The Bandit King

expression other than resignation, I could not see it.

I was left to myself in the empty courtyard, but not for long. For the Left Hand, there is always a way, if there is a will.

And I had a will to hear what Adrien di Cinfiliet would tell my Queen.

Chapter Three

The penitent’s cell is usually a bare stone room with a cot, a watercloset, and a gem-jeweled statue of Kimyan the Huntress. She is the Blessed who rules the Moon, and thus rules dreaming sleep. Brought from the Old Countries with the Angouleme, the first conqueror of Arquitaine, she was the goddess adopted most thoroughly in her new land. To receive instruction from her, the penitent swallows a draught meant to guarantee dreaming, and when morn comes they have their answer, for good or for ill.

What few know is that one of Kimyan’s elect often secretes him or herself in a small closet, whose cunningly constructed wall is riddled with small eye-holes, and from whence could be heard the speech of the dreamer who had asked to receive guidance from the gods who steered the world’s course. The closets are not visible from inside the cell, and few outside the priests and priestesses know of them.

The Hand is one of those few.

I took care to ease the door shut, soundless. Small swords of light crossed my path as I lowered myself silently to the padded bench, keeping my rapier well out of the way.

Danae was speaking. “—and there is a bell-rope, should you need immediate assistance. Is there aught I can bring you, before…?”

“Some light sup, for my chivalieri.” Vianne, with the light, laughing accent of Court. “My thanks, Danae.”

“I shall return in an hour’s time to prepare you. An it please you, I take my leave.” The priestess slid away on her sandaled feet. She would not interfere, should I wish to listen to my d’mselle’s dreaming; my father’s support of the Temple bought that much.

Even the elect of the gods are corruptible. Or, if not precisely corruptible, then merely amenable to the clink of hard coin accompanying a nobleman’s polite request.

The door closed, and I heard velvet move. Her cloak, perhaps, falling to the floor. No, she was not so careless; she would drape it over the bed. A long, weary sigh.

“D’mselle?” Adersahl, uncertain. If there were a Guard most likely to aid her without question, it was he. “Shall I wait outside?”

“No, Adersahl. I would have you hear this. Di Cinfiliet? We have little time. Speak, I beg you. What proof do you bear?”

Of what? But my heart knew before the rest of me, and grew cold as the wastes of Far Rus.

“Proof not meant for gentle ears, d’mselle.” Di Cinfiliet’s boots clicked as he made a circuit of the room. A shadow slid across the thin spears of light bisecting the closet. I breathed quietly, falling into the peculiar state common to assassins and spies: listening so intensely every sound is magnified, every hair on the body erect and quivering to catch all nuance. “I beg your pardon for what I am about to tell you.”

“I hardly think I shall shatter at shocking news, chivalier.” Velvet moving again. Where was she? Abruptly, her tone changed. “Besides, you have already given me the worst news possible. I would hear the rest.”

What has he said to her? And when? Silence. I barely breathed.

When she spoke again, it was very softly, and every nerve in my body leapt into singing alertness. “Adersahl bears witness of my recognition of you, m’cousin, and of your mother, who shall receive full honors in this very Temple.” The last word broke, and the temptation to put my eye to a spyhole was nigh overwhelming. I denied it. “It grieves me that she was taken by di Narborre. She was the best hedgewitch I have ever known, and I mourn that I could not alter her fate. You are my cousin, and my Heir, should the worst befall me.”

My brilliant darling. Of course she had guessed his parentage—or had the bandit told her outright? I would not put it past him.

Di Cinfiliet finally spoke, hoarsely. “It… it means much to me that you would acknowledge her.”

A small sound. Was she weeping? When she spoke again it was without her usual lightness; twas the tone of brittle, impossible-to-refuse royalty she had so lately acquired. “Adersahl, please, come farther in so we may speak softly. Begin your tale, sieur di Cinfiliet, an it please you. We have little time.”

Di Cinfiliet needed no prompting. “We came upon the Damarsene force bound for Arcenne from their rear, as we had turned aside to make a foray into the lands patrolled by the Tierrce-di-Valdale garrison. Consequently, we saw the dust they raised, and went cautiously. Then we happened upon a rare piece of luck: dispatches.”

“A King’s Messenger.” The brushing of a woman’s skirts. She is pacing; I can hear her feet. My back was alive with chill gooseflesh. What mischief was he seeking to wreak upon her now? “Dead now, I presume.”

“Of course.” There was no pretense. “Most of the dispatches were useless, but there was this.” Sound of paper rustling. I closed my eyes in the unforgiving dimness. “Twas in a sealed pouch for di Narborre’s hand only. There are other papers of interest, which I have left at the Keep. But this, m’cousine Riddlesharp, you should see.”

Heavy paper, by the sound of it. Unfolded and held. Silence ticked by; I could hear the flames of the lamps inside the penitent’s cell burning, a dry hissing.

A squeak. She had sunk down upon the bed, perhaps.

“D’mselle?” Adersahl, alarmed.

“Chivalier.” A colorless whisper of a word. Had she also gone pale? “Do you know what this is?”

“No, d’mselle.” For the first time in a long while, I heard fear in Adersahl di Parmecy’s tone.

“Tis a statement wherefore a man swears his loyalty to a certain cause. It is signed, witnessed by two others, and has a mark of blood upon it.” Her throat must be half closed with tears to sound so. “The cause the man swears himself to is the murder of Henri di Tirecian-Trimestin, my half-uncle. The murdered King of Arquitaine.” She took a deep breath. “Judge if this is not a familiar hand, though the paper reeks of some oddness, being far too cheap for such an important document.”

The faint sound of paper changing hands. My heart lodged in my throat again, and I was cold. So cold.

“Dear gods.” He was loyal to the last, Adersahl. “No, this cannot… this cannot be, Vianne. It cannot. He would not kill the King. He would not.”

“D’Orlaans accused Tristan of regicide, yet untraditionally ordered his tongue torn out before his beheading in the Bastillion. There was something he did not wish the Captain of King Henri’s Guard to say.” Pitiless, she continued, each word a knife to the heart. “I was with Tristan that day, Adersahl, and something has oft crossed my mind since this afternoon. Tristan swears the King died of poison in pettite-cakes. I was there; I saw those sweets; I am not so bad a hedgewitch I would not have smelled a poison in them virulent enough to kill the King in scarce a quarter-candlemark. Once the alarums were rung to signal the start of the conspiracy, Tristan left my side. Some short time later I found my Princesse already dying and her ladies slain—work that would have taken some time. There is one other thing we must consider, Adersahl. Tristan was waiting in the passage I usually took from the kitchens to my quarters. So was the Minister Primus. Look at the second sheet of paper.”

“I…” Adersahl was having difficulty speaking.

“Tis a similar sheet, but on far better paper, detailing the Minister Primus’s loyalty to the cause of regicide, and also to the removal of an inconvenient Captain of the Guard. Perhaps d’Orlaans thinks to convince me if I am given this… proof, in which case di Cinfiliet serves his purpose all-unwitting. Or di Narborre