The Bandit King

I watched for another hour as dawn strengthened, the sun bleeding as it threatened to rise. Red streaks clutched the horizon as if the Sun’s chariot needed claws to heave itself free of night.

Perhaps it was an omen. We could not be lucky enough to avoid shedding blood ourselves, even if my plan succeeded.

I had just rested my eyes, rubbing at the bridge of my nose, and replaced the farglass, when it happened.

On the highest tower of the Keep, motion. I waited, unaware of holding my breath until the need for air grew dire and black spots danced before me. I sucked in a deep breath, twisted the farglass’s largest lens slightly, and my heart rose inside my bruised, aching chest as the flag unfurled.

Twas red. Red as the dawn, red as the sash of her Guard, red as the blood in my veins.

Vianne was in Merun. The Knife had reached her, and she had agreed to my plan.

I snapped the farglass into its leather case. My jaw set, and the sudden calm of a course of action descended on me. Now I did not need to worry; I needed only to do.

Tis amazing, how such a small distinction eases a man’s nerves.

* * *

Horses stamped nervously. I gave Coele the purse. It should take him home handily, plenty of coin for his comfort and his trouble, and a request for my father to settle an annuity on him and the other hedgewitch, should that man return alive. The Blessed knew they had earned it. “Stay off the Roads.”

He gave me a withering glance as he handed the small bit of crumbling earth to me. “I ent stupid, sieur d’Arcenne. Mind they have a hedgewitch physicker reinforce that charm, now.”

The dirt-clod reeked of hedgewitchery, and I held it carefully. “If we gain the city safely, I am certain I shall have no trouble with that.” I clapped him on the shoulder. “Blessed guard you. I shall miss your tisanes.”

He snorted, and clicked his tongue to the packhorse. They disappeared into morning mist on the other side of our camp-clearing. The young Guard, muffled in layers of cloak and greatcoat, sparked with stray sorcery. Each layer of cloth would hold its own particular turn-aside or defensive measure, to be shed as it was expended or as need dictated. They were all at least acquainted with the basics of Court sorcery—I had made certain of that—but they were by and large lamentably unpracticed.

“Hold up the hilt thus.” Jaicler di Tierrce-Alpeis flicked his fingers, and a complicated webbing of pale blue sorcery descended down chased metal, gathering in the steel, coming to a crackling point at the tip. “Then, thus—” A swift flicker, and the blade was sheathed. “And when you draw it, so. A burst of air, capable of knocking a man down. My brother and I used to surprise each other with this.” A soft, remembering tone. “How m’Mere would scream.”

“Watch the man before you, and ware your feet,” Tieris di Siguerre repeated. “They will seek to cut your horse from under you, do you break your sorcering.”

“We know, Mother,” someone chanted in a singsong, and there was a muted ripple of laughter. A group of men bracing themselves for battle are apt to laugh at anything—or nothing. Tis a different manner of armor than the plate a chivalier used to be required to maintain.

“Chivalieri.” They straightened at my tone, hounds hearing the keeper’s silent whistle. “Dawn strengthens. Let us begin. You know your routes?”

Grave nods from every quarter. They were haggard, some unshaven, and in their dark eyes blazed the flame of the Angouleme. A nobleman’s fire, kindled in the face of impossible odds. A d’mselle to rescue, a Queen to be of service to, such things were courtsong-worthy and proud honors to be worn. They were young enough to still believe such things ended with a blaze of glory and renown.

I had fostered that idea on the drillyard, seeking to give them a reason to fight—at least, a reason beyond pettiness and jealousy.

I succeeded all too well.

“Then let us begin.” Creak of leather, jingle of tack, we pulled ourselves into the saddle once more. I gained Arran’s back a trifle gingerly, my chest aching from the damp chill. The dirtclod, cupped in my free hand, crumbled a bit more. “Separately or in pairs, chivalieri, and mind you do not speak once I have laid the illusion.” I paused. “In the Queen’s name.”

“For the Queen’s honor,” they answered as one, softly but with great force.

I tossed the dirtclod, hard enough to shatter it. The hedgewitchery inside flashed green, and from its pieces thin traceries of vapor rose. Then I closed my eyes and invoked Court sorcery.

Twas easier than ever to pull at light and air, shaping it to my will. Did Vianne feel it, as I felt it in every nerve when she used the Seal? I was perhaps too far away. In any case, the illusion rose in fine threads, spinning about each rider.

One cannot build multiple perfect illusions. What one Court sorcerer can do, however, is blur the outline of multiple forms, a subtle shifting and shading so that a casual observer sees only what he expects to—for example, fellow Damarsene in their distinctive high-collared dark tunics and blackened half-armor with its high-curved shoulders. The hats became low-sloping, unfeathered things, ugly and shapeless.

Each of them murmured the word that would take the illusion from my control. I felt the snap like a crystal wineglass breaking inside a muffling cloth, and opened my eyes to find that Coele had wrought true. The hedgewitch’s charm poured mist from the ground like a fountain, and di Tierrce-Alpeis let out a long sharp breath, not quite a whistle. Hedgewitchery and Court sorcery blurred together, and the fog thickened. It washed past us, a heavy autumnal mist gathering strength as it drew from the fields and trees and open sky. The breath of wind di Siguerre’s Court sorcery provided sent it down the hill toward Merun. The sun would burn through the covering vapor by midmorn, but while it lasted we were even more heavily shrouded.

Like ghosts, we vanished into the fog, indistinct shapes. By ones and twos we threaded our way toward the Damarsene, hoofbeats muffled and our horses—appearing dun nags by now, since their ugly cobs bear no resemblance to the grace and beauty of even the humblest d’Arquitaine horseflesh—wearily plodding inside the woolfog their world had become.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The north face of Merun’s walls was not quite as high as the others, but still sheer. A culvert and a water- gate pierced it, with archers poised to make the culvert’s valley a ride to the underworld for any attackers. Fine thin threads of Court sorcery refracted through hanging water-droplets—the fog had surpassed my expectations. Of course, morning cloud-along-the-ground is common in the lowlands, so the sorcery did not have to work against the grain. It merely had to help things along, like Mithin the Physicker in the old limericks.

Arran stood, stolid and patient, at the edge of the culvert. The Damarsene suspected something was afoot —their call-challenges as the guards went about their rounds were increasingly sharp. I was not the first to arrive here—a dozen indistinct shadows ranged in front of me. The defenders above had not opened fire, though I knew they were there. One had coughed not too long ago, and the scrape of a crossbow-stand as the weapon atop it swiveled had fallen like an iron ingot into the silence below.

They came singly or in pairs, and as soon as I deemed it safe I extended one gloved hand. A small gesture, and the shell of illusion on me folded aside, bursting like a soap bubble. A tiny thread of Court sorcery touched the web of triplines stretched across the water-gate. They flushed, shivering, and the sudden silence was ominous.

A throatless, chill whisper from above. “The Fete of Flowers.”

Why did you dance with me? I’ve often wondered.

I found my mouth was dry. “No. The Festival of Sunreturn.” She had been in dove-gray velvet, the oversleeves and overskirt slashed to show crimson and orange silk, as a sunset on the shores of the Mare Mari, where demianges sing amid the waves. I should not have danced with her—by that time, it was suspected that I had a weakness in her direction. But she had been rosy, flushed with cider and laughter, giggling behind her carved sandwood fan as the Princesse sallied a remark or two, and I had not been able to stop myself. When she spun, the skirts belled, and she became a flame.