The Bandit King h-2 Page 3

  “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 was to use this in some other fashion. The blood upon it would certainly make sorcery easier, would it not? Which might solve the riddle of how d’Orlaans and his dragoons tracked us so easily.” Velvet rustled again, and I heard her footsteps, quick and light as she paced. Di Cinfiliet was silent. “Yet the paper is not of a fineness, many of the events I witnessed refuse to grant me some understanding of their true import, and no Court sorcerer of d’Orlaans’s power and ability would let an opponent’s willingly-shed blood leave his grasp. The question I am to ask myself becomes, did Tristan d’Arcenne, my Consort, conspire to kill King Henri? I cannot think d’Orlaans would have had him sign a sheet of common rag. If my Consort is a traitor, or merely gave a dance to the idea of treachery, then afterward, when he was betrayed so harshly, did he think to revenge himself on his fellow conspirators by setting forth a hedgewitch provincial as Queen—a d’mselle who would, perhaps, be so blinded by a crumb of affection she would not question him? It is no secret I have not had many suitors.”

  Rage tasted copper-bitter, the pulse in my throat and wrists pounding like maying-drums. I stayed perfectly still, red rising behind my eyes, my heart tearing itself in half. Hearing her so calmly, so beautifully string out a necklace of damning logic defied my self-control. It was the very softness, the sharply-accented Arquitaine singing in her beautiful mouth, that made the words cut so much more harshly.

  Of course she doubted me. She would do well to listen to her instincts. And yet, a crumb of affection. Did she count me so small?

  “Now I must beg you, Adersahl di Parmecy et Villeroche, Queen’s Guard and my friend. Give me counsel, for I know neither which quarter to face nor quite what to believe. I wish you to tell me truly what you think of this.” Now her voice broke, and she sounded perilously close to tears.

  “D’mselle—” Di Cinfiliet. I wanted—oh, how I longed—to stride into the room, and… do what? What could I do?

  At that moment, I did not know. And so I remained still and quiet, the trembling in me unmanly save for its source of pure white-hot rage.

  “One moment, sieur, an it please you.” A muffled sound—she was weeping. My Vianne, weeping.

  Adersahl did not speak for a long moment. Vianne’s weeping was soft; she sought to conceal it. Tears that should have fallen on my shoulder were now uselessly being spent in the presence of fools. And here, I was the larger fool, for I could not even coldly plan how to salvage somewhat of this.

  Di Parmecy finally finished weighing his response. “There is one question I would ask, d’mselle.”

  “Ask.” She sounded marginally calmer.

  “I have lived with Tristan d’Arcenne, I have fought at his side and under his command, I have seen him in nigh every situation that may befall a man. I tell you, I am not so blind as not to notice a murderous intent on his part. We must set our minds to why d’Orlaans would send this foulness to his own Captain at this particular time. M’dama Queen, I would stake my life on Tristan’s loyalty, and this as some forged gambit of d’Orlaans.”

  Relief burst inside my chest, dueling with the cold fury. I let out a soft, noiseless breath. Perhaps I had a chance to explain, or even to keep the secret. But how?

  More soft sounds, Vianne weeping without restraint. She would even do that prettily, and I could have held her during the storm.

  “D’mselle.” Di Cinfiliet, now. His tone had softened, as if he took pity on her. Or as if he understood now was the time for gentleness if he sought to set her course. “Tis a pretty tale, and it looks damning in many ways. But I’ve seen tales spun before, living at the dagger’s edge in the Shirlstrienne, hunted like a dog by di Narborre’s patrols. Now that I have had lee to think, I would say to let the man defend himself, for tis obvious he prizes you, and not just as a game piece or a broodmare. And yet…”

  “And yet.” More velvet rustling; she would be pacing furiously now, probably dashing at her cheeks as if the tears offended her. “There was no poison, and the murders of my Princesse and her ladies took precious time. This bait must be salted with some truth, or it would not be even a half-effective lure for either Tristan or me. If I cannot trust my Consort, I cannot trust his father either. This fragile alliance will shatter, and the towns and provinces that have declared for me will be left without protection. Already civil war looks inevitable—or worse, a civil war with the Damarsene playing blind-hant in quarto to d’Orlaans. Blood will be shed, d’Arquitaine blood, and all those who depend on me for their lives—including you both—will meet worse fates than a Princesse’s lady-in-waiting can easily imagine. It becomes a question of whether I trust a possible traitor and pray he will not turn on me when the time comes, or plunge my land into chaos. A pretty choice.” The papers crinkled again. “Take these. Leave them where we spoke of, for I shall need them. Leave me the others as well, an it please you.”

  My eyes squeezed shut. Tears trickled out between my eyelids, traced hot down my cheeks. Whether I trust a possible traitor and pray he will not turn on me when the time comes.

  I should have told her. But I could not have afforded more of her “gentle feelings,” more of her naiveté. She had been all but dead of shock and
grief, bearing each fresh indignity with numb, silent bravery heartbreaking to see in so fragile a body.

  You did not tell her, for you feared the breaking of the image you saw in her eyes whenever she gazed at you. Be honest with yourself, at least, Left Hand. Else you will not lie so effectively to others.

  “D’mselle… I truly do not think Tristan would…” Adersahl, almost knocked speechless. Of course, the sight of her weeping would astonish him.

  “My thanks, Adersahl. I charge you with silence. Do not breathe a word of this. May I trust you?”

  “I swore my service, d’mselle. I am a Queen’s Guard.” He was no longer young. I could almost see the stiff little bow he would perform.

  “Go, and see to your sup, chivalier. It seems I am always leaning upon you.”

  “I am here to be leaned upon, Your Majesty. Your leave?”

  “Of course.”

  He would bend over her hand—I heard the creak of leather, and his footsteps. The door, opening and closing. I scrubbed hot water from my cheeks with the bladed edges of my palms, taking care to do so silently. I kept my hand well away from my rapier-hilt.

  I did not trust myself.

  “So.” Vianne, breaking the pregnant pause, her tone husky with weeping. “It would seem I owe you much, m’cousin.”

  “I count it an honor, m’d’mselle Riddlesharp.” A flash of light humor, jarring after the tension. “I suspect you have aught else to discuss with me.”

  “It may not be… safe for you, here, if Tris suspects your parentage and di Narborre approaches. I would prefer to keep you near, yet I dare not.” Her tone softened. “If I may…”

  “D’mselle.” The bandit sounded serious, now. “I may not have had the pretty training in bows and falconry, but I am still a nobleman. Blood must tell for something, must it not?” A faint whisper of steel leaving the sheath brought me to my feet, my hand suddenly clenched bruising-tight around my rapier-hilt. “I owe you service, d’mselle. Accept my oath.”

  Gods above. The filthy little tale-telling bastard. Calm restored itself, but only by an effort that left me sweating and shaking. I was again not merely a man, but a Left Hand.

  It was a relief—at least it stopped the stupid, worthless tears.

  “Accepted, m’cousin. Please, stand.” Now twas the practical Vianne, the one so sharp and rapier-quick it was a glad wonder she was rarely unsheathed. “Here is a purse, tis all I could safely beg and borrow. Take your men and flee over the border into Navarrin; there you will be safely out of d’Orlaans’s reach. Here also is a formal introduction to the King of Navarrin; you will find some succor there. Above all, keep yourself safe. Take this as well. These are all I have left of my… of my other life, all I truly own. If I send a messenger for your return, I will send its mate as a token. Will you do this for me?”

  A slight creaking movement. “And do you flee to Navarrin I will already be at the Court, to smooth your way. Well-played, lady Riddlesharp.”

  I could almost hear the slight, impatient toss of her head. Hers was a well-played hand, and di Cinfiliet for all his cunning was not her match. “I am not so concerned about my own health as yours. Whatever Tristan has done or not done, I do not think you are safe here. Not if he suspects what Risaine never bothered to hide overmuch from me.” A slight, bitter laugh. “I find myself unable to trust the things I was most assured of.”

  “Tis life, d’mselle. Are you certain? I like not the idea of leaving you here. Come with us. My men are not so polished, perhaps, but they are loyal, and each one will fight to his last breath.”

  “You will need all their protection. Please, sieur. Keep yourself safe. Much now depends on you.”

  “Come with us.” Still he persisted, his tone becoming far more serious than it should have been. “If it is right for me to flee, it cannot be right to leave you here.”

  “The Aryx chose me.” The sadness was almost too much to bear. “Even now, you see, it will not move from my flesh. I am tied to this fate until I can find a way to slip its chain. If the gods speak to me tonight, I may even find a way to salvage something of my country.” There was a soft sound, and when she spoke next her voice was muffled. “Go. Please. I feel the need to succumb afresh to a most ladylike crying-fit, and I would not have you watch. It disarranges me, you see.”

  “D’mselle—” He caught himself. “Vianne. My fair cousine. I would not leave you here, as a kit among wolves.”

  Worry not, di Cinfiliet. This wolf will not let his little kit receive the slightest harm, and his teeth are sharper than yours.

  “Fear not. This kit will soon grow her teeth. Go, Adrien. Please.” Velvet moved. Had she embraced him? It hurt to think of it, and hurt equally to think of her planning so quickly and thoroughly. How could she think herself in danger from my quarter?

  Why had I said poison? A fool’s move. I was accustomed to lying with far more aplomb. Now I was trapped by the story.

  “Should you need me, send for me.”

  “Do not return unless I send the other half as a token. Go. Must I beg you?”

  “No. D’mselle?”

  “Oh, for the sake of the Blessed, what?” Irritation, wedded to sorrow and flashing witchlight-quick. I knew that tone of hers; my heart leapt to hear it. I wanted to take her in my arms, my bones aching with the need.

  I could almost see the fey smile he practiced upon her. “My thanks.” The sound of the door opening, his boots retreating.

  I could not help myself. I dropped my hand from my rapier-hilt and edged closer to the wall, seeking one of the small holes glowing with lamplight. I peered through, almost holding my breath.

  The room was not so severe as I had imagined. There was a bed, two chairs by the fireplace, a washstand in the corner, and a door slightly ajar to the watercloset. I could see a glitter that was the jeweled statue of the Huntress, her bow lowered. The lamps hissed, and it would be cold tonight; had they not thought to lay a fire for my Vianne?

  She stood straight and slim, facing the bed. As I watched, she turned in a full circle, looking about the room, her skirts making a low sweet noise. I could not see her face; the angle was wrong.

  “Tristan,” she whispered, and I started guiltily, though I was well hidden. There was no way for her to know I watched. “What I would not give to be assured of…”

  Twas not the words themselves. It was the tone, numb agony in her soft, cultured voice. Of all the people who should sound so hopeless, she was the last.

  It fair threatened to tear my heart from my chest. All I have done has been for you. I longed to tell her so, put my mouth to the hole I watched through and whisper the words. Would she think it the gods speaking to her?

  She took two halting steps toward the door; that removed her from my sight. Did she think to flee? No, for she immediately turned back and walked with quick, unsteady steps to the bed, flung herself down. She had not lied; she sobbed fit to break both her heart and mine.

  Oh, Vianne. I should have been at her side, to hold her while she wept. I should have told her. I should have made her somehow understand.

  At least you are forewarned. If I hewed to the tale of my innocence, would it satisfy? Why, in the name of the Blessed, had I told her Henri was poisoned? I had not been thinking clearly.

  Now I was, and I had to move with some speed if I were to save myself.

  Chapter Four

  “Captain?” Jierre’s lean, dark face greeted me as I stepped into the small room given over to our use, a pilgrim’s cell in the heart of the Temple. Adrien was apparently deep in prayer before a statue of Danshar the Warrior in the central nave; Tinan stood guard at Vianne’s door and it irked me to leave him there.

  No matter. I would return soon enough.

  They had dined, di Cinfiliet and the Guard; I did not. Time enough for that later. Now, as Danae the priestess prepared our d’mselle for her dreaming in the house of the Blessed, my expression brought Jierre to his feet. The remains of their dinner lay on the t
able, and there were four cots.

  Adersahl did not look up. He sank into a chair by the fireplace, staring into the flames. His brow was thoughtful, but not troubled.

  I led Jierre into the hall. “This goes to the Keep.” I thrust the hastily penned letter into his hands. “Do what is necessary to delay di Cinfiliet’s departure until my father reads it.”

  My lieutenant nodded. No shadow of doubt marred his clear, dark eyes; none ever had. “And should our bandit take umbrage…?”

  “I trust your judgment.”

  He flashed me a wry smile. “A relief, I was beginning to think I had none left.”

  “Precious little, Jierre. After all, you are still following me.” Through even the gates of the underworld, you said once. You were drunk, and you thought I was, too.

  “That, my Captain, is a matter of taste. Not judgment. Look after the d’mselle.”

  “As always.” If only you knew how I look after her. “Make haste.”

  He left with a spring in his step, a spare, sinewy man whose quick eyes and fine mind were worth far more than a King’s Guard could ever be paid. He had held the last survivors of the Guard on the slopes of Mont di Cienne, waiting with unshaken faith for me to emerge from the bowels of the donjons. Which I had… but only because Vianne had trusted me.

  Because I could not stand the thought of your beheading, Captain. Her chin lifting as she took me to task, a memory I did not have time to savor.

  I stepped through the door again, bracing myself. Adersahl remained in the chair, staring into the fire. He did not stroke his mustache, and that spelled certain trouble.

  I affected nonchalance, my thumbs in my belt. “Sieur di Parmecy et Villeroche.”

  He waved a languid hand. “Captain. Standing on ceremony?”

  “No more than usual.” You defended me. Loyal as she is. “How is she, Adersahl?”

  He stared into the flames as if they held the Unanswerable Riddle’s full solution. “I would be surprised if you did not know, Captain.” It hurt, to hear him accord me the title with such brittle formality.