The Bandit King

across the hall. I dismissed him with a gesture, and such was his instinctive obedience that he froze long enough for me to disappear up a staircase and into the Keep’s depths.

* * *

The familiar hall was empty, but I did not show myself. Instead, I waited, breathing lightly and silently, tucked into a shallow alcove behind a tapestry. The passage leading here was thick with dust, tickling my nose as I waited, my gaze sliding from near to far, alert to any slight movement.

It still took longer than I liked.

When I was certain I knew, I stepped lightly back and followed the hidden passage for a long fifteen steps, then slid out from behind another tapestry and a wooden stand holding slowly-rusting pikes from the di Roncail’s time. Quietly, softly, I paced to the corner and peered down the hall once more.

There it was again, that same flicker of motion. I strolled around the corner as if I had not a care in the world, my hands aching for my rapier-hilt. But no—for this, twas knifework, and I could not draw yet.

I did not wish to be caught approaching her door blade-in-hand. Appearances lied, yes—and she did not need another reason to mistrust me.

I was almost past his hiding place when the Knife exploded into motion, a flash I almost did not catch. Even though I was prepared, the bastard was quick.

I was down in a heartbeat, shoulder driven into his midriff and both of us flung on the stone floor with bruising force. He made no sound, the same black-bladed knife not lifted but held low and trapped between us, for I had taken the precaution of carrying a filched doublet over my arm. A knife is only as effective as the reach of its wielder. And cloth, any cloth, as a baffle is preferable to stopping a blade with one’s flesh.

He heaved, boots scrabbling, seeking to free his arm, but I had him pinned. Taller and broader, my weight was an advantage, and he had no companions to help—the rest of his trio had been slain the night of their attack on the Keep.

“Cease!” I hissed in my heavily-accented Pruzian. For a moment I regretted not telling Vianne I was familiar with the tongues of Arquitaine’s enemies; it could have been useful to hear what she would have had me translate into his native speech. “I mean her no harm. Do not force me to kill you.”

I wrenched the knife free of his fingers, but I did not relax. No assassin worth the name carries only one weapon. The prick of the blade near his belly, where I only had to turn my wrist to drive it home and gut-cut him, calmed the situation somewhat.

He went limp, breath coming in harsh gasps. Both of us sweated, a rankness of fear and violence filling the hall.

“I understand your tongue,” I told him in Arquitaine. “And you understand mine.”

A nod, his clubbed hair moving against dusty stone. The glaring damage to his face, though charmed and healing, was unpretty in the extreme. Though he would never win prizes even at the best of times. Pruzians are an unlovely race, ill-favored, even though the ruddy-blond Damar—who they claim kinship and share some language with—are sometimes passing fair.

“Now.” I thought it likely I had his attention. “What are we to do with each other, Pruzian? I do not like how close you are to my d’mselle.”

“I am to protect her,” he hissed in grinding Pruzian. “From you.”

Hardly unexpected, but it still scored me. No trace showed; at least, I hoped it did not. “She needs no protection from me, friend.” Heavy sarcasm on the last word. “In fact, she is safer with me than without. I do not trust a Knife whose aufsbar is still alive.”

“He is not my client now, dogfaced minstrel.” The insult sounds truly hideous in Pruzian. “My client is behind that door.”

“You are a whoreson, and a liar, friend.” Insults in Arquitaine have their own rhythm. “Your client is here with a knife to your belly. Three times I could have killed you now, and I’ve refrained. You work for me.”

He thought this over. “You cannot pay me eno—”

My wrist tensed. The knifepoint slid through a layer of fabric, and he went very still. Cold sweat lay against his cheeks and brow; I found myself hoping nobody would appear at the far end of the hall. “I do not need to pay you.” I changed to Pruzian. “For the black bird rises…”

“And the dead tree blooms,” he answered automatically, then realized what a weapon he had handed me. “No. No—”

I took that passphrase from a man much harder to trap than you will ever be. “Oh, yes. I am much more than I appear, Knife. I am your brother now, and if you deal fairly with me, I may let you live.” And he was brave even as the blade was in his belly. My skin crawled at the memory. I had not dealt fairly with the last Knife I had held at bladepoint. But it had been necessary.

Just as this was.

“You are none of ours.” He did not sound happy.

“You are bound to brotherhood now that you have answered, Knife. Now, will you be reasonable, or do we learn the look of your guts?”

I have seen defeat in faces of every shape and station, and his was no different than any other’s. “You are my master, mil’Hier. What shall I do?”

I eased aside, gained my feet. Extended my free hand carefully, the knife ready. “Wait, and watch. Keep m’d’mselle safe when I am called away. And be ready.”

“For what?” He lunged upright, using my hand, and did not seek to pull me off- balance. Well enough. We would see if the passphrase I had tortured out of another Pruzian Knife held good.

I had gained the knowledge—the phrase, and how to use it—during Henri’s long-ago royal visit to the border province of Mietsiere, to negotiate an extended trade agreement. The Pruzians had brought not only their diplomats but a few trios of Knives as well, but after the first trio vanished and the third’s lone limping survivor expired broken and bleeding on the steps of the temporary residence of the Damarsene ambassador, negotiations became much less… complex.

“You shall see.” Enigmatic enough, I decided. “When is your duty at her door done?”

“Four hours.” Grudging, the man examined me.

“And who comes to relieve you?” I could still feel the pleasure of ordering him shoved into an oublietta. Vianne had rescued him, and I found myself almost grateful to her soft heart. Had it been one of the Guard at her door, I might have had a harder time of it. He was, after all, only a Pruzian. No match for a nobleman, and his blood would carry precious little guilt.

He shrugged, spreading his hands.

“Very well. Is the door locked?”

Another shrug.

I gave a soft token rap, tried the knob carefully. It was not locked. The Knife stiffened, and I could see the hole in his doublet. I had been very close to eviscerating him.

“Easy, mil’Brodenr,” I told him. “She is in no danger.” Unless it is from you.

I twisted the knob, and stepped through.

Chapter Fifteen

The cup on the night-table held the remains of a thick, sticky-red hedgewitch brew. A bitter tinge to its odor warned me, and when I touched the residue with a cautious fingertip, numbness slid up my finger. I hurriedly wiped my hand clean on my breeches.

Bell’s-ease, bleeding mallow, and ghostberry. A powerful draught, one capable of drugging even a sedative- resistant hedgewitch into insensibility. A dangerous mix, as well—too much ghostberry and the heart pounds itself to pieces, too much bell’s-ease and the languor ceases the circulation instead of merely inducing restorative sleep.