The Bandit King

Fridrich van Harkke grinning like a madman. He was unshaven, his cloth sadly the worse for wear, and looked very pleased with himself. “Son of a potbellied sow,” he greeted me. “Thou sleeps as one dead.”

“Can you blame me?” I muttered in Arquitaine, twisting my wrist free of his grasp. “What is it?” My head was clear, at least, and I felt… not exactly strong, but wonderfully rested.

“The fralein calls, my friend.” His grin broadened a trifle. “I trust this is welcome news.”

I had fallen asleep covered in filth, and now I felt it as the Pruzian helped lever me up. This time my legs held me. “I do not suppose there is time for a bath.”

“If you like.” This time he spoke in Arquitaine, though he could not handle the vowels as gently as they require. “She will not be leaving us behind again.”

I glanced at Tieris’s bed, but twas rumpled and empty. “How does the rest of the Guard fare?”

“Attending to the city’s defense.” He shrugged. “Tis only a matter of time.” The fey smile widened. “Then we shall see what it is to die like men.”

I have no intention of dying, sieur. “Very well.” I am certain my expression spoke more loudly than my courtesy.

His laugh, for all his grinning, was mirthless, and we sallied forth into dimness reeking of blood, sickness, and wool. The infirmary was abuzz—hedgewitches working grimly, the quiet eerie. They had the set gaunt look of those who understood that there would soon be more wounded to attend to, and the faraway, closed gazes of those who must shut away their compassion if they are to provide aid effectively.

I gripped van Harkke’s arm. “No bath, sieur. But I do need the privy. Then take me to her.”

* * *

The small round room was full to overcrowding, tapestries doing little to soften the harsh stone walls. Messengers came and went, a table littered with dispatches and other paper, and Adersahl di Parmecy seeking to retain some sort of order among the press of those seeking entrance or audience.

“The west wall. Take this to the archers; they will see to it,” Jierre was saying as he strode from the door toward the crowd at the back of the room. A stolid, soot-covered Messenger next to him wrung his hands, seemingly unaware he was doing so, but he took the message with a half-bow and spun, shoving for the door.

The din was overwhelming, candleflames in sconces along the wall adding to the oppressive heat. The Keep slouched above; this small audience chamber was reached easily by means of the large, drafty greathall, full of other supplicants and men awaiting orders.

Twas chaos, and my chest gave a flare of twisting scorch-pain. The scar on my face twitched as well.

She stood behind the table, listening and nodding as another hedgewitch spoke rapidly, shaking her finger for emphasis. It appeared the woman was taking my Queen to task, and Vianne…

She looked even frailer, her plain gray dress lacking any ornamentation, the Aryx humming against her chest. But it was not the smudges under her eyes or the hollowing of her cheeks that sent such a hideous shock through me.

Her gaze had ever been soft, before, even in the midst of her anger. Even when she took the tone of chill brittle royalty, a man could see the weeping in her. If he knew how to look.

The softness was gone.

The Hedgewitch Queen’s gaze burned. Her eyes were just as dark as ever, but they pierced swiftly and seared all they lighted on. Something had changed, and the woman inside her slender frame was no longer merely Vianne. Something inside her had unfurled, something bright and honed as the rapier at my side.

Was this what I had fallen in love with, so many years ago? Or was this a new woman? It did not matter. Every nerve in me sang like a harp at a skilled minstrel’s touch at the mere sight of her.

She leaned forward, touched the angry hedgewitch’s elbow. A few words, and the woman, her head wrapped in a scarlet kerchief, appeared satisfied. She nodded, her shoulders easing. Vianne bent to a stack of fresh paper, dipped a quill, and wrote a few swift words. The Aryx sparked, the serpents writhing about each other lazily, and Vianne folded the paper, gave it to the woman, and beckoned the next supplicant forward.

The Pruzian pressed through the throng. Twas hot as the Torkaic underworld here, and there were short tempers in every corner. A messenger burst in.

“More fire in the Quartier Sothian!” he yelled, and Adersahl collared him neatly, beckoned to a waiting soldier, and sent them both out the door to collect aid from the throng outside.

Vianne’s glance passed over me, with no sign of recognition. No, she looked past me, to see the result of the commotion at the door. The next man, his arm in a sling, began shouting over the din —something about the workers given over to making crossbow quarrels and their materials.

Jierre stepped around the table to Vianne’s side. He listened, gave a crisp order, Vianne nodded, and the man turned on his bootheel and began forcing his way out with alacrity.

I saw di Yspres lean toward Vianne, whose dark head bent. Her braids were disarranged, curls springing free, and no ear-drops swung glittering to tap at her cheeks. She tucked a strand of her hair back, listening, and made a quiet remark to him. There was no heat between them, no indication that he had taken on any role but that of adviser.

Fridrich shoved past a knot of merchants in soot-stained doublets. “Ach, prettybit, look what I bring you!” he announced, his gravelly rasp cutting the din. “What more do you need?”

Vianne looked up. Her face did not change. She merely nodded absently. “My thanks, Fridrich. Tell me, have you supped?”

He shook his head, his clubbed braid swinging. “Had enough. Where am I needed?”

“Luc di Chatillon is above the gates; he may need relief. If he does not, bring me word of how he fares and how long he thinks we may hold.” A slight smile, she offered her hand; I saw ink had splattered her sleeve and a fine crystal dewing of sweat on her wrist. “I do not know how I should fare without you.”

“Flattery, fralein. I serve.” He bent over her hand, nodded to Jierre, cast me a single still-amused glance, and was gone.

Her hand fell, and she regarded me. “Sieur.”

The world threatened to fall away and leave merely us, my Queen and me. I met her gaze and found that the relief of knowing she possessed my secret, that I had precious little to hide from her, was as sharp as it had been before.

Whoever this woman was, whatever had lit inside her like a maying fire, she was still Vianne. The idiot stubbornness in me knew only one thing: she was still mine.

I bowed—a trifle stiffly, to be sure. My chest twinged, the Aryx sparked again, and she winced slightly. The Seal’s power stroked along my body, and I wondered that every Arquitaine in the room did not shiver in response. “At your service, d’mselle. Command me.”

“I require merely your presence. Captain, fetch him a chair—yes, my thanks.”

I had twitched at the Captain, but twas Jierre who dragged a chair from the end of the table and settled it beside her.

“There.” Vianne pointed.

“It is not meet that you should stand while I take my ease. Your Majesty.”

“Tristan.” Irritation, sharp as a rapier point. “I do not have time to argue with you.”

I navigated past Jierre, my back to the stone wall, and lowered myself gingerly onto the uncomfortable horsehair cushion. It fair killed me, but I kept my mouth firmly closed. She nodded briskly, and I set myself to listening.

Merun was holding, but only just. Some supplies were reaching the city, for the Airenne’s cousin-river, the Marrenne, flowed past and the wharves were out of siege-engine range. The Damarsene had enough troops to choke the Marrenne to the east, and the river was low as usual before winter storms swelled it. All supplies had to come laboriously against the current from the Citte, which had its own troubles, between the panic of the Damarsene and the added panic of the false King’s disappearance. Word of the trial-by-combat and the breaking of the false Aryx had spread swiftly, helped no doubt by messengers dispatched by my Queen, but that would not stop