The Bandit King

He waved the pleasantry aside. “Wait until you hear my news.”

“I have been told of my father’s demise.” I had practiced the sentence. There was no betraying hitch in the rope of words, no indication of the rock in my throat. If a man can stand, he can weep in the privacy of a fallwater, or in the dark. I must have been hardened beyond measure by my sins, for I could not weep even in that safety. The tears refused to come.

I had no acquavit to render me insensible, and my physicker could not be induced to bring any. Tieris di Siguerre could not be so induced, either.

I gather he thought I might harm myself.

“It does not surprise me.” The old turtle hunched his shoulders. “I know twas not my grandson, for I did not inform him.”

“Your grandson is a fine Guard.” I shifted a little, seeking to ease an ache in my hip. Bed rest wears on the body almost as much as battle.

He waved the question of Tieris’s fineness aside, irritably. A glitter in his hand resolved itself into a fine silver chain, threaded through a heavy ring. Twas a siang-stone signet, the mountain-pard of Arcenne clawing, its jaws wide in a silent roar. My carnelian signet was the Heir’s, and grime had settled into its fine carving. Many times over the years I had been possessed of mad thoughts of returning it to my father with a curse.

Now I would never have the chance. Nor would I have a chance to… what?

What would I have said to my father, had I known? Was he watching as his son continued in a manner to blacken his proud name? Did he curse me from the golden halls of the gods?

Oh, tis very likely. No more than I curse myself, though.

Old Siguerre was not to be deterred from giving his tidings, fully and completely. “Twas d’Orlaans. Di Dienjuste denied me the killing of that parasite. Yet do you cry for vengeance, I do not think any will gainsay you.” Flung like a challenge. One I deserved, no doubt.

“How did it happen?” I sounded strange even to myself. Throatsore, and oddly breathless.

“They were both unhorsed. Twas a confusion. There was sorcery…” The Conte made a restless movement, staring at the signet. Was there still blood on its shining, or had he washed it? “Perseval was never a fine Court sorcerer. He preferred steel. I…”

Incredibly, the stone-hard face cracked a trifle. The Conte’s mouth turned down, bitterly. Was that water against his lashes?

Truly the age of the Angouleme’s miracles had returned.

The old man coughed, and I caught Tieris’s gaze. Young Siguerre read my silent dispatch and murmured a courtesy, slipping out into the hall. The door closed with a quiet click.

“I thank you for bringing the news.” Twas a mannerly thing to say, but it seemed… bloodless. I sought for more. “My father prized your friendship, Conte. He oft remarked that you were one of the few honest men in Arquitaine.”

“Did he, now.”

I meant to ease di Siguerre’s sorrow, and suspected I had not. For his face crumpled and smoothed itself silently, and I found myself facing not the terrifying gravel-voiced Siguerre of my childhood, but an old man, almost frail despite his breadth of shoulder and small, hard gut. His hair was thinner, and the map of veins on the back of his knotted hands was of a country I might reach one day.

If I did not die before my time, of knife or poison or sheer mischance. What did it matter? I was already dead. And so was my father now.

Dead. I could not… There was no way I could think on it that would convince me of the truth of it. He could not be. My father and his disapproval were eternal. A world without either was…

Terrifying. That is the only word that applies. “He did.” The man using my voice was not Tristan d’Arcenne. For d’Arcenne, Captain and Left Hand, would not have to swallow a hot weight of unspilled grief. Even if he was now beginning to realize the truth of the words he mouthed. “He thought very highly of you.”

“And I of him.” The Conte’s chin rose, and he gazed at me with disconcerting directness, ignoring—or perhaps daring me to mention—the tear-track glistening on his weathered cheek. “His thoughts were much on you, Tristan. He was very proud. You were a joy to him.”

I doubt that very much, sieur. But it was a kind lie, one I suspected di Siguerre half believed himself now. The dead do not misbehave; they become a mirror we may safely gaze into and see what we will.

What would I see, now that I was gazing? “My thanks.” Whose was that quiet, steely tone? Who was using my voice as his own?

Whoever he was, he sounded so like Perseval d’Arcenne that my father could not be gone to the West, the realm of the Blessed. Surely he was still here.

Di Siguerre approached my bedside. The signet was heavy, dropped into my reluctant hand with a rattle like chains. “A man reaches a certain age, and he loses the habit of showing anything but harshness. What he feels and what he may express are not… they are seldom one and the same. He was proud of his son, sieur. Every day I spent in Perseval d’Arcenne’s company, he spoke of his Tristan. His boy. The only person higher in his regard was m’dama the Baroness. I tell you this because sons do not understand their fathers.”

I understand enough. “Nor their grandfathers.” It escaped me before I could think on the likely consequences of such an observation.

“Hm. Even so.” He nodded slowly. “Even so.”

“Di Dienjuste has d’Orlaans? In a tumbril?” I turned the signet up, the mountain-pard’s roar forever caught and held. Arcenne was an old province, and held by our family since the Angouleme’s time. Our device has ever been the cat—a fierce, stealthy hunter, an animal who does not flee from man.

And now I was an animal who could not even flee from himself.

“Aye.” Now Siguerre’s tone held no softness. “Cyriot di Dienjuste cried me nay when I would have taken that saufe-tet’s head off. They follow from Font-di-Bleu. The Queen is to have the judging of d’Orlaans.” He seemed very absorbed in studying the wall over my head. “Will she do what is necessary?”

She will not need to. I folded my fingers over the signet. Closed in my palm, it clicked against the Heir’s ring. “She is the Queen. She will do as she must.”

“Very good.” Gruff and uncomfortable now. “Indeed.”

“My thanks, Conte di Siguerre. It is an honor to know you.” Very formally. “I hope our Houses remain friends.”

“Until the Angouleme returns, sieur.” Equally formal, and much more comfortable now. “I take my leave, an it please you. I am sorry to bear you such news.”

“And I am sorry to receive it.” Formulaic, the security of etiquette easing the sharp edges. “Blessed guard you, sieur.”

“And you.” Old Siguerre made his way to the door. He halted. “Tristan?”

“Halis.” Twas the first time I had used his given name.

“His last words were of you and your mother. He regretted not seeing your face again. My son, he said. Tell him he has my blessing, and that I have always been proud of him.”

Was it a mercy, that I found no trace of falsehood in his voice? Or a fresh knife to my heart? I could not decide.

The Conte stepped forth into the hall. He spoke, low and passing gentle, to Tieris. I could not hear what passed between them, for old Siguerre pulled the door closed. I was left to my thoughts for a short while.

I was glad of it. I do not like being seen to, finally and completely, weep like a child.

* * *

Beadris shook her head. “You are fit for gentle riding,” she said, hands to her wide hips and dark strands threaded with gray falling into her sharp face. “None of this Arcenne-to-d’Or-in-a-week nonsense. And no duels.”

I checked my dagger—still easy in its sheath. “I shall seek to avoid dueling if at all possible,