The Bandit King

only defense the Pruzian Knife. Perhaps he was trustworthy after all—or perhaps he saw someone else seeking to collect his eventual reward, and so interrupted the event.

“No.” My mother shook her head. “Afterward, there was the battle. She was at the walls, struggling with the Aryx.”

And now she is in the wilderness, with only a few men to protect her, and the Aryx unreliable. I forced myself to sip at my chai. It might as well have been mud, for all I tasted. Think. What concerns me most, now?

The most pressing problem was, of course, finding her. She did not wish to be found, and I was better placed to find the direction she had taken flight while here in Arcenne rather than haring about the countryside. And here, I could perhaps bait a trap for whatever treachery lurked on her Council. It would fill the time, no matter how I longed to saddle my horse, take up my sword, and go a-questing like a chivalier in the aftermath of the Blood Years.

Another thought struck me, almost violently.

She had used the Seal during our flight from the Citte, but I had not been her Consort then. A Consort, once taken, was necessary for the Aryx? Well, that was a problem easily solved, was it not?

There was no shortage of Temples within a few days’ riding. Our marriage vows were the old ones, archaic and bloodthirsty in their phrasing, from the Angouleme’s time. She could repudiate me in a Temple, but I could not divorce myself of her. I had wished it thus, so she could trust me.

You cannot be trusted, Tristan. You know as much.

And once she was at a Temple, another Consort would be easy to contract as well.

Who would she choose? And would the Blessed grant their blessing to another man, one more fit than a filthy traitor who had proven himself a beast?

Perhaps Jierre? He respected her wit and bravery. Adersahl? An older man, but steady and resourceful. Tinan di Rocham? He outright worshipped her. Jai di Montfort? He was whip-thin and handsome, and had an easy smile. Or Jespre di Vidancourt, or perhaps di Chatillon? She could have her pick. They were half in love with her already.

Who would not be?

I rocked to my feet. The chai-cup fell, splashing its contents onto a thick blue-patterned rug. My face burned, and the wound upon it twitched. My mother let out a small hurt sound, but I strode from the room.

If I stayed there longer, I would smash something.

Chapter Nineteen

The weeks that followed were stark with rage and fear. There was no word of her. The searchers failed to find any trace. Now I knew some little of what d’Orlaans must have felt when he found her missing. Except she was merely a foundation-stone for his plans, while to me, she was simply, merely, everything.

A small distinction, perhaps.

There was work to be done. The proclamations to raise an army had gone forth, and the effects began to be felt. Arcenne swelled near to bursting in the month that followed. To my father fell the task of turning the disgruntled peasants, fire-tempered noblemen, and mercenary adventure-seekers, not to mention the criminals and opportunists, into an army. The rest of the Council sought to keep themselves from boredom, and the swelling crowd soon gave them plenty of opportunity.

The only peace I found was during drill. I had been a Captain; I could have trained men to warfare in my sleep.

It takes time to make a man into a reasonable soldier, especially a peasant—time, attention, and a measure of careful brutality. You must break and rebuild a man before he will obey during the chaos of a battle, and you must train him if you expect him to wield his weapon with anything approaching minimum facility. The end of summer ripened into harvest-season, and every commander’s eye was turned nervously to the mountains. The clouds held on their peaks dropped a little farther each day. The storms of winter’s approach would mean feeding the men and their followers until spring, and even with trade through Navarre that was a daunting proposition.

No word from our Queen. Precious little news from the rest of Arquitaine. My father’s nerves stretched almost to the breaking point, and my mother grew restless and worried, organizing the stockpiling of stores in case we were attacked again—and to prepare for winter’s white siege.

I? I prowled the halls of the Keep, unable to sleep, and loosed my temper on those noblemen unfortunate enough to come seeking adventure and finding themselves under my heel as a cadre eventually meant for the protection of the Queen of Arquitaine.

Yes, I was training a new Guard. They did not measure to the task.

Then again, I had failed ignobly, too. If I pushed them ruthlessly, I pushed myself harder.

So it was after a long drill session, wet with sweat and with my fury a dim ember, that I dismissed them one long late-summer evening. The nights were growing chill, and the first etching of frost had appeared in the early mornings. It was already late, and the provinces that had declared for Vianne were busy bringing in the crops. The flood of recruits had slowed, but it would become a torrent once harvest was done.

Or so my father hoped.

I was in the dusty, stone-floored drillyard, giving one of the horse troughs a longing look, when a flicker of motion caught my attention. I flattened myself in a convenient shadow, saltwater growing chill on my skin. I wore darker cloth than a nobleman’s linen, and my doublet was merely functional—what use in destroying something fine, when all I did was sweat and curse? Every inch of fineness had left me.

He caught my attention with a furtive movement, hugging the wall on the other side of the yard’s stone- floored expanse. I went still, instinct nailing me in place.

The idiot was not paying heed, and had perhaps not even seen me in the gathering dusk. Instead, he hurried, casting a quick glance over his shoulder at the door the new Guard had disappeared through. I was normally at their heels, chivvying them along, but had turned that duty over to the quickest-witted among them— Siguerre’s grandson Tieris, a muscle-shouldered oaf who might, with years of practice, eventually be able to swing a rapier without hurting himself. I did not know quite why I had lingered in the yard, unless I had caught a breath of wrongness without being consciously attuned to it.

Once a man has trained himself to look for the wrong note in a courtsong, he can hear little else. And a Left Hand is always on the alert for that single wrong note.

So I stayed, and watched, my hand loose at my dagger’s hilt. The scar on my face twitched, an odd feeling indeed.

Interesting.

Divris di Tatancourt, former King’s Messenger, skirted the edge of the drillyard with long strides. He was cloaked, and as he melded with the long shadows on the opposite end he pulled his hood up. Swathed in anonymous fabric, he was almost out of sight by the time I decided to drift after him.

One cannot follow a man too closely, especially if he is nervous. Sometimes nerves can make him blind to pursuit, but the chance of it heightening his senses and his caution is too large. Besides, I knew the city far better than he did.

Shadows gathered deeper as he hurried down twisting cobbled lanes, his cloak disappearing into failing light. My pulse beat thinly in my throat. I followed, every nerve suddenly strained and awake as it had not been for a long while.

The last time I had felt this alive, Vianne had been in my arms.

I winced internally at the thought, chose a small street that would cut farther to the west. He was bound for the Quartier Gieron, the siege-burned district that had been abandoned before refugees and soldiers swarmed into Arcenne. I did not know what I expected—this was a long way to walk for a man intent on whoring, which left skullduggery or intrigue as his possible reasons. Or, who knew? But I was curious, and so I followed.

And when he reached his goal, I was rewarded.

Laughter and cries, and crackling fires. I halted, amid the reek of their odd spices and meat stews, their odor