The Bandit King

My heart gave an oblique pang. Did she indeed prefer him? Who knew how a woman thought, or what she would choose? And for what I had done to her, there was no remedy.

I had, at last, decided as much during our ride through the underworld. The Queen of Arquitaine was lost to me. “I consign her to your care, then, if this—”

“Avert.” He made the gesture against ill-luck. “Not before a duel, Tristan. Have you gone soft-wit?”

“Many years ago. When you arrived at Court with an introduction, and—”

“Saufe-tet.” But there was no heat to it. “Di Narborre attacks with the tierce. But you know that.”

“Yes.” Did I feel better or worse, knowing he would watch d’Orlaans for foul play? Knowing that he had struck me, playing his part to a fare-thee-well, and I had not suspected? Or perhaps she had called upon him to dissemble, and…

I could not tell, and now twas useless to care.

This has gone long enough. I stepped into the circle, and the onlookers stilled. A furious ripple went through the back ranks as the oddsmakers noted I was eager to begin. Heralds cried, following the ancient formula of trial-by-combat. Did I fall here, I would be ajudged guilty. Did di Narborre, twould be a sign of my innocence—and once his vassal had fought, if I challenged again, d’Orlaans must step forth to answer.

Would Vianne watch? She was known to have a weak stomach at Court, always turning away after the first exchange of blows. Yet this iron-backed woman who had left me in a prison cell and was even now playing me against d’Orlaans for a besieged kingdom… she was not the Vianne di Rocancheil I had known. No, this woman surprised me. Intrigued me even more than her softhearted former self.

Even if I had lost her, I would still die for her.

But hopefully, not today.

Garonne di Narborre stepped into the circle. D’Orlaans, waited upon by a group of a half-dozen pages, took a glass goblet of something from one of them and quaffed it. Another, a slim honeyhaired youth in that same sky blue, fanned him with a perfumed paper contraption. But the false King’s gaze never left me, hazel eyes cold and intent, and I braced myself as I drew and saluted, the ruby in the hilt of my sword—my grandfather’s, passed to me at my Coming-of-Age ceremony, for we kept to the old ways in Arcenne—flashing a bloody dart.

Di Narborre swung his blade twice, whipping the unoffending air, and saluted perfunctorily. We both paced forward, drawing our daggers, and the Black Captain did not bother to hide his sneer.

* * *

A rapier is a fine-wrought weapon, and much depends on its temper. But a duel is not merely fought with steel.

D’Arquitaine rapiers are broader and heavier than the weapons the Sievillein in Navarrin sport with. A filigreed cage for the hand, a whisper-thin blade, Sievellein duels are more dance than deadly. There is a panel of judges, of all things, and the winner is not him left breathing but he whose score outweighs the other’s.

Cowards.

A d’Arquitaine rapier also has a shield-cage for the hand, and flexes slightly as it cleaves air or flesh. A nobleman may request l’petitte, which is a duel fought rapier-only, to the first blooding. Most questions of honor are resolved thus.

But for the Black Captain and me, twas cri di combat. Rapier and dagger, no baffle over the arm, and no cri mirci. No judge but the gods, and no proof but blood admitted to this court.

“D’Arcenne.” Di Narborre, no sneering now.

“Di Narborre.” None on my part, either. We were both catspaws, after all. He was a Hand for his liege, and I for mine. Except he had never betrayed d’Orlaans.

At least, not where any could see.

He attacked entierce, of course, blade flashing as he tested my defense. Batted aside with contemptuous ease, I moved forward in an oblique line, all uncertainty falling away. First blood was mine, a stripe along his upper arm, he slashed low and wicked with the dagger and I leaned back. Court sorcery crackled as it wove between us, the Aryx singing like wine in my veins. The sorcery to fling light at an enemy’s eyes swiftly opposed with my counterspell, breath coming hard and ribs tearing as sweat wrung from both our foreheads—true combat brings the saltwater much earlier than drill. No respite, blades slitherclashing, quarto, ensiconde, Signelli’s defense and Caparete’s gambit, an overhand cut and I had him against the circle…

… and I cut away, letting him regain his breath.

Di Narborre shook sweat from his brow and narrowed his eyes. “That will not buy you quarter, d’Arcenne.”

We were not merely dueling here. We were playing to the gallery of the army, and Vianne’s Consort could not be seen to be less than honorable. My father would have approved—finally, we were in agreement about appearances. “I need no quarter from your kind,” I spat. “Killing unarmed women has dulled your blade, sieur.”

I sought to anger him, and half-succeeded. Court sorcery closed in earnest this time, spell and counterspell, savage bits of the Angouleme’s inheritance meant to blind, to lame, to kill. Would he, that survivor of storm-wrack and conqueror of hedgewitch peasants, be shamed of what his noble children had wrought?

We closed again, and again di Narborre chose the tierce. Caparete’s gambit again, then the reach of the rapier keeping his dagger at bay as he pressed me; we had watched each other duel too many times. Sorcery kindled, I averted the blow but my hip turned momentarily numb, my leg threatening to give as he surged forward with Antorieu’s thrust. The dagger turned it, there was only one possible avenue to salvage my defense and I took it, a fast brutal jab-and-turn I had learned in alleyfighting where the quarters are close and the length of a rapier sometimes a hindrance. It restored the balance, and my hip returned to normalcy—that charm is short-lived, and can be used for a horse as well. If one does not mind killing an innocent animal.

Shuffling, grit under bootsoles providing traction, the smithy-ringing of a flurry of light, testing blows, both of us panting for breath. A cup of glassy silence descended over our dance. Warmed and loosened, blood dripping from my left arm and a smear of bright crimson on his face and dappling his sleeve, the steel whistling deadly-sweet courtsongs. Another jab for my eyes, a dart of sunlight harnessed and turned to ice, countered as the Aryx passed a thread of melody under my skin.

Is she watching?

The space inside the circle crackled and buzzed with stray sorcery. Normally a duel is done in four passes or less, inexperience or brutality forcing an opening. We may have been evenly matched, di Narborre and I—except for the breaking of the duel-circle, d’Orlaans shrieking as his false Aryx burned with unholy radiance. The poison killspell he flung was familiar—it reeked of apples, wet dog, and vileness. He had laid the same spell on Minister Simieri, the day the conspiracy broke loose and Henri met his death on my blade.

It was faint comfort to finally have the question of just who had sorcelled Simieri answered to my satisfaction.

The true Aryx matched his cry, a crystal-rimmed goblet singing as it is stroked by a damp fingertip, and the medallion on his chest cracked under the noise. My foot slipped, I lunged, di Narborre attacked again—

—but not with the tierce. No, he attacked ensiconde, and his blade slid past my guard, punching through muscle and lung, ramming out through the back of my shirt and doublet with a sound like the earth itself breaking in half.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Bubble of warmth on my lips. The blood ran down my chin. I stared at di Narborre, who wore a tight thin smile. My left arm extended, my dagger punching through muscle, slipping between ribs, and I had what seemed an eternity to think, How strange, we are both dead, before the pain began. It broke in my