The Bandit King

—what had that fire cost her?—and the Guard, both old and new, behind her seeking to stem the tide of panicked retreat. Her Captain, di Yspres, commanded a rearguard action that gave enough lee for Merun to be hastily fortified and held.

I was grateful for that, though hearing him called her Captain sent a bolt of hot rage through me to match di Narborre’s thrust.

If she was within Merun, I had finally caught pace with my Vianne. There was merely a Damarsene army, fortifications, and a few leagues of war-torn land between us. And if she required me for the Aryx to fully perform its function, how could I help her from here? Was she even in the city?

I could not know. The moment is one that still brings me to cold sweat. Uncertainty is almost worse against the nerves than disaster.

Arran stamped as we hastily backed down from the ridgeline. The Damarsene did not look to be setting patrols here; they were occupied with the town. A pillar of crimsonlit smoke hung over their efforts; their siege engines were busy. If the wind shifted, we would perhaps hear the rumble of battle.

“How did they break Remeilles? Or did they simply invest the town? Is that possible?” Tieris di Siguerre swore, his fist clenched, looking very much as if he wished to strike empty air in the absence of a better enemy.

“We cannot know at this juncture,” I answered absently. “Peace, lieutenant. Hold a moment.”

Sharp-faced Jaicler di Tierrce-Alpeis fidgeted. “If Merun falls, the Citte will too.”

“Peace.” I held up a hand. They were all so young. “Give me a moment to think, chivalieri. This is merely a riddle, and one we shall solve.”

“The Damar.” Thierre di Sanvreult shuddered. “Their god drinks blood.”

They were at Arcenne’s walls not so long ago, and handily dispatched. Of course, it had only been some few thousands, not this mass. Arran stamped again, catching the scent of nervousness among the men. “The time for faintheartedness was before we left Arcenne.” My tone was harsher than I liked. “I asked for a moment, chivalieri.”

There was no murmur of discontent, but I could sense their courage waning as evening filled the sky, Jiserah loosening her robe and Kimyan tightening hers. But tonight would be a night for Danshar the Warrior, sword flashing and shield lifted, or his bow drawn back to his ear.

No. Not Danshar. He is not subtle enough.

Cayrian, then. God of thieves, god of traders and the silvertongued minstrels, of tightfisted merchantwives and those who live by the knife. He had married the Old Blessed goddess of justice, and oft made a mockery of her. Still, Elisara his wife—the blind boonsister of Alisaar, Elisara the goddess of honest measurement and swift retribution—always won out in the god-tales and teaching-rhymes. For Cayrian so loves her he cannot bear to truly cheat her. Besides, Alisaar’s curse would descend upon him should he dare to do more than mock, and she is not merely the goddess of love, but of attendant pleasures most are loath to risk. Her wrath is to be feared.

Of such gods the d’Arquitaine are fond. Their weaknesses bring us easier sleep at night.

Had I been a more religious man, I would have offered to Cayrian once I was Henri’s Left Hand. Of course, had I been more religious, I might have sought to win Vianne by another method. Who could tell what I would have done? I was faced with what to do now.

On his dun horse, under a spreading willum tree, the Pruzian’s gaze met mine. He nodded slightly, and I cursed myself for being so slow and so transparent.

“Sieur van Harkke.” I spoke as if I had my riddle ready, more decisive than I actually was. “Tell me you may enter yon city undetected.”

A single shrug. All things should be so easy, that shrug said. “I am a Knife.” The guttural Pruzian was far too harsh for a cool-turning-chill harvestwinter eve. Twas a night for cider and a bonfire, peasants dancing and nobles at a fete—possibly the Fete of Moonrising; twas the season for it.

Oh, there will be bonfire aplenty. Merun already burns.

“That you are,” I murmured in Arquitaine. “Now, my Guards, I shall tell you what we will do.”

They trusted me, those younger sons. Their faces, turning to shadow under hatbrim and dusk, turned to me as if I were their father. Perhaps I was; if the drillyard makes a soldier, the man who shouts and curses—who trains the muscle and sinew upon it—is a father of sorts.

Which made them all my sons. May the Blessed, old and new, forgive me for how harshly I led them.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Dawn was merely a gray intimation on the horizon when Coele shook me awake. At least I had slept; some of the Guard were perhaps not so lucky. A cold night, for we could not risk a campfire’s breath being remarked, did no wonders for anyone’s mood.

I ignored the grumbling. And I did not ask where di Siguerre had procured the farglass he handed to me as I approached him behind a screen of hollisa bushes. Their berries were soft and fermenting now, a heady, sharp scent in the morning chill. In the lowlands they use such late berries to flavor their mead, if they can manage to collect them before the birds do.

I lifted the farglass, peered through. Merun lay dark, the fires extinguished and its walls featureless at this distance. The city’s Keep was a pile of antique stone, defensible perhaps in the White Kings’ time, but sadly ramshackle now. Outside the walls—at least they were strong, those sheer sorcery-carved graystone curves—the Damarsene swarmed. Blocks of their dark tents strung behind the inward-facing circles of their trenches and earthworks, marring the fields and network of holdings and hamlets lapping against Merun’s walls. No few of those holdings had been torched and sent up their own thin threads of smoke to add to the haze.

Their owners must have resisted the quartering of Damarsene officers. The standard practice in such cases is to burn and level, even if it robs said officers of shelter for the night. Damar prefers obedience to comfort.

Perhaps that is why they ever seek to invade Arquitaine’s fields and orchards, to steal what they do not think to make for themselves. Or perhaps they are drunk on war, craving it as the birds crave fermented berries or those with alesickness crave nothing but the next draught of oblivion.

Sourness filled my throat. Even the shacks of the city’s poor had been cleared from their wall-hugging, the slum burning just as fiercely as the estates of petty nobles farther out. There must have been much butchery among those who could not gain the safety of the walls soon enough.

The Keep slumped dispirited under a pall of smoke. Was Vianne awake? Had the Knife managed to slip into her presence? Was I right in sending him?

Tieris could not contain himself. “Any sign?”

If there were a sign, I would have said so by now. “Not yet.” I kept my tone light. “Break fast lightly, and acquaint them with their routes one more time. Every man to check his weapons. We are not armored enough for a full cavalry charge; speed and lightness must be our priority. Leave behind anything that will weigh us down.”

“Aye.” He paused. “Captain…”

I thought him merely nervous. “Ease yourself, di Siguerre. We have come this far.”

“We have indeed. If I were to…”

Was Vianne inside that city? If they broke the walls, would she suffer a woman’s danger at the hands of the Damarsene? Taken prisoner, she was a valuable playing-piece, and they might force her at swordpoint into all manner of things.

Politically, and otherwise.

I shook the idea away. It would not help. “If you were to what?” Irritation, sharp as a splintered bone lodged in my throat.

“Nothing, Captain.” He stepped away smartly, to take my orders to the rest of them. I focused on the besieged city through the farglass and swore under my breath. As a method of relieving tension, it left much to be desired.