The Bandit King

“He coughed this up. Should we worry?” Di Siguerre managed the impression of a fretting old maiden auntie tolerably well.

“Clears the lung.” Coele nodded, one arm under my shoulders. I sought not to splutter the contents of the cup. “See the charm, there? Fine work. A goodly scar to tell the d’mselles of.”

The Pruzian glanced up at the tent’s interior, then back to me. His quality of silence was the patience of a man who knew how to wait—perhaps the most dangerous sort there is.

When the hedgewitch finally took pity on me and removed the cup, I found myself breathing again with deep, disbelieving gratitude. “Reimelles,” I croaked. “We must ride.”

“Not yet.” Coele immediately gainsaid me. “M’dama gave orders. Charm will tear if you ride now.”

“How long?” I sought to rage, could only rasp. “Blessed curse you, vilhain, how long am I abed?”

“Longer you thrash, longer it takes.” The man nodded to di Siguerre. “Sieur. I’m off to mix more tisane; back in an hour to charm him afresh.”

“Very well.” Siguerre was left holding the basin; he made a face at it and stamped out of eyeshot, the bowl clattering as he placed it somewhere.

The Pruzian leaned over me. “Rest,” he said, in his unlovely mother tongue. “I shall be watchful, m’Hier. She suspects.”

I would have inquired just what he meant, but Siguerre returned to my bedside. “Di Sarciere’s half of the Guard went with Her Majesty, Captain.”

“How many left with her? Who commands at Reimelles?”

“The Old Guard, half the New, more than half of d’Orlaans’s forces gathered here. Of the command of Remeilles… I do not know.”

Jierre would have known. I could have cursed at him. Instead, I merely closed my eyes. I had attempted what she asked of me—yet I had miscarried. D’Orlaans still lived. I had not gained the chance to challenge him afresh after di Narborre fell.

And here I was, lung-pierced, sedated by a peasant hedgewitch, and useless, while she rode with an army perhaps full of treachery. Much would depend on who commanded the forces at Reimelles, whether twas one of d’Orlaans’s creatures or a noble who cared little for the erstwhile Duc. There would be much to do, and much she would not think to ask for or on. I racked my brains, but I could not think of who had been enseated at Reimelles during the last year.

It was perhaps not possible for her to turn back the Damarsene with a ragged army of possibly-treacherous men, and she must guard against d’Orlaans even more carefully now. Relieving him of the burden of ceremony and protocol meant that he could strike from the shadows at any moment—and she had none at her side capable of anticipating or turning aside such a blow.

At least she had her new Captain. Jierre, showing a depth of dissimulation I had scarce thought he possessed. Had he been pretending to think me a traitor, or was he pretending to think summat else now? Either way, he was showing subtlety.

Vianne could make a man into whatever she wished, did she but realize it.

She knew what I had done, and perhaps hated me for it. Yet she had spilled from her palfrey and come to me. She had held me. Had even cried aloud.

Because I could not stand the thought of your beheading, Captain, she had informed me, archly, once.

Could she still not stand the thought of my death? Twas another small mercy, one with thorns. But I took it, and fell into a drugged, twilit sleep.

* * *

The Field d’Or was deserted. Yellowed grass, stamped-bare dust, the charred remains of fires, the Pavilion standing lone and dark against a gray-clouded sky. Stray dogs nosed among the smoking midden-heaps d’Orlaans had left behind.

Packhorses and plenty of provisions were left for our small band. Perhaps Jierre had seen to it. Tents had been left as well for my nursemaids, and the large blue embroidered monstrosity as well. I shall not need it, Vianne had said to young Siguerre. Let him rest in comfort, for once.

Other than that, she had left no word for me. Nothing but the scar on my chest, angrily red and tender, and a matching scar on my back. Di Garonne had done his work well. The mark on my face did not count, for twas healed already. But still I felt it, plucking at my expression as I lay exhausted and fretting.

Coele did his level best to keep me down and drugged, but the second day after the duel I grimly hauled myself from the cot, barked at di Siguerre to fetch my shaving-kit, and cursed the hedgewitch roundly when he sought to dose me with a sedative draught again. The Pruzian found this amusing indeed, to judge by his sardonic grin.

At least he had not knifed me while I lay abed.

“No more sleep-herbs, by the Blessed,” I snapped. “Dose me with aught else you will, hedgewitch, but do not blunt my wits. They are blunt enough.”

“Aye to that, sieur,” he snapped in return, flushed and irritated, clutching the rejected cup in both hands. “The charm is fragile; it may tear and you will bleed out in a heartbeat. Or drown in your own claret. M’dama said you were to rest—”

“She is my Queen, not my nursemaid. I serve her better thus.” I forced my legs to straighten, pushing myself up. To stand made my chest ache in a wholly different way, but twas bearable.

Just, but bearable.

“She said—”

“She is not here,” I pointed out. “And I am determined, sieur physicker. Turn your attention to mixtures that will not send me to Kimyan’s realm, and I shall take charge of aught else. And eat something,” I called after him as he stamped away. “I shall need you hale!”

“Idiot,” the Pruzian commented, pleasantly.

“He keeps muttering in that foreign tongue of his.” Siguerre, his thumbs in his belt, stood slim and dark and maddeningly young at the other doorflap. “What does he say?”

“Oh, he oft insults me. Mayhap he thinks I do not notice. Son of a monkeyfaced dogsucking fishmonger’s collop-rod.” The little filth in Pruzian managed to vent some of my spleen.

The Knife actually laughed, a surprisingly merry sound. “I begin to think you a worthy brother, m’Hier.”

“Which does not explain why you are here, and she without your services.”

He shrugged. “She is remarkably persuasive.”

“What does he say?” Young Siguerre looked uneasy. I had noted he did not turn his back to the Pruzian, which said well of him.

I did not give it much thought, being too occupied with keeping my unruly body from toppling. “He remarks that the Queen is marvelous persuasive when she makes requests of her subjects. So I have found, indeed.” Has she found it easy to outplay me? She was wasted as a lady-in-waiting. “Did you bring my shaving-kit? Ah, good man. Tell the men to cache whatever we cannot carry; we leave for Reimelles at the nooning.”

“Not another ride,” he groaned, with feeling, and I was surprised into a grim laugh.

“We have a slow-moving army two days afoot of us. I think we are capable of catching such a beast without injuring your tender backside further.”

“Dear Blessed”—he addressed the tent’s indigo-dyed roof—“did our Captain unbend enough to jest with me? Surely the Riving of the Maelstrom is nigh.”

He was young, after all—and he had earned some small right to jest at my expense. Jierre would have had harsher words for me—and he still might, did he survive Vianne’s next adventure.

So I chose judicious severity, leavened with praise. “If the hounds of Damar break Reimelles, it may very well be. But with us in the field, Tieris, Arquitaine is safer. Your grandfather would be proud.”