The Bandit King

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Smoking with blood, slipping, stumbling, I splashed through cold thigh-high water. Shouts behind me, and a cry from above. The crossbows hummed, quarrels streaking overhead. Twas cover, and I was grateful for it, even though my feet shot out from under me and I fell into the water. Floundering, desperate, clumsy as a newborn colt, I plunged into darkness and safety.

  * * *

  The hedgewitch—a heavily pregnant peasant woman with a wide face and grave dark eyes—shoved my shirt aside. Her blunt callused fingers tested the charmed wound.

  I jerked as the scar twinged sharply. “What are you doing, whittling it deeper?”

  “You have breath to complain,” Jierre retorted. “Count yourself lucky, sieur. That was a fool’s job, d’Arcenne.”

  “He’ll live,” the other hedgewitch—a man with a heavily bandaged foot and a crutch—said, straightening from the side of Tieris di Siguerre’s cot. “Tis merely bloody, and that arm will pain him in the winter. I’ve put him asleep. He needs boneset and charming; I shall return with both.”

  “Very well.” Jierre nodded. He was even leaner than he had been, gaunt and worn, but his face had changed little. Set and imperturbable, his hair haphazard and dark with soot, he was much the worse for wear. “Thank you. Find some food too, Aranth.”

  “Too much to do,” the limping peasant said cheerfully, and stumped away. Jierre sighed.

  The woman nodded and mumbled to herself, burying her chin in her dirty lace-ruff. This time the charming was a mass of razor spikes, twisting at my heart and lungs. I choked, hot water rising to my eyes, and was glad my face was a-filth with blood and muck to disguise the tears.

  “Serves you right,” she finished, and took her hand away, flicking her fingers as if to rid them of foulness. “Am’mist tore the charm clear through. Are you mad?”

  The Merúnaisse are known for speaking their minds. And a woman bearing may speak as she pleases, rank and station be damned. They are sacred to Jiserah, those heavy with new life, and that gentle Blessed’s only curse is reserved for those who injure them.

  “Not mad,” I countered, when I had gained enough breath to speak. “Merely stubborn, m’dama. My thanks.”

  She heaved herself to her feet, cupping her belly with one hand and ignoring Jierre’s proffered hand. “There are other wounded to tend to. I canna answer for’im, sieur; it could take a bleed any moment.”

  “I shall tie him to his bed and set a guard, Heloese.” He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, a familiar movement when he was restraining himself. “My thanks. Go to your rest.”

  “Canna. Others to tend to.” And with that she was gone, with the peculiar gait of a pregnant woman, sailing with skirts swishing and one hand clasped to the lower back.

  The temporary infirmary was in a warehouse, bales of wool and spun linen pushed aside and piled to make walls. Groans and sometimes screams punctuated the morning hush. I met Jierre’s gaze. “The men?”

  “Hale enough. The worst is the youngling there; he showed a fair measure of steel.” From di Yspres, this was a high compliment, and I hoped di Siguerre knew it. “What news do you bring?”

  News? “Vianne? Is she well?”

  “Well enough.” But his jaw set. “Why are you here? You were left with—”

  “Nursemaids and tents, while you came to have a war without me. I cannot let you have all the maying about. I was fit to ride, and so I came. What ails Vianne, Jierre? Have I not some small right to know?”

  He sighed. Ran stiff fingers back through his dark hair, disarranging it, and for a moment I saw age settle on him. Soon we would be my father and Siguerre, old warhorses, with a common bond, whether we were quite friends or not. And would Vianne be my mother, safe in the Palais with a harp and her garden, and a library of Tiberian philosophy and history stuffed to the brim?

  I could only hope. “And we have unfinished business,” I reminded him. “There is the little matter of you believing—or unbelieving—me a traitor.”

  “You do not know what I believe.” Yet he merely sounded weary unto death. “We cannot hold this city, Tristan. The walls will crumble before long. She says help is coming; she says the gods have spoken. But she is… you do not know. You cannot understand.”

  I watched him. This was summat new, practical hardheaded Jierre speaking so oddly. “You try my patience. Pray try my comprehension with this riddle, too.” Dried blood and drying mud cracked as I grimaced. My chest was a tender egg, the scar deep-aching. Once the fever of battle is over, one feels the weariness, and the muscles one has misused.

  “At least Tristan is safe, she said. At least I have accomplished that much. Now you are here, where it is not safe, and she is fretting herself dry worrying on what dire tidings could have brought you to risk your life so.”

  I almost winced. “No tidings I can give you, Captain.” Perhaps there was a slight emphasis on the title.

  Perhaps it was ill-natured of me.

  He shrugged. “She required it of me.”

  I could not help myself. “And what else does she require of you?”

  Did he turn pale, eyeing me? It seemed so. “That,” he said stiffly, “is between myself and Her Majesty. Sieur.” A half-bow, and he whisked himself forth as I cursed internally.

  He did not tie me to the cot after all, or set a guard. But he did not need to. My body finally rebelled at the demands placed upon it, and after seeking to haul myself upright and failing twice, I lay there and waited, listening to the screams of the wounded and Tieris di Siguerre’s labored breathing.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Confused motion. My fist came up, my hand caught and wrist deftly locked, and I opened my eyes to see Fridrich van Harkke grinning like a madman. He was unshaven, his cloth sadly the worse for wear, and looked very pleased with himself. “Son of a potbellied sow,” he greeted me. “Thou sleeps as one dead.”

  “Can you blame me?” I muttered in Arquitaine, twisting my wrist free of his grasp. “What is it?” My head was clear, at least, and I felt… not exactly strong, but wonderfully rested.

  “The fralein calls, my friend.” His grin broadened a trifle. “I trust this is welcome news.”

  I had fallen asleep covered in filth, and now I felt it as the Pruzian helped lever me up. This time my legs held me. “I do not suppose there is time for a bath.”

  “If you like.” This time he spoke in Arquitaine, though he could not handle the vowels as gently as they require. “She will not be leaving us behind again.”

  I glanced at Tieris’s bed, but twas rumpled and empty. “How does the rest of the Guard fare?”

  “Attending to the city’s defense.” He shrugged. “Tis only a matter of time.” The fey smile widened. “Then we shall see what it is to die like men.”

  I have no intention of dying, sieur. “Very well.” I am certain my expression spoke more loudly than my courtesy.

  His laugh, for all his grinning, was mirthless, and we sallied forth into dimness reeking of blood, sickness, and wool. The infirmary was abuzz—hedgewitches working grimly, the quiet eerie. They had the set gaunt look of those who understood that there would soon be more wounded to attend to, and the faraway, closed gazes of those who must shut away their compassion if they are to provide aid effectively.

  I gripped van Harkke’s arm. “No bath, sieur. But I do need the privy. Then take me to her.”

  * * *

  The small round room was full to overcrowding, tapestries doing little to soften the harsh stone walls. Messengers came and went, a table littered with dispatches and other paper, and Adersahl di Parmecy seeking to retain some sort of order among the press of those seeking entrance or audience.

  “The west wall. Take this to the archers; they will see to it,” Jierre was saying as he strode from the door toward the crowd at the back of the room. A stolid, soot-covered Messenger next to him wrung his hands, seemingly unaware he was doing so, but he took the message with a half-bow and spun, shoving for the door.

  The
din was overwhelming, candleflames in sconces along the wall adding to the oppressive heat. The Keep slouched above; this small audience chamber was reached easily by means of the large, drafty greathall, full of other supplicants and men awaiting orders.

  Twas chaos, and my chest gave a flare of twisting scorch-pain. The scar on my face twitched as well.

  She stood behind the table, listening and nodding as another hedgewitch spoke rapidly, shaking her finger for emphasis. It appeared the woman was taking my Queen to task, and Vianne…

  She looked even frailer, her plain gray dress lacking any ornamentation, the Aryx humming against her chest. But it was not the smudges under her eyes or the hollowing of her cheeks that sent such a hideous shock through me.

  Her gaze had ever been soft, before, even in the midst of her anger. Even when she took the tone of chill brittle royalty, a man could see the weeping in her. If he knew how to look.

  The softness was gone.

  The Hedgewitch Queen’s gaze burned. Her eyes were just as dark as ever, but they pierced swiftly and seared all they lighted on. Something had changed, and the woman inside her slender frame was no longer merely Vianne. Something inside her had unfurled, something bright and honed as the rapier at my side.

  Was this what I had fallen in love with, so many years ago? Or was this a new woman? It did not matter. Every nerve in me sang like a harp at a skilled minstrel’s touch at the mere sight of her.

  She leaned forward, touched the angry hedgewitch’s elbow. A few words, and the woman, her head wrapped in a scarlet kerchief, appeared satisfied. She nodded, her shoulders easing. Vianne bent to a stack of fresh paper, dipped a quill, and wrote a few swift words. The Aryx sparked, the serpents writhing about each other lazily, and Vianne folded the paper, gave it to the woman, and beckoned the next supplicant forward.

  The Pruzian pressed through the throng. Twas hot as the Torkaic underworld here, and there were short tempers in every corner. A messenger burst in.

  “More fire in the Quartier Sothian!” he yelled, and Adersahl collared him neatly, beckoned to a waiting soldier, and sent them both out the door to collect aid from the throng outside.

  Vianne’s glance passed over me, with no sign of recognition. No, she looked past me, to see the result of the commotion at the door. The next man, his arm in a sling, began shouting over the din—something about the workers given over to making crossbow quarrels and their materials.

  Jierre stepped around the table to Vianne’s side. He listened, gave a crisp order, Vianne nodded, and the man turned on his bootheel and began forcing his way out with alacrity.

  I saw di Yspres lean toward Vianne, whose dark head bent. Her braids were disarranged, curls springing free, and no ear-drops swung glittering to tap at her cheeks. She tucked a strand of her hair back, listening, and made a quiet remark to him. There was no heat between them, no indication that he had taken on any role but that of adviser.

  Fridrich shoved past a knot of merchants in soot-stained doublets. “Ach, prettybit, look what I bring you!” he announced, his gravelly rasp cutting the din. “What more do you need?”

  Vianne looked up. Her face did not change. She merely nodded absently. “My thanks, Fridrich. Tell me, have you supped?”

  He shook his head, his clubbed braid swinging. “Had enough. Where am I needed?”

  “Luc di Chatillon is above the gates; he may need relief. If he does not, bring me word of how he fares and how long he thinks we may hold.” A slight smile, she offered her hand; I saw ink had splattered her sleeve and a fine crystal dewing of sweat on her wrist. “I do not know how I should fare without you.”

  “Flattery, fralein. I serve.” He bent over her hand, nodded to Jierre, cast me a single still-amused glance, and was gone.

  Her hand fell, and she regarded me. “Sieur.”

  The world threatened to fall away and leave merely us, my Queen and me. I met her gaze and found that the relief of knowing she possessed my secret, that I had precious little to hide from her, was as sharp as it had been before.

  Whoever this woman was, whatever had lit inside her like a maying fire, she was still Vianne. The idiot stubbornness in me knew only one thing: she was still mine.

  I bowed—a trifle stiffly, to be sure. My chest twinged, the Aryx sparked again, and she winced slightly. The Seal’s power stroked along my body, and I wondered that every Arquitaine in the room did not shiver in response. “At your service, d’mselle. Command me.”

  “I require merely your presence. Captain, fetch him a chair—yes, my thanks.”

  I had twitched at the Captain, but twas Jierre who dragged a chair from the end of the table and settled it beside her.

  “There.” Vianne pointed.

  “It is not meet that you should stand while I take my ease. Your Majesty.”

  “Tristan.” Irritation, sharp as a rapier point. “I do not have time to argue with you.”

  I navigated past Jierre, my back to the stone wall, and lowered myself gingerly onto the uncomfortable horsehair cushion. It fair killed me, but I kept my mouth firmly closed. She nodded briskly, and I set myself to listening.

  Merún was holding, but only just. Some supplies were reaching the city, for the Airenne’s cousin-river, the Marrenne, flowed past and the wharves were out of siege-engine range. The Damarsene had enough troops to choke the Marrenne to the east, and the river was low as usual before winter storms swelled it. All supplies had to come laboriously against the current from the Citté, which had its own troubles, between the panic of the Damarsene and the added panic of the false King’s disappearance. Word of the trial-by-combat and the breaking of the false Aryx had spread swiftly, helped no doubt by messengers dispatched by my Queen, but that would not stop the ferment while she was trapped in Merún.

  “We must only hold a short while. Have faith.” She said it many times, in many ways, and those who sought her command or decision welcomed the certainty. They went on their way heartened. Twas impossible not to believe, when she turned that burning gaze upon you.

  Yet I did not hear what relief she expected. Was she merely heartening them to stave off the inevitable?

  Then we shall see what it is to die like men. How very Pruzian of him. Would he dare say such a thing to her?

  The Harbormaster, broad-shouldered and weathered, stinking of tar, appeared. Not quite peasant, but definitely not noble, his unease in the face of her quality was marked. Vianne actually smiled—a tight, thin grimace, but still lovely. “What news?”

  “Two days. Then, Your Majesty, you must consider—”

  “What of the wounded? Can more ships be brought upriver from the Citté? I do not know much of the Marrenne and the ways of ships, nor do my counselors.”

  I know some little, but I have not been here to ask. I kept the words behind my teeth. I did not know enough to be helpful, though I suspected the Citté would not send ships upriver. Twas too much of a risk, and why should they if they might need them soon to flee down the Airenne, away from Damar’s advance? The Maelstrom itself might be preferable to the pillage the Damarsene would wreak.

  The Harbormaster spread his hands, a gesture of helplessness. Unshaven and red-eyed, the deep weathering of his skin and his squint marking him as a riverman of long standing, he looked surpassingly ill-at-ease. His city was sieged and his ships in danger; twas enough to make any man blanch.

  “The Marrenne is low. Which is good to bring the ships back—less current. But bad, because they must hold to the bank opposite. Not much room to maneuver, and upriver… well. The Damar could send rafts down, I suppose. So we’ve a watch, but…”

  “Yes.” She considered this. Jierre handed her a paper, she glanced at it. “Here is a list of hedgewitches among the wounded. Two on each ship, for greater safety. Damar does not like our hedgewitchery; they are the best protection we can offer. The Citté will do what seems fit to them as far as more ships, no doubt. Your captains are brave, sieur, and you set them a fine example.” She paused.
“Continue evacuating the children and elderly. Make certain the younglings have their mothers, should they be too young. Should there be… difficulty, with men who doubt our strength, notify Chivalieri di Sarciere and di Montfort immediately.”

  In other words, should there be a panic and men seek to storm the ships, Antolan and Jai are to restore order. Di Sarciere is too young to do such things, but he may hold if di Montfort does. And di Montfort is not a man who forgives cowardice easily. Very canny of you, my Queen.

  The man nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty. Please listen. Consider a ship for yourself. The Citté is better guarded; we may have you safe in less than—”

  He halted in confusion, for her face changed. Twas not the almost-pained expression she had been using for a smile, but an honest smile like sunrise. It shone through the weariness and dishevelment on her. “Here is where I am needed, sieur Kaeth.”

  The man mumbled, his fingers working at the brim of his hat—lacking a chivalier’s feather, an imitation of a nobleman’s like so many of the trading classes—and his weathered cheeks suddenly stained with red. “Arquitaine will need you at the Citté, Your Majesty. If I may be so bold.”

  You may not, sieur. But I happen to agree with you. “He has a point,” I offered mildly.

  Jierre shot me a glance I found I could read with little difficulty. Twas profoundly grateful, and without meaning to, I found my mouth stretching in the half-smile that would mean rueful acceptance of the responsibility of an unpleasant truth spoken to royalty.

  I had never asked what di Yspres thought of Henri. Perhaps I should have.

  “He does,” Jierre agreed.

  “Here is where I am needed, sieurs.” Her smile did not falter. “Thank you, sieur Harbormaster. Go now, and waste no time.”