The Bandit King

Irion di Markui, his seamed face grave, scooped up the dispatch bag with the speed of a man half his age. He had beaten my father to the table by at least a swordlength. He noted the slit in the tough leather strap with a raised eyebrow, opened it with gnarled fingers, and pulled forth a handful of papers.

Of course I had kept some few of them in reserve. Of the ones I left, their seals—each bearing the imprint of the Aryx—were broken. I had not time or patience for delicate measures.

“These just arrived?” My father leaned over di Markui’s shoulder. I saw the gray in his hair had gathered strength, and the lines on his face had whittled themselves deeper.

For the first time in my memory, my father looked old.

“After a fashion.” Do not ask me such things now. “The Damarsene have officially invaded. Sieging us was merely a feint—no wonder they only sent some thousands from border provinces to aid d’Orlaans. They have taken the Dispuriee, all the way to Diljonne and Reimelles. The Citte is preparing for siege. D’Orlaans is holding them, but not for long. He wishes the Aryx, and m’d’mselle the Queen wishes Arquitaine freed of invaders.”

“Her will alone should have held the borders for a time,” Markui muttered. “The Aryx—”

Perhaps she has not taken another Consort. It matters little. I have not hopped from foot to foot with impatience since I was eleven years old, but I was near to it now. “There is no time to waste. Every man we have gathered must march to Arquitaine’s defense.” And it will strengthen her hand immeasurably to have an army of her own.

My father glanced at di Markui. A long, considering look, two old campaigners hearing the trumpet again, speaking without words.

If Jierre had been here, and not likely to run me through, I could have had the small sour comfort of the same wordless communication. Or if Vianne had not hied herself forth to do Blessed only knew what.

Impatience rose hot and deadly under my breastbone. “Have you not heard me? The Damarsene are serious this time. No more tribute, no more being fobbed off by alliance or promises of marriage between Houses. They seek to swallow us whole, for Arquitaine’s strength is occupied with civil war. Whether d’Orlaans seeks to kill us or they do, we will be just as dead. We can fight him, or we can fight the Damarsene—we cannot fight both, and we cannot afford to let them ravage each other on Arquitaine soil. Not while the Queen is bound for d’Orlaans. She has decided; we are to execute.”

My father sighed. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, his shoulders sagging for a brief moment. “Yes. Blessed guard us. What times to live in.”

“Sieurs.” Di Dienjuste, flushed with excitement, approached the table. “There is much to be done. We should perhaps summon the others? I think di Falterne and di Rivieri went a-taverning…”

“A-whoring, you mean,” di Markui rumbled. “Siguerre’s asleep. D’Anton is probably dicing with the Guards.”

“Wake them, fetch them, drag them from a doxy’s bed if you must.” My father’s shoulders snapped back into their usual rigidity. “Di Dienjuste, fetch the commanders. Tristan, come make some sense of this with me. Irion, old friend, do you wake Siguerre—”

“One last ride for tired horses.” Irion di Markui’s dark eyes flashed. For a bare few moments he seemed younger than all of us. “Blessed guide us.”

My heart hammered. I sought to calm myself. Vianne, stepping into d’Orlaans’s clutches with only a bare half-dozen of her Guard to protect her. Too soft to do what must be done, faced with utter ruthlessness, playing for her life but hobbled by her very decency. The false King would eat her alive, or the Damarsene would kill her to put an end to the threat she posed them.

Not if I reach her in time. The urge to be gone, riding a horse to ribbons, boiled in me.

Di Dienjuste skidded from the room, di Markui hard on his heels. The fire crackled and snapped, and a slight breeze came in through the open window, ruffling the papers on the table.

“Gather your Guard,” my father said, gathering the papers and beginning to organize them, glancing briefly at each one. “I will arrange matters here. You ride for the Field d’Or, and for the sake of the Blessed, ride hard. Tell none in Arcenne where you are bound.”

The words opened a Tiberian mirror-box inside my head, light flashing through its interior and illuminating several things at once.

Had I misjudged him? Did he know of the treason breathing among his friends? “Pere.” Perhaps I sounded strange, for he paused, examining me. “There is treachery even here in Arcenne. I have been told—”

He waved one sword-callused hand, and the spots of age on the back of it were suddenly apparent. “Did you think I did not know? Patience is often the better bait to root out such things, but we no longer have time. I have my own methods, and shall use them.” A single lift of his graying eyebrow. “I shall give your farewell to your mother. Go now, and go with my blessing.”

My jaw fair threatened to drop. Even when I had gone to Court, he had never unbent so much as to grant me a blessing.

He must have seen my surprise, for he laughed. It was a small, bitter sound. “I have not dealt well with you, Tristan. It does not matter. Attend the Queen, and do take care. I like not the thought of your mother’s grief, should you… should anything happen. To my… my son.”

Should I have stayed? Sometimes I think so. Yet at that moment I was simply glad to be set free, and to have a direction, a road that would lead me to my Vianne. I saluted him, one Captain to another, and was in the hall before I realized I was running.

* * *

The large grays the Guard rides are precious. Their fields are near Tiberius’s palace at Vienciai, south and west of the Citte and under d’Orlaans’s control. So Arran was the only one of their proud number to ride out; the nascent Guard rode their own beasts. Most were of high quality, since a nobleman should know to take care with his horseflesh. But they were motley, and we had no uniforms. I would be hard-pressed to remember a sorrier- looking group of noble younglings, sober with the import of their mission and frightened to death of failure or dishonor.

Sieurs et chivalieri, we ride to the aid of the Queen of Arquitaine, I had informed them in the barracks, a few of them retrieved bleary-eyed from the fleshpots of the Quartier Salieu.

If you have any doubt of your desire to be of Her Majesty’s Guard, now is the time to express it. Any man may stay behind—there is no shame in deciding, now, that you would rather not hurry toward death. From the moment we ride forth, you are expected to comport yourself as a nobleman and a Queen’s Guard, and any man who does not will feel my wrath.

I was slightly gratified to see no few of them blanch openly at the prospect.

We left Arcenne three hours after I stole Divris di Tatancourt’s dispatch bag; I had no lee to worry of the Messenger and his fate. No doubt he would return to the Keep bearing interesting bruises.

The dark was still summer-soft, but with an edge of chill; the Road was cracked and broken from the siege. For the first hour it was a steady jogtrot, the horses warming themselves. Then I murmured to the lieutenants I had chosen—Tieris di Siguerre, the Conte’s grandson, and Antolan di Sarciere et Vantroche—and the ride began in earnest.

There are songs written about the Ride of the New Guard. None of them come close. I will say this for those younger sons of the Angouleme: Once they passed the gates of Arcenne, they rode uncomplaining, at a pace that punished mere flesh and bone, and they deserve every burst of melodic effort a minstrel can scrape together.

Two Arcenne hedgewitches rode with us, both broad peasant men unused to the saddle. To them fell the task of charming injuries and stretching the endurance of both man and beast. They started the ride with wide shoulders and bellies straining at their shirts; they ended it gaunt as the sleepless noblemen, their belts taken in notch by notch as we passed over Road and countryside as a burning dream through the mind of a fevered woman.

We did not gallop, though the temptation to do so beat in my chest like a Sea Countries clock-tower. Jogtrot and canter, cooling and resting the horses just enough, husbanding our strength as much as we dared. Fifty men and two hedgewitches—a pittance of a Guard. Henri’s had been three hundred strong, and I their leader. Now a