The Bandit King

* * *

They questioned me. Not ruthlessly, and I could sense my father’s hand as if behind a screen.

Of course. She is not as tractable as they thought. I am a way to keep hold on her, and most of them are his friends of old. They attend the provincial Assizes together. I forced myself to concentrate, spinning my story. To Vianne I would admit my guilt. Not to these men.

Of them all, it was di Rivieri and d’Anton who gave me the most trouble. Over and over they asked small questions, manifestly not believing my answers. In their insistence I saw Vianne’s influence—she had laid her ground well, perhaps hoping their calm thoughtfulness would sway the others. But di Markui still fumed over her taking him to task, di Siguerre thought it a load of nonsense and foppery intrigue, di Falterne simply listened, and di Dienjuste took up my cause with almost courtsong fervor. I had often noticed di Dienjuste seemed half in love with Vianne himself, and he seemed to consider me a proxy for his own suit. It was odd that he would defend me so strongly… so odd I wished I had the opportunity to sit and quietly think until I could wily-farrat out why.

But I needed all my wit to face them, and to keep my lies in proper order.

My father, after noting that he could not very well be expected to judge his son dispassionately, leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, his gaze an uncomfortable weight. I had thought I had outgrown such discomfort.

I was wrong.

“And you bear her no ill will for clapping you in chains?” di Rivieri persisted. “For if a woman had done so to me—”

“She is not merely a woman.” Immediate disagreement leapt from me. She is Vianne, she is mine, and you shall watch your words. “She is the Queen. She could not take the chance of leaving such an allegation unexamined. And I did lie—to ease her mind, I told her of poison, not of a bloody murder. She did not know what to trust.” And I am pinning the blame for the King’s murder on di Narborre’s men. Some of who are most likely dead now. Others are no doubt reserved to speak against me, if d’Orlaans ever finds the chance. We shall see what can be done about that later, though. Much later, when all is settled. “I have oft chided her for having a soft heart.” I looked down at my clasped hands. Modesty was called for now, the right note of male chagrin. “I did not expect her to listen so closely to my advice.”

A ripple of unwilling amusement went through them.

“By Danshar!” di Markui snapped. “Why do we waste more time on this? He was Captain of the Guard. Henri trusted him enough to set him to barking at his brother’s heels. D’Orlaans—we know him of old, do we not? We have had his boot on our necks, whether his brother was alive or not, for a very long while. And if d’Arcenne’s son wished to harm the Queen, he would have during their escape. He could have snapped her neck and left her in the Shirlstrienne.”

I tensed. So did Dienjuste, and my father wore a very slight smile.

“Besides, the woman is mad,” he grumbled. “Aryx or not, she is mad.”

I took two steps forward, my face burning afresh. “I will pretend,” I said softly, “that I did not hear that. Examine me all you like, sieur, but if you speak against the Queen I will call you to account.”

“See?” Di Markui beamed, his salt-and-pepper mane glowing in the afternoon sunlight through the rippling windows. I heard hooves in the bailey below, decided it must be a dispatch, and kept myself tense, staring at him. “He will not hear a word against her. Arcenne is always loyal to the Aryx, my friends. This is all a load of nonsense, and the sooner we finish it the sooner we can return to guiding the Aryx—ah, the Queen—through the current unpleasantness.” He settled back in his creaking chair, and the longing to strangle him even though he was useful rose under my skin.

Calm yourself, Tristan. This is going well.

“Very well.” Di Dienjuste stood. “I pronounce the man innocent.”

Markui lumbered to his feet. “Innocent.”

Di Rivieri was silent. So was d’Anton.

“Innocent,” Siguerre rumbled as he rose. “Gods above. Let us be done with it.”

D’Anton glanced at my father. “Perseval?”

“He is my son.” My father’s jaw set, a muscle ticking in his cheek.

The chivalier considered this, then slowly stood. “Innocent.”

Di Falterne and di Rivieri remained seated. Finally, both stood, but they did not speak. They were unwilling to pronounce me guilty, they would countenance the others calling me innocent, but they would not add their voices to the chorus.

My father pushed his chair back. “Are we agreed, then?”

“We may as well be.” Di Rivieri folded his arms, a lean, dark man with a peasant’s breadth of shoulder.

“Very well. Halis?”

Di Siguerre coughed. “Tristan d’Arcenne, you are ajudged innocent by peers. Be on your way.”

Not one of you is my peer, sieurs, but at least this gives me room to maneuver. Which is a boon in any battle. “My thanks, sieurs et chivalieri.”

The feeling of liberation lasted only until I opened the door and found the hall deserted. I set off to find Vianne and begin, in whatever way I could, to repair the damage, but she was not to be found.

For while I had been examined so thoroughly, the Queen of Arquitaine had ridden forth from Arcenne’s still- smoking Gate with her Guard and a Pruzian Knife. Her instructions, handed to my father on a sheaf of parchment bearing the impress of the Great Seal, were explicit. We were to stay at Arcenne until she gave us leave to move, under pain of her displeasure.

We sent out riders to comb the province, but she had evaporated into Arquitaine.

Well-played, my love. Well-played indeed.

Part II

Chapter Eighteen

My mother poured chai, her dark hair glowing. She smiled pensively, her primrose silk rustling as she leaned forward. “A little less like a caged beast, and a little more like a chivalier, m’fils.” A breeze from the garden filtered through the open windows, and the harp in the corner mocked me with its gleaming. Vianne had once touched its golden curve, running her fingers along the pegs lightly, during a laughing conversation about the perils of fashion.

I swallowed my pride and my temper, tried again. “She is in danger,” I repeated, through gritted teeth. “Where has she gone? She would not leave without some word to you. Why will you not tell me?”

“She left with some very fine Court sorcerers and handy blades. It is no less dangerous for her than it was here, between assassins and armies and what-have-you. She has her reasons.”

“Which would be?”

“My dear, I am not privy to the Queen of Arquitaine’s—”

I swore. Vilely.

My decorous dam set the silver chai-pot down and glared at me. The basket of bandages she had been sewing stood carefully aside, and the entire room made me nervous. It was so… soft.

“Tristan.” As if I were a boy again. She had not mentioned the wound to my face, but then again, twould be impolite. Especially if she gathered the provenance of the cut.

“Your pardon, Mere.” Grudgingly. “I must know. It is dangerous for her without me. Who will she look to for aid?”