The Bandit King

Majesty Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy et Tirecian-Trimestin, Queen of Arquitaine!” The charm was a simple one, to make a voice heard above a din or a multitude, and the words echoed as a cheer rose from the Guard both Old and New. It sounded thin in the hush, but the Aryx flashed, uttering a low hum, magnifying the cry until it fair threatened to shake the Pavilion. I felt it in every bone, the ache of our journey washing away under that welter of pure force.

The cupola ran with fierce golden light, tolling like a bell, and I do not know who was the first to kneel. What I do know is that the urge to bend knee caught like wildfire, and if enough in a crowd do so, it becomes well nigh impossible to halt the movement.

This will make him even more furious.

He stepped out of the Pavilion’s shade, a tall figure in a fine blue doublet, a shade to match hers. A lean man—his brother had run to fat, but d’Orlaans had not yet. His hair was only touched with gray, instead of threaded heavily like Henri’s; at his chest on a silver chain was a spot of brilliance.

Who could have mistaken that thing for the Aryx? The difference was obvious.

Had the death of Fairlaine’s Queen broken whatever was necessary for its use? His grief had driven him mad, and he had the dubious distinction of being the only King of Arquitaine to die by his own hand.

If Vianne required me for the Aryx’s use, or merely required a Consort, much hinged on whether the gods would bless whatever union she saw fit to make… It gave me much to think upon. And think upon it I had, during six days of hard riding.

D’Orlaans made a gesture. Limp white hands, rings flashing in the brilliant autumn sunshine. The season had changed overnight, as it sometimes does in the lowlands.

Perhaps we could hope for our fortunes to change for the better as well.

“Most beloved!” D’Orlaans used the same charm to make his voice echo. He now affected a pencil-thin mustache, and there were dark pouches under his sharp hazel eyes. “My dearest Consort!”

I remembered the hypnotic power of his heavy-lidded gaze, the softness with which he laid out the plot. Do you merely remove the impediment, d’Arcenne, and you shall have all you wish. I am grateful to those who aid me.

And he called my Queen “Consort,” having proxy-wed her in the Citte’s Ladytemple, the Grand Dama. My fist tightened on the palfrey’s reins.

Had the Aryx still slumbered, had my d’mselle’s wits not been so sharp, had luck not run with us… he might well be calling her Consort in truth.

Vianne’s chin raised. “Tristan,” she said softly.

So easily, she slipped my leash. Unhooded the falcon, and now I only had to stoop to my prey. There is a certain relaxation in merely obeying.

I dropped the reins, my boots sounding on the stone as I strode forward. I had the pleasure of seeing d’Orlaans recognize me, whether from the set of my shoulders or the quality of my step I do not know. I reached the stairs as he stepped back a half-pace, and movement in the shadows behind him was his Guard, their blue sashes a lighter shade than his doublet.

I could not see if Garonne di Narborre was among them, but it did not matter. Nor did it matter who else he had in the Pavilion’s shade. Those nobles he kept with him on the dais would feel the scourge soon enough.

The glove, borrowed from young Siguerre, left my hand. I’d weighted the fingers with small stones to make it fly true. It described a high arc, then landed with a soft sodden sound on the second of the four stairs. I had aimed at d’Orlaans’s feet in their dainty half-boots, but this was far better.

“You accuse me of murder, Timrothe d’Orlaans.” Each word clear and carrying, Court sorcery crackling as it spread the sound wide. And it is true, but this is a theater of politics. Let us dance upon a stage, you and I. “You accuse me of treason and treachery, and you further impugn the honor of my Queen. The insult you have offered calls for blood. Sieur, I challenge you.”

Did I imagine the indrawn breath from those assembled?

No nobleman takes such a challenge lightly. D’Orlaans stepped forward, an ugly flush rising up his throat from the snow-white folds of his ruffled shirt-collar. Royal pride, and the pride of the viper that stings from behind because it feels its weakness keenly. He was ever a duelist at Court during Henri’s life, imagining slights to remove those he took a dislike to. Or those who stood in the way of whatever he wished at the moment.

He mastered himself, the false Aryx on his chest shimmering a flat, unhealthy shine. How did he fuel such Court sorcery, for so long? Or did he merely use it for public occasions?

Does it matter? The curious comfort of being locked to a course of action deepened. There was naught for it, now, but to see how the dice landed. All else could wait.

D’Orlaans’s rings glistened as he motioned. Stepping forth from the Pavilion’s shadow came a familiar lean and hungry sight.

Garonne di Narborre bent, a trifle awkwardly, and scooped up the glove. We locked gazes, the Black Captain and I, as he straightened. He did not glance at Vianne.

I was unsurprised. Of course Timrothe d’Orlaans would not risk himself in a duel.

“Your challenge is accepted.” The false King made another gesture. “Name your second.”

I had considered the question. “Chivalier Jierre di Yspres.”

A rustle behind me. Had Vianne glanced at her new Captain? Had she warned him of this?

Was he my replacement in other ways as well?

“Name yours,” I said, the words ash in my mouth.

Garonne di Narborre’s wolfish smile spread. “His Majesty the King of Arquitaine.”

A ripple went through the assembled as they gained their feet. It was not quite meet for a man to stand second after his vassal had accepted a challenge on his behalf. Yet there was no iron-clad rule against it; if I made no objection, twas meet enough.

I did not object. To have both of them within reach of my blade was more than I had hoped for.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Madness,” one of the Duc’s foppish followers crowding on my side of the circle said behind his hand, just loudly enough to be heard—but not loudly enough to carry across the expanse of bluestone. “Should we not be fighting the Damarsene?”

“This will not take long,” di Narborre sallied, and his words were passed back through the ranks on a rush of muttering.

Finer entertainment than a fete, I wager. And no doubt the wagering had begun in the rest of the army.

I loosened the laces on my doublet. The sun was high; the dueling-circle had been drawn with Court sorcery and chalk on the bluestone pavers. Vianne was still a-horse, a statue in the golden light, her back straight, her face set and white. The ribbons of Court sorcery weaving about her, veils of scarlet, gold, and pure white, moved with their own lazy rhythm.

“What are you about?” Jierre murmured. His fierce glare was turned on the pair across the circle, di Narborre and d’Orlaans conferring, master and lieutenant seemingly at ease.

Was he asking why I had called him as my second? “If they do not kill me, you may call me to account for the wrong I have done you.” I rather look forward to it. Perhaps afterward we might even return to some manner of friendship. My tone dropped, became a half-whisper. “Do you still consider me a traitor?”

Jierre shot me a glance that could have broken a Polian shield. “Not truly. Twas necessary for all to believe I did, though.”

My jaw threatened to drop. I did not look to Vianne, though I sorely wished to. My face kept itself in its pre- duel mask—interested, open, a faint line between my eyebrows deepening as I contemplated my opponents.

“I will ask an explanation,” I murmured.

His reply was obdurate, and strangely comforting. “If she grants me leave, I shall give one.”