath with an equally improper one.

  “Do not drown him, lackwit!” Young di Siguerre grabbed at the cup, and a foreign voice cursed him roundly.

  I found myself on a camp-cot, gracelessly sideways, my boots scraping at carpets as I recognized the fabric. Indigo, rich and expensive.

  Vianne.

  “Where—” My voice would not work properly. Burning invaded my cramped limbs. I coughed, harshly. A gobbet of something foul lodged in my throat, I retched, and the Pruzian cursed again, this time cheerfully, as a basin appeared to catch the bloodclot. Cold air stung all the way down, then, and I was suddenly exquisitely aware of the simple act of breathing in a way I never had been before.

  “Son of a donkey-loving whore,” he finished in Pruzian, spitting each syllable disdainfully. “I am playing nursemaid to a babbling Hekzmeizten so weak I could knife him with no trouble—”

  I jerked, twisting, and his harsh caw of amusement scraped my ears. “I jest,” he muttered. “The fralein, she left thee in our care. Ease yourself, friend, the Hekz takes a toll even while it heals.”

  A Pruzian Knife, calling me friend? I blinked crusted blood and other matter away.

  Young Siguerre cursed as he lifted my legs, managing to slop me onto the cot in passing-fair fashion. “There. You weigh a dray-and-cart, d’Arcenne, and you smell none too fresh either. You are to rest, and the hedgewitch is fetching something for tisane—”

  Hedgewitch? “Vianne…” I sought to raise myself. Managed it shakily, but the tearing in my chest forced me to cease. “What in the name of the Blessed—”

  “You are to rest, she said. We follow her as soon as you may travel.” Di Siguerre’s young face was graven. “She rides for the relief of Reimelles with those who did not follow the Duc d’Orlaans. He escaped, and no few went with him. Methinks he goes to join the hounds of Damar, or some other such black treachery. Much joy may they have of him, too, wherever he lands. The Queen let him leave with his life.” It was awe behind his gaze, I realized, uncomfortable but evident. “She says we will drive back the Damarsene. She says the gods have spoken.”

  Reimelles? The world had gone mad. I stared at him, forcing my wits to work through a cotton-fog. Damn the woman. Will she never stay in one place?

  But Reimelles was one of the first defenses on the road to the Citté. If the Citté fell, Arquitaine was lost. Had Badeau, that ancient hedge against attack from the north and west, granted passage to Damarsene armies? If they had not, there was a faint chance—but Badeau could not hold out for long, and the Damar might simply march through their territory first and ask forgiveness later.

  That had happened before, and tis said to be the reason why those of Badeau are ever nervous.

  “Gods. What have they to do with Reimelles?” I tested each limb in turn. My chest was a cracked egg of tenderness and aching, but I could move.

  “I do not know.” Young Siguerre took the basin and blood clot from the Pruzian. “You were lung-pierced, Captain. She healed you. The Aryx broke d’Orlaans’s… thing, whatever it was.”

  “He studied long on sorcery,” I managed, gaining another deep breath. Lung-pierced. Such a wound was likely a death sentence unless one had a greatly skilled physicker immediately by, but I was merely tender all through. And strengthless, my limbs heavy and inert. And he was never very careful of method. Only of results.

  Oh, twas possible, I supposed. The dark half of Court sorcery is fueled with blood and pain, and tis not meet for a nobleman. Nor is it quite safe—those who take the Rose Path, as it is known, risk the thorns and sores of sorcery-sickness, not to mention insanity.

  I did not think d’Orlaans would cavil overmuch at the risk.

  Di Siguerre shrugged. “Good riddance, whatever twas. Here’s the hedgewitch now.”

  Twas Coele, one of the pair who had tended horse and Guard during our ride. His broad face was familiar, and his phlegmatic mien doubly so. He thrust a cup of something thick, foul-smelling, and sulfurous under my nose. “Drink, an it please you, sieur.”

  I had no choice, unless I wished to drown.

  “He coughed this up. Should we worry?” Di Siguerre managed the impression of a fretting old maiden auntie tolerably well.

  “Clears the lung.” Coele nodded, one arm under my shoulders. I sought not to splutter the contents of the cup. “See the charm, there? Fine work. A goodly scar to tell the d’mselles of.”

  The Pruzian glanced up at the tent’s interior, then back to me. His quality of silence was the patience of a man who knew how to wait—perhaps the most dangerous sort there is.

  When the hedgewitch finally took pity on me and removed the cup, I found myself breathing again with deep, disbelieving gratitude. “Reimelles,” I croaked. “We must ride.”

  “Not yet.” Coele immediately gainsaid me. “M’dama gave orders. Charm will tear if you ride now.”

  “How long?” I sought to rage, could only rasp. “Blessed curse you, vilhain, how long am I abed?”

  “Longer you thrash, longer it takes.” The man nodded to di Siguerre. “Sieur. I’m off to mix more tisane; back in an hour to charm him afresh.”

  “Very well.” Siguerre was left holding the basin; he made a face at it and stamped out of eyeshot, the bowl clattering as he placed it somewhere.

  The Pruzian leaned over me. “Rest,” he said, in his unlovely mother tongue. “I shall be watchful, m’Hier. She suspects.”

  I would have inquired just what he meant, but Siguerre returned to my bedside. “Di Sarciere’s half of the Guard went with Her Majesty, Captain.”

  “How many left with her? Who commands at Reimelles?”

  “The Old Guard, half the New, more than half of d’Orlaans’s forces gathered here. Of the command of Remeilles… I do not know.”

  Jierre would have known. I could have cursed at him. Instead, I merely closed my eyes. I had attempted what she asked of me—yet I had miscarried. D’Orlaans still lived. I had not gained the chance to challenge him afresh after di Narborre fell.

  And here I was, lung-pierced, sedated by a peasant hedgewitch, and useless, while she rode with an army perhaps full of treachery. Much would depend on who commanded the forces at Reimelles, whether twas one of d’Orlaans’s creatures or a noble who cared little for the erstwhile Duc. There would be much to do, and much she would not think to ask for or on. I racked my brains, but I could not think of who had been enseated at Reimelles during the last year.

  It was perhaps not possible for her to turn back the Damarsene with a ragged army of possibly-treacherous men, and she must guard against d�
��Orlaans even more carefully now. Relieving him of the burden of ceremony and protocol meant that he could strike from the shadows at any moment—and she had none at her side capable of anticipating or turning aside such a blow.

  At least she had her new Captain. Jierre, showing a depth of dissimulation I had scarce thought he possessed. Had he been pretending to think me a traitor, or was he pretending to think summat else now? Either way, he was showing subtlety.

  Vianne could make a man into whatever she wished, did she but realize it.

  She knew what I had done, and perhaps hated me for it. Yet she had spilled from her palfrey and come to me. She had held me. Had even cried aloud.

  Because I could not stand the thought of your beheading, Captain, she had informed me, archly, once.

  Could she still not stand the thought of my death? Twas another small mercy, one with thorns. But I took it, and fell into a drugged, twilit sleep.

  * * *

  The Field d’Or was deserted. Yellowed grass, stamped-bare dust, the charred remains of fires, the Pavilion standing lone and dark against a gray-clouded sky. Stray dogs nosed among the smoking midden-heaps d’Orlaans had left behind.

  Packhorses and plenty of provisions were left for our small band. Perhaps Jierre had seen to it. Tents had been left as well for my nursemaids, and the large blue embroidered monstrosity as well. I shall not need it, Vianne had said to young Siguerre. Let him rest in comfort, for once.

  Other than that, she had left no word for me. Nothing but the scar on my chest, angrily red and tender, and a matching scar on my back. Di Garonne had done his work well. The mark on my face did not count, for twas healed already. But still I felt it, plucking at my expression as I lay exhausted and fretting.