The Bandit King

of smithery and dry oil. Woodsmoke, horses, the scent of tinkerfolk.

R’mini.

They are dark, and fierce, and their hedgewitchery is not like ours. Furthermore, the R’mini do not settle in one place—they travel, in their brightly-painted wagons, oxen and horses pulling them step by slow step through the world. They are fine menders and blacksmiths, carriers of tales and sometimes disease, though the plague ravaging other parts of Arquitaine had not touched any province declaring for Vianne as Queen.

And you still do not believe in gods, Tristan?

They do not take to outsiders, the R’mini. But they had brought Vianne safely through the Alpeis forest and to Arcenne, and when she spoke of them her face softened. It was the only time I saw her… well, at peace.

Or, perhaps, happy.

Divris di Tatancourt was d’Arquitaine, a foreigner, and a nobleman to boot. But he was welcomed at the R’mini fire. Their women, shy and sloe-eyed, hung back, clicking their tongues. The men crowded him, and one heavyset older fellow with a red sash, a gold earring, and a dagger at his ample waist clapped di Tatancourt on the shoulder and offered him a tankard of something. Twas probably rhuma, their fiery liquor, and the Messenger took a draught with good grace. They engaged in close conversation while the rest of the company went about the evening business of dinner and tending to the camp and livestock.

Among them, I was… myself, Vianne whispered in my memory. We had been together in the dark, my hand on her hip and her breath soft at my shoulder. They did not care for the Aryx, or d’Orlaans, or anything else. I was simply V’na. And right glad of it I was, too.

I cast about for a better place to observe them from. Though the Gieron was filling as the army arrived, plenty of the buildings were unfit for habitation—so the unoccupied cottage I made my way into was a perfect vantage point. I watched through the slats nailed over a rotting, cavernous window, exhaling softly to remind myself to keep calm. It could mean nothing.

Of course it means something. Vianne traveled with the R’mini. And di Tatancourt owes her his life; else d’Orlaans’s killspell would have taken him to the afterworld in short order.

Considering that the killspell had been intended for me, there was a certain symmetry to events. I spared a grim smile at the thought.

Di Tatancourt was taken into a red and blue-painted wagon, the headman followed. The rest of the R’mini, chattering and laughing in their strange spiked language, were a whirl of color and firelight. They favor dark reds and bright blues, greens and splashes of charm-cleaned white, gold at neck and throat and ears, and the women sometimes sport thin golden rings at the nose. The gold flashed against dark skin and dark hair—their coloring has an undertone of red instead of the d’Arquitaine blue. An old word for them was noiruse, the Black-Red. For all that, they treat their children well. Any youngling is prized among them. There are stories of orphans taken into their wagons, but I do not know the truth of such.

I waited, and watched.

When di Tatancourt reappeared, he was pale and shaken. He stepped heavily down from the wagon, and the headman—for such, I had deduced, he absolutely was, the leader of their little company—leaned out, cupped his hand near his mouth, and continued speaking in a low, fierce tone.

The Messenger shook his head. He had a leather satchel. He was even paler, too, and almost staggered.

I do not know enough about what would frighten this man.

Vianne had spent hours closeted with him, questioning him of Court. Some of her questions I could see the logic behind; others, not so much. And after I had been dragged off a-donjon, no doubt she had spent much time with him as well, laying her plans.

My hands shook.

Calm yourself. Anger serves nothing.

I wanted to burst forth from my lair and catch him, beat every living shred of information out of his quivering body, and finish by sliding a knife between his ribs. My savagery did not shock me.

The fact that my self-control was so thin did. So I breathed, soft and slow. Would I turn into Chivalier di Kassath in the old courtsongs, so jealous of his d’mselle he slew a man for simply sighing as she passed?

The songs never said what the d’mselle thought of this, beyond one very pretty refrain—oh, my love, give me room to breathe.

I winced inwardly. Watched the headman of the R’mini land on solid earth, clapping di Tatancourt on the shoulder again. As he might brace up one of his compatriots who had suffered a misfortune. He said something else, and the Messenger made a wry face, hitching the leather dispatch bag higher on his other shoulder. He answered in Arquitaine, and I caught the words the Queen.

The headman laughed, kissed his fingertips, and Divris di Tatancourt swept him a bow. Then, his shoulders no less hunched and his step no less hurried and nervous, the Messenger left the circle of R’mini firelight, plunging back into the dark.

And I followed.

* * *

I chose the place with care—dark alley mouths, a ramshackle narrow street at the edge of the Gieron, very few avenues of escape. My doublet looped over my arm and my dagger ready, I waited for him—this was the best approach to the Keep if he wished to pass unremarked. Of course, he could be an idiot, and take another route.

I did not think him quite an idiot. Merely unpracticed. It takes a certain skill to move about a city at night without drawing attention. The trick is not to act with confidence, but with the correct amount of furtiveness for the street or alley in which you find yourself.

His step echoed against the brick paving. A crowd would have meant I had to kill him—I would have had to work close, slip the knife into a kidney, and take the bag while he fell. It was the tenebrous time just on the edge of full night, where dusk fills every corner with far more shadow than midnight. It is a golden time for secret meetings, assassinations, thievery, rifling a corpse’s pockets.

The doublet was intended as a baffle against knifeplay, but di Tatancourt, with a nobleman’s instinct, reached for his rapier instead of the far-more-practical dagger. So it was over his head with the doublet, the rapier singing as it was struck from his hand and hit brick paving, a ringing blow to maze his wits, and the dispatch bag’s strap cut. It was in my possession in a trice, and I kicked him twice while he was on the ground, simply to disorient him and keep him down. Snatching the doublet up, avoiding his thrashing, I was tempted to say summat but quelled the urge.

I stepped back, and it was only the long habit of watching one’s enemy even while he is aground and helpless that saved me. For I saw him lift the diabolical thing, and dove aside before it spoke with a demieri di sorce’s belching roar. The ball went wide, I vanished into the alley, and Divris di Tatancourt was left with his rapier, his Navarrin pistolerro, and his wounded pride.

Whatever was in the bag would tell me much. But however he explained his bruises would tell me even more.

Chapter Twenty

I burst into my father’s study, and Irion di Markui half-rose, his hand to his rapier-hilt. My father outright bolted to his feet, his hair ruffled, and di Dienjuste, by the window-casement, whirled and actually half-drew. A curious expression crossed his flushed features, but I was in too much a hurry to grant it much thought.

“War is upon us.” I tossed the dispatch bag onto a table choked with other paper. “The Damarsene have invaded; the next few dispatches will be full of their thundering. She is bound for the Field d’Or, to treat with d’Orlaans. We must move. Tonight. Now.”

“How did you—” di Dienjuste began, and for a moment his knees actually loosened. I did not blame him; the news was dire.