The Bandit King

Finally, she nodded. “Very well. Send something more comfortable for him to rest upon, Jierre. And, Mauris, tell sieur di Yspres what you require for tisane.” And she turned away, making her way to the edge of the wall. She took care that her head did not show above the parapet, though, and I held my peace.

* * *

The fog was a living thing. Muffled clanks from the Damarsene below, closed in its thick white curtains, billows of ground-cloud snaking through the city. The walls were patrolled, the river-harbor under heavy guard, and Vianne leaned with her back against the parapet, safely hidden behind stone. The witchfire shield had drained away, and she closed her eyes. Did I not catch her peering out from under her lashes, I would think she slept afoot like a weary horse.

In a little while, braced on a stack of sleeping-rolls, I swallowed mouthful after mouthful of foul tisane. The hedgewitch boy, Mauris, spoke little, and moved with amazing precision for one half-asleep himself. There is a certain point of exhaustion at which a man will simply act, doing what is needful and no more, slack-faced and absent. The youngling in his torn Merunaisse ruff had passed that point and was grimly hanging to consciousness, determined not to miss a single event.

Adersahl had brought mince pies, hot broth, and waterskins. Vianne had gratefully drained a skin, and I had attempted the other. Now twas used to dilute the tisane, and I was glad of it—except dilute meant more to swallow, and I was not glad of that. It tasted of donkey byre and burning pathweed.

Adersahl paced, well back from the parapet in the event of odd bolts from below. Midmorn came and went, the fog thinning slightly. The guards patrolling this section of the wall gave us a wide berth.

“Unnatural,” I finally rasped.

Adersahl halted, glanced at Vianne. “The fog?”

“Aye. And I should know.” My voice evened as I used it, though my throat still tasted foul. Mauris blinked sleepily, pouring out a fresh measure of tisane.

Adersahl stroked his mustache. He looked remarkably fresh, having had a chance to clean himself before bringing breakfast. Still, his eyes were red, and another decade’s worth of lines had graven themselves onto his countenance. “Mayhap they shall attack the harborage. Tis what I would do.”

And I. “Except they would pay for it in blood, and they have the rest of Arquitaine to subdue afterward. Easier simply to starve us, perhaps?”

“Your optimism fills me with hope.” He glanced at Vianne again. “The Dispuriee is ravaged, of course. There could be another army marching through.”

I settled myself a touch less uncomfortably. “Their banners are not just from the border provinces, as those in Arcenne were. Most are from Thuringe and Hessanord. Which means…”

“What does it mean?”

I spoke not merely for his benefit, but for Vianne’s. “Which means the royal House did not send any of its provincial units. We may be viewing a way to cause havoc and clear some of the troublesome nobles from Damar. Which will give us leverage, do we find some means of defeating this army.”

“Which will be just as easy as setting cats at cream?” A bitter snort of laughter. Adersahl resumed his pacing. “I am all agog to hear how we will set about doing so.”

My friend, I have no idea. Perhaps Vianne will hear reason in this, though. “Not here. The Citte, perhaps. If we can hold there long enough for my father to bring an army… perhaps. I do not know.”

Vianne stirred slightly. Her hand still cupped her right shoulder, though she had shown she could move her right arm and hand with little discomfort. Perhaps she was thinking of how close the bolt had been to piercing something else—her chest, perhaps. Her head. Was she trembling at the thought?

Good. She is not made for this. She should listen to Jierre and Luc, and take ship. “The Citte is a far better place to hold them, though. And did we leave, they will still have to invest Merun. Twill bleed their strength.”

The boy next to me said nothing, but his jaw tightened. Of course, a Merunaisse would not take kindly to the thought of their city left so.

Vianne pushed herself away from the parapet. She approached, dangling the empty waterskin in her right hand. Flakes of ash clung in her hair, and two of her side-laces had broken. The neckline slid aside, showing a slice of her shoulder; more flesh was visible through the rent made by the bolt. “Take heart, Mauris.” Her tone was gentle, and she halted before me. “These fine gentlemen may take ship to the Citte, but I’ll not leave until we are relieved. Just a little longer.”

He made no answer, swishing the tisane in the heavy wooden goblet that had been found for his use.

“The Queen speaks, boy.” I sought to sound menacing.

“Leave him be, Tristan.” She winced. The Aryx, still glowing, writhed on her chest. “When I wish for you to bludgeon younglings in my honor, I shall inform you of the event.”

The Blessed know I have done much more in your honor. But to say such would not do well. “My apologies, Your Majesty.” Quiet and brittle. You are being a fool, my tone said.

No more than you, she replied silently, with a fractional lift of her eyebrows and a slight movement of her mouth. She might have been tempted to say more, but she halted, her head tilted slightly.

“Vianne?” I cursed my weakness. The hedgewitch boy proffered the goblet. I pushed it aside, and, irritated, he slapped my hand down and put the cup to my mouth.

Vianne turned. Her shoulders came up. The fog flushed gold, the Sun showing his face with a vengeance. Adersahl’s pacing ceased. I gagged on the foulness of tisane.

“What is that?” di Parmecy asked, his hand to his rapier-hilt. My fingers sought my own, but I was half- drowned, swallowing as fast as I was able, thin trickles of the brackish concoction sliding against my stubbled chin.

Vianne straightened. Her hands fell to her sides, and she dropped the empty waterskin. It made a slight sound against the paving, and there was a different noise intruding on the morning hush.

A rumble and a clashing, as the fog steamed and thinned, pulling aside.

“What?” Adersahl asked again, and she turned to him with a smile of such utter radiance I choked.

“Tis aid, my Guard.” Her eyes lit from within, and in that instant every echo of the lovely girl she had been and the beautiful woman she had become was left in the dust. Now she was purely splendor itself—ashen and bloodied, disheveled and draggled as she was, still the most glorious thing I have ever witnessed.

Thus it was that I was gagging on tisane when she looked to me, joyous and half-disbelieving. “Tis aid,” she repeated. “We are relieved.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

They fell upon the backs of the Damarsene like ravening wolves. Instead of one thin screen of fog to mask them, they had a whole contingent of hedgewitches reinforcing several charms to hold the morning’s vapor and thicken it. They had marched long and ridden hard; they were not so large as the besieging force, but they had the advantage of complete surprise.

The hounds of Damar are well-trained, and they fought well. Yet by the time the fog vanished completely, showing the dimensions of the battle, twas too late. They struggled to move the siege engines, struggled to form and re-form their shattered lines. The Pruzians struggled as well, for they do not retreat easily—if at all.

Yet the fourth charge broke even the horsehair-crested Pruzians, and though much is sung of the Battle of Merun, none of the songs speak of the cries of the dying. Or the smell of the field after twas soaked in blood and fouler matter. There was precious little difference between the screams of the city under siege and the cries of the Damarsene and their fellows falling beneath the blades of the army flying the devices of Arcenne, Siguerre, Timchaine, Markui, and other provinces that had declared for the Hedgewitch Queen. Peasants with pikes and