The Bandit King

“I do not care.” Why could he not grasp that essential fact? Behind him, the pikesmen eyed us with no little trepidation. “Where is she?”

“Abed, Captain, and we are loath to disturb her. Tis late. We’ll see to your comfort—such as it is. You’ve arrived just in time.” Adersahl was pale, and his smile, now that I looked more closely, was more stretched-thin than I liked. “Tomorrow she treats with d’Orlaans. It is well you’ve arrived.”

I swallowed a venomous curse, made a sign to my lieutenants, and we followed him into the encampment.

* * *

To wake in the middle of an unfriendly army camp after a ride such as that is to truly understand discomfort.

In the moment before I lunged upright, the camp-cot almost collapsing under me—they are not made for violent movement—I thought I heard a muffled cry, or the sound of a blade drawn from its sheath. Cold sweat greased me, and I found myself with every bone aching, in a rude tent that barely kept the chill of a late harvest- season morning outside its flapping door and thin walls.

I was alone.

The wind moaned. Clashing metal, woodsmoke, nothing amiss. The sound was any army’s rising-song, made up of cursing, the sizzle of cooking, horses stamping and speaking in their own fashion, and the regimented cries and clashes of drill. One two three, get your arms up, you maggots; polearms come forward; march in time; swing it like you mean it, one two three—death doesn’t wait for chai-time, you saufe-tets, move! Move! Move!

The tent was small, no carpet but bare-beaten ground, my saddle and saddlebags on a rickety frame, my swordbelt and the cot. I rubbed sleep from my eyes, yawned, and pulled the doorflap aside to behold the familiarity of an Arquitaine army going about its dawn-waking business. My neck was stiff as bridge stanchions, my back a solid bar of muscle-locked pain, my legs numb. The rest of me did not bear mentioning. Suffice to say no part of my body was happy with the abuse it had endured.

But I forgot it all.

There was another tent, indigo-dyed and beautifully draped, its lines taut and its breadth proclaiming importance. Silver fleurs-di-lisse etched over its deep midnight, and the sight whipped bile into the back of my throat. Royal, certainly—the fleurs were the emblem of the Angouleme—but it was also too small to be a commander’s tent. It was meant for a King’s Consort, and by the Blessed, d’Orlaans had gone too far in forcing my Queen to sleep in its embrace.

Who else could it be for?

One of the flaps was pulled aside, and a nobleman emerged. It was Jierre, and he swept a bow as he retreated. Some things can be told at a distance—and I could tell, just by watching, that di Yspres was amused, a sally leaving his lips as the feather of his hat swept near the ground.

So. Is it thus? Every part of me turned scalding-cold.

My lieutenant straightened, returning his hat to its wonted, jaunty angle, and let the flap fall in heavy folds of costly fabric. Inside would be braziers to take the morning chill away, and soft rugs.

“Captain!” Tinan di Rocham cried, and I almost flinched. For Jierre di Yspres’s head came up, and the di Rocham boy, obviously hailing him, darted out of a lane of beaten earth between faceless rows of other tents.

And Jierre is Captain now, is he. Well. My hands were fists.

I retreated into the shelter of my own thin cloth walls. Stared about me, unseeing, waves of hot and cold alternating through me as if I had taken the ague. Vianne had shaken thus, when she was fevered during the long ride from the Citte.

She needs you. Jierre is too dull an instrument for what she must accomplish.

So she needed me, yes.

But what if she preferred… somewhat else?

It was then, staring at my worn saddle and feeling the itch of road-dust all over me, that I understood who I had robbed, and of what.

And I could not even blame the Blessed. I had done it without their help.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Young Siguerre was sharp-shaven, bright-eyed, and fresh as a dandille flower. Of course, he was ten years my junior, and the subtraction of those years make it easy to shake off even a ride through the underworld.

“Here,” he said, holding up a crimson sash. The weathering of our journey had been kind to him, erasing his usual pallor and the shadow of a double chin he had possessed before we started. He was lean and keen as a courser now. “I do not know where di Parmecy found these, but find them he did. At least we shall all match about the waist.”

I flicked the razor, a tingle of Court sorcery cleaning the blade. I would be haggard, no doubt, never pretty even at the best of times. But at least I would be fresh-scraped, and that gives a man a certain confidence. “Well. And enough for all?”

“Except the hedgewitches. Though I might recommend settling an annuity on both of them; I have never seen peasants behave so nobly.” A stubborn dark forelock fell over his eyes; he tossed it aside with a sharp movement that reminded me just how young he was.

Noble is rarely in the blood, chivalier. Why, look at me. “A fine idea.” If we survive the winter, I shall make certain of it. “Any further injuries?”

“No. The horses are at their feed with a vengeance, the hedgewitches standing by to make certain they do not sicken themselves. Other than di Crifort’s ankle and those cases of saddle-rash, we are none the worse for wear. They are feeding us, at least.” His eyebrows rose slightly. “Though I like not the looks that accompany the meal.”

“What is the army’s mood?”

“Mood?”

I strangled a brief flare of frustration. Jierre would have understood instantly. “D’Orlaans’s men. How do they seem to you? Willing to fight? Beaten already? Under orders to feed us before they slay us all, including our Queen? Their mood, chivalier. Have you observed it?”

“Ah.” He absorbed this. “I would say… confused. I have heard rumor among them—the coming of the Hedgewitch Queen has given them heart. No plague in her provinces, some say. Others reply, The King was crowned in the Ladytemple. Whispers of two Aryxes. One must be false, but which one? And the Damarsene.” Another pause. “If there is a pitched battle in the next week, Captain, I do not like our chances.”

I stowed the razor, wiped at my face with a silken flannel. He was slow, of course—but careful. Not much escaped the mouthful he set himself to chew.

I had not much time to teach him which bites were the most useful.

The rinsed flannel snapped, another bit of Court sorcery drying it in a moment. I could have finished this operation in my sleep. I took the sash, my hands remembering what to do with it, and looked up to find Tieris di Siguerre studying me.

“What happens now?” he asked, and I nodded as if the question was profound.

My swordbelt buckled itself on, the familiar weight of rapier and dagger comforting. At least now I was armed, and I intended to be so for the rest of this affair, however it ended.

“Now we attend the Queen.” My throat was dry, despite morning chai. I was growing to hate mince pies, but I needed the heavy fuel. And if d’Orlaans so much as twitches in her direction, my blade shall take the life of another royal.

“My father says she is a beauty.” Carefully, his tone light and nonchalant. “He says she has an effect on men.”