The Bandit King

m’dama Physicker. I do not wish your wrath.”

“Ha!” She turned away to the small table littered with herbs and a syph-?ther lamp, glass tubes and other implements for making the terrible brews she forced down my throat. I was not sad to see the last of those. “Tis not my wrath. Tis the Queen’s, and she is most concerned. Every day it’s a visit to Her Majesty, and her asking, How does your patient fare? I’ll be locked in the Bastillion do you take an ailing and die, young sieur, and where will that leave my Consort and family?”

“Left in the cold and the rain, and winter coming on,” I chanted. “I shall save you from such a fate, m’dama, by taking excessive care of my person. Tell me, the Queen asks every day?”

“Oh, aye!” She grinned, blue eyes twinkling. In the old days, those with light eyes were not precisely feared, but not welcomed overmuch, either. An Arquitaine eye is a dark eye, as the proverb runs—and a dark eye knows its place. “She did ask me not to tell you, thinking you’d worry if you heard her inquiring so closely. I told her, Your Majesty, said I, tis no shame to inquire after one’s Consort! But she sought to ease your recovery, sieur.”

Did she? Or are you giving me a gentle lie? Would I even recognize a truth, were it spoken plainly to me?

There was a tap at the door. Tieris di Siguerre appeared. Fatigue and dirt had both been sluiced from him, and he was carrying himself more lightly these past two weeks. Which irritated me to no end—but being trammeled in this windowless room would have made a curmudgeon out of the sweetest temper. Add to that the fact that I received no visitors, that Tieris imparted precious little in the way of gossip or information, and Beadris’s clucking and fussing, and my temper was none too sweet.

“Ah, my jailer!” I greeted him. “Am I on furlough?”

“You must be recovered. You are ill-spoken as Granpere.” He hissed and jabbed an obscene gesture at me. “Avert, demieri di sorce!”

I found a laugh in that, though his tone was sharper than I liked. Of course, the prospect at being set at liberty was enough to make me merry as a maying. “You lie abed for two weeks under the care of m’dama Henpeck there, then we shall see who is ill-spoken.”

“Sieur!” Beadris was shocked.

“Forgive me, dearest physicker.” I half-turned, caught her work-roughened hands, and lifted as if I would kiss them. She shrieked and pulled away, and Tieris’s laughter joined mine. The Arcenne hedgewitch scolded, blushing and delivering a tongue-lashing I would have quavered at as a stripling, but she offered her cheek for a peck afterward, and the fire in her cheeks was not merely embarrassment but secret pleasure. She had labored long over my care, and my chest did not pain me now. The scar was pink instead of angry crimson, and the cut down my cheek near to white. Twas interesting to shave around, and the sliver of glass in the watercloset showed me new lines on my face. The gray streak in my hair had widened as well.

Merun, like me, had not recovered fully. The Damarsene were routed, harried for the border by Irion di Markui and an army of disparate parts—angry peasants, the troops of the mountain province, and those of d’Orlaans’s host who took advantage of the amnesty granted to them did they serve the Hedgewitch Queen. So much I had been told, and some little I could guess—the Conte di Siguerre tarried with the Queen, as did Adrien di Cinfiliet, to begin the work of rebuilding. Why she stayed in Merun was a small mystery, until I hit upon the thought that a victorious entry into the Citte took some little time to prepare. Such an entry would be necessary, both for the theater of the gesture and to put paid to d’Orlaans’s claims.

Of d’Orlaans there was no word uttered to me. Tieris merely looked pained and said he did not know, and he would not ask for fear his grandfather would give him a lashing. Tieris was called into the Queen’s presence once a day, like Beadris, to offer a report on me. He was not given lee to ask questions, and Vianne made no reply to any question I sent with him to beg an answer.

I did not like that.

Rivertraffic had resumed; there were refugees to care for and the evacuated to return to their families and homes—if such homes were left standing, that is, for almost half of Merun had barely ceased smoking. And yet there was an air of festival in the city. Though the Dispuriee had been ravaged, the harvest in other places had been generous. And the plague? The sickness of fever and boiling, vomiting blood?

Vanished overnight. No new sickness was reported, and deaths from its touch had ceased in the Citte, at least. Every province that had declared for Vianne had been free of its depredations, and it appeared those offering fealty to d’Orlaans were chastened.

Temples were full of those offering in thanksgiving and those seeking news of lost loved ones. The weather was fine, an estivalle-faus, as such an after-harvest lull was named, and this was attributed to the Hedgewitch Queen’s intercession with the Blessed.

I did not think Vianne likely to be amused by such rumors.

Instead of the small circular room, she was now ensconced in the Keep’s high, drafty main hall. Some attempt had been made to freshen the room, to clean the cobwebs and free the ancient tapestries of dust. The dais had been hung with crimson, and the Guard, both Old and New, were much in evidence, red-sashed and sober with their hands to their rapiers. The huge fireplace had been unblocked and a blaze set in it took much of the damp chill from the air, though the massive doors to the entry-hall stood open and the Keep’s front was thrown wide to welcome supplicants and those who had business with or reports to give the Queen.

Tieris accompanied me up the middle of the main hall, hurrying as my stride lengthened. I had exercised myself as much as Beadris had allowed, and some little bit more. At least I had not been chained while I did so.

A great chair had been found and wrapped with scarlet cloth, and Vianne was upon it, her head tilted as she listened to the Harbormaster, who looked far more at ease now. Jierre was in attendance next to her, standing precisely where the Captain of her Guard should. To one side, behind a table stacked with paper, Conte di Siguerre questioned a bedraggled nobleman with a doffed hat. The man looked damp and wary; I stored up his features and forgot him, for on Vianne’s other side Adrien di Cinfiliet was deep in discussion with Adersahl di Parmecy and a group of Shirlstrienne bandits and hard-faced young Navarrin bloods in their dark, high-collared doublets, the X-shaped device of their High God blazoned in white on their chests. Their thin rapiers hung easy at their sides, their hats held wide-sweeping feathers, and their foreign tones rose and fell in a murmur of easy power. Theirs is a rolling language, at odds with their harsh land. Some scholars hold tis related to d’Arquitaine, but I do not know. Tis an easy enough language to learn.

Not like Pruzian.

Fridrich van Harkke lurked behind Vianne’s chair. He seemed ill at ease, though I doubted anyone else could tell. He kept to the shadows under the hangings, and his gaze flickered through the hall. The Knife did not look overjoyed to see me, though he reserved most of his attention for di Cinfiliet.

My palms were damp. My throat was dry. My father’s signet was a chill lump, tucked under my doublet on its thin fine chain.

I could not bring myself to take the Heir’s signet from my finger.

The Aryx rang softly with light, and I felt it. My steps slowed. I approached her throne—for such it was; she made it so—and allowed myself to look at her.

Wine-red velvet laced over silk, the oversleeves cut away and the undersleeves coming to points on the backs of her hands. Her hair, braided in the style of di Rocancheil, glowing in the mellow glowstone light. Globes of witchlight hung lazily above the crowd—twas a Court in miniature, again, and she its beating heart. Her ear-drops were rubies and beaten silver, and a gleam on her left hand was the copper marriage-ring.

Why does she still wear it?

My heart twisted on itself. Perhaps Beadris was wrong and it would wrench itself free through the scar. If it did, who would mourn my passing?

Would she?

The dark circles under her eyes had lessened. She was not so gaunt. The burning of her gaze was unabated, but her mouth was not set in a grim line. Instead, she smiled as Jierre made a point, touching his finger to his palm as he listed something for her. The Harbormaster nodded, his gaze fixed on her face. She considered for a few moments after Jierre finished, then softly spoke. The Harbormaster bowed, begged leave to withdraw, and she