The Bandit King (22 page)

Was he my replacement in other ways as well?

“Name yours,” I said, the words ash in my mouth.

Garonne di Narborre’s wolfish smile spread. “His Majesty the King of Arquitaine.”

A ripple went through the assembled as they gained their feet. It was not
quite
meet for a man to stand second after his vassal had accepted a challenge on his behalf. Yet there was no iron-clad rule against it; if I made no objection, twas meet enough.

I did not object. To have both of them within reach of my blade was more than I had hoped for.

“Madness,” one of the Duc’s foppish followers crowding on my side of the circle said behind his hand, just loudly enough to be heard—but not loudly enough to carry across the expanse of bluestone. “Should we not be fighting the Damarsene?”

“This will not take long,” di Narborre sallied, and his words were passed back through the ranks on a rush of muttering.

Finer entertainment than a fête, I wager.
And no doubt the wagering had begun in the rest of the army.

I loosened the laces on my doublet. The sun was high; the dueling-circle had been drawn with Court sorcery and chalk on the bluestone pavers. Vianne was still a-horse, a statue in the golden light, her back straight, her face set and white. The ribbons of Court sorcery weaving about her, veils of scarlet, gold, and pure white, moved with their own lazy rhythm.

“What are you about?” Jierre murmured. His fierce glare was turned on the pair across the circle, di Narborre and d’Orlaans conferring, master and lieutenant seemingly at ease.

Was he asking why I had called him as my second? “If they do not kill me, you may call me to account for the wrong I have done you.”
I rather look forward to it. Perhaps afterward we might even return to some manner of friendship.
My tone dropped, became a half-whisper. “Do you still consider me a traitor?”

Jierre shot me a glance that could have broken a Polian shield. “Not truly. Twas necessary for all to believe I did, though.”

My jaw threatened to drop. I did not look to Vianne, though I sorely wished to. My face kept itself in its pre-duel mask—interested, open, a faint line between my eyebrows deepening as I contemplated my opponents.

“I will ask an explanation,” I murmured.

His reply was obdurate, and strangely comforting. “If
she
grants me leave, I shall give one.”

My heart gave an oblique pang. Did she indeed prefer him? Who knew how a woman thought, or what she would choose? And for what I had done to her, there was no remedy.

I had, at last, decided as much during our ride through the underworld. The Queen of Arquitaine was lost to me. “I consign her to your care, then, if this—”

“Avert.” He made the gesture against ill-luck. “Not before a duel, Tristan. Have you gone soft-wit?”

“Many years ago. When you arrived at Court with an introduction, and—”

“Saufe-tet.”
But there was no heat to it. “Di Narborre attacks with the
tierce
. But you know that.”

“Yes.” Did I feel better or worse, knowing he would watch d’Orlaans for foul play? Knowing that he had struck me, playing his part to a fare-thee-well, and I had not suspected? Or perhaps
she
had called upon him to dissemble, and…

I could not tell, and now twas useless to care.

This has gone long enough.
I stepped into the circle, and the onlookers stilled. A furious ripple went through the back ranks as the oddsmakers noted I was eager to begin. Heralds cried, following the ancient formula of trial-by-combat. Did I fall here, I would be ajudged guilty. Did di Narborre, twould be a sign of my innocence—and once his vassal had fought, if I challenged again, d’Orlaans
must
step forth to answer.

Would Vianne watch? She was known to have a weak stomach at Court, always turning away after the first exchange of blows. Yet this iron-backed woman who had left me in a prison cell and was even now playing me against d’Orlaans for a besieged kingdom… she was not the Vianne di Rocancheil I had known. No, this woman surprised me. Intrigued me even more than her softhearted former self.

Even if I had lost her, I would still die for her.

But hopefully, not today.

Garonne di Narborre stepped into the circle. D’Orlaans, waited upon by a group of a half-dozen pages, took a glass goblet of something from one of them and quaffed it. Another, a slim honeyhaired youth in that same sky blue, fanned him with a perfumed paper contraption. But the false King’s gaze never left me, hazel eyes cold and intent, and I braced myself as I drew and saluted, the ruby in the hilt of my sword—my grandfather’s, passed to me at my Coming-of-Age ceremony, for we kept to the old ways in Arcenne—flashing a bloody dart.

Di Narborre swung his blade twice, whipping the unoffending air, and saluted perfunctorily. We both paced forward, drawing our daggers, and the Black Captain did not bother to hide his sneer.

*   *   *

A rapier is a fine-wrought weapon, and much depends on its temper. But a duel is not merely fought with steel.

D’Arquitaine rapiers are broader and heavier than the weapons the Sievillein in Navarrin sport with. A filigreed cage for the hand, a whisper-thin blade, Sievellein duels are more dance than deadly. There is a panel of
judges
, of all things, and the winner is not him left breathing but he whose score outweighs the other’s.

Cowards.

A d’Arquitaine rapier also has a shield-cage for the hand, and flexes slightly as it cleaves air or flesh. A nobleman may request
l’petitte
, which is a duel fought rapier-only, to the first blooding. Most questions of honor are resolved thus.

But for the Black Captain and me, twas
cri di combat
. Rapier and dagger, no baffle over the arm, and no
cri mirci
. No judge but the gods, and no proof but blood admitted to this court.

“D’Arcenne.” Di Narborre, no sneering now.

“Di Narborre.” None on my part, either. We were both catspaws, after all. He was a Hand for his liege, and I for mine. Except he had never betrayed d’Orlaans.

At least, not where any could see.

He attacked
entierce
, of course, blade flashing as he tested my defense. Batted aside with contemptuous ease, I moved forward in an oblique line, all uncertainty falling away. First blood was mine, a stripe along his upper arm, he slashed low and wicked with the dagger and I leaned back. Court sorcery crackled as it wove between us, the Aryx singing like wine in my veins. The sorcery to fling light at an enemy’s eyes swiftly opposed with my counterspell, breath coming hard and ribs tearing as sweat wrung from both our foreheads—true combat brings the saltwater much earlier than drill. No respite, blades slitherclashing,
quarto
,
ensiconde
, Signelli’s defense and Caparete’s gambit, an overhand cut and I had him against the circle…

… and I cut away, letting him regain his breath.

Di Narborre shook sweat from his brow and narrowed his eyes. “That will not buy you quarter, d’Arcenne.”

We were not merely dueling here. We were playing to the gallery of the army, and Vianne’s Consort could not be seen to be less than honorable. My father would have approved—finally, we were in agreement about
appearances
. “I need no quarter from your kind,” I spat. “Killing unarmed women has dulled your blade,
sieur
.”

I sought to anger him, and half-succeeded. Court sorcery closed in earnest this time, spell and counterspell, savage bits of the Angoulême’s inheritance meant to blind, to lame, to kill. Would he, that survivor of storm-wrack and conqueror of hedgewitch peasants, be shamed of what his noble children had wrought?

We closed again, and again di Narborre chose the
tierce
. Caparete’s gambit again, then the reach of the rapier keeping his dagger at bay as he pressed me; we had watched each other duel too many times. Sorcery kindled, I averted the blow but my hip turned momentarily numb, my leg threatening to give as he surged forward with Antorieu’s thrust. The dagger turned it, there was only one possible avenue to salvage my defense and I took it, a fast brutal jab-and-turn I had learned in alleyfighting where the quarters are close and the length of a rapier sometimes a hindrance. It restored the balance, and my hip returned to normalcy—that charm is short-lived, and can be used for a horse as well. If one does not mind killing an innocent animal.

Shuffling, grit under bootsoles providing traction, the smithy-ringing of a flurry of light, testing blows, both of us panting for breath. A cup of glassy silence descended over our dance. Warmed and loosened, blood dripping from my left arm and a smear of bright crimson on his face and dappling his sleeve, the steel whistling deadly-sweet courtsongs. Another jab for my eyes, a dart of sunlight harnessed and turned to ice, countered as the Aryx passed a thread of melody under my skin.

Is she watching?

The space inside the circle crackled and buzzed with stray sorcery. Normally a duel is done in four passes or less, inexperience or brutality forcing an opening. We may have been evenly matched, di Narborre and I—except for the breaking of the duel-circle, d’Orlaans shrieking as his false Aryx burned with unholy radiance. The poison killspell he flung was familiar—it reeked of apples, wet dog, and vileness. He had laid the same spell on Minister Simieri, the day the conspiracy broke loose and Henri met his death on my blade.

It was faint comfort to finally have the question of just who had sorcelled Simieri answered to my satisfaction.

The true Aryx matched his cry, a crystal-rimmed goblet singing as it is stroked by a damp fingertip, and the medallion on his chest cracked under the noise. My foot slipped, I lunged, di Narborre attacked again—

—but not with the
tierce
. No, he attacked
ensiconde
, and his blade slid past my guard, punching through muscle and lung, ramming out through the back of my shirt and doublet with a sound like the earth itself breaking in half.

Bubble of warmth on my lips. The blood ran down my chin. I stared at di Narborre, who wore a tight thin smile. My left arm extended, my dagger punching through muscle, slipping between ribs, and I had what seemed an eternity to think,
How strange, we are both dead
, before the pain began. It broke in my chest, a monstrous egg, and my legs sought to buckle.

No. Not yet.

Di Narborre folded, oddly boneless. For a moment I was in the Rose Room again, a King on my sword and the world about to fall to pieces. I twisted the dagger, but my hand was oddly weak.

The Black Captain’s gaze dimmed. A candle, swiftly carried down a dark corridor. Fading to a spark, then vanishing.

I cannot die.

He perhaps thought the same.

The world tilted. The dagger tore free of my nerveless fingers, buried in his heart.
A pity that he had one. None would believe it.

A high, retching cough spattered more bright blood from my lips. Silence, holding me in vast, feathery, cupped hands.

I cannot die.

It was too late.

I died.

*   *   *

Glare of white light. Bergaime and spice filling my mouth. Slick fabric against my tensed fists, handfuls of scratch-embroidered material. Copper-gummed blood dry on my lips, scabs coating my throat. I tasted blood with every breath of my salvation.

I was told afterward of Vianne’s cry as di Narborre’s rapier threaded my chest, a needle in the fingers of an enthusiastic sempstress. Of the Aryx’s blaze, a crack of darkness in its heart as the serpents spun, their metal flowing like living scales. Of d’Orlaans’s swift attack after he had called forth the poison killspell, his foul sorcery calling down a blight upon the stones, cracking and scoring them, a line of murderous intent swerving at the last moment, failing as my
d’mselle
opened herself to the Seal completely.

There was an orb of brilliance, hung in midair. Silver radiance outshining the harvest-season sunshine. Those who witnessed it—and every man afterward told roughly the same tale—found himself on his knees. A great silence, broken only by a rustling, as of a vast wheatfield brushed by the wind’s caressing, invisible fingers. And somehow, every man of d’Orlaans’s army saw Vianne, her arms about me, my head on her silk-draped lap as I choked my last, reaching with bloodstained fingers to touch her cheek.

Jiserah
, some of them breathed, as if that queen among the Blessed had come to earth. Perhaps she had.

The brilliance shrank, a pinprick of white-scorch intensity, and the rattling whistle of tortured breath echoed amid the rustling. My foolish body jerked, striking out with fists and feet, but Vianne did not flinch.

A knife of ice through my chest. Bubbling clear fluid spuming from nose and mouth as she rolled me aside, the torrent fouling her skirts. I convulsed, and the force of that seizure cracked me open.

Mercifully, I remember little of it. Merely the pain, and even that fades. My cheek against cold cracked bluestone, Vianne’s hands strengthless at my shoulders, plucking weakly at my doublet. She tilted back her head and screamed, a cry of utter negation.