The Bandit King (30 page)

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The fog was a living thing. Muffled clanks from the Damarsene below, closed in its thick white curtains, billows of ground-cloud snaking through the city. The walls were patrolled, the river-harbor under heavy guard, and Vianne leaned with her back against the parapet, safely hidden behind stone. The witchfire shield had drained away, and she closed her eyes. Did I not catch her peering out from under her lashes, I would think she slept afoot like a weary horse.

In a little while, braced on a stack of sleeping-rolls, I swallowed mouthful after mouthful of foul tisane. The hedgewitch boy, Mauris, spoke little, and moved with amazing precision for one half-asleep himself. There is a certain point of exhaustion at which a man will simply
act
, doing what is needful and no more, slack-faced and absent. The youngling in his torn Merúnaisse ruff had passed that point and was grimly hanging to consciousness, determined not to miss a single event.

Adersahl had brought mince pies, hot broth, and waterskins. Vianne had gratefully drained a skin, and I had attempted the other. Now twas used to dilute the tisane, and I was glad of it—except dilute meant more to swallow, and I was
not
glad of that. It tasted of donkey byre and burning pathweed.

Adersahl paced, well back from the parapet in the event of odd bolts from below. Midmorn came and went, the fog thinning slightly. The guards patrolling this section of the wall gave us a wide berth.

“Unnatural,” I finally rasped.

Adersahl halted, glanced at Vianne. “The fog?”

“Aye. And I should know.” My voice evened as I used it, though my throat still tasted foul. Mauris blinked sleepily, pouring out a fresh measure of tisane.

Adersahl stroked his mustache. He looked remarkably fresh, having had a chance to clean himself before bringing breakfast. Still, his eyes were red, and another decade’s worth of lines had graven themselves onto his countenance. “Mayhap they shall attack the harborage. Tis what I would do.”

And I.
“Except they would pay for it in blood, and they have the rest of Arquitaine to subdue afterward. Easier simply to starve us, perhaps?”

“Your optimism fills me with hope.” He glanced at Vianne again. “The
Dispuriee
is ravaged, of course. There could be another army marching through.”

I settled myself a touch less uncomfortably. “Their banners are not just from the border provinces, as those in Arcenne were. Most are from Thuringe and Hessanord. Which means…”

“What does it mean?”

I spoke not merely for his benefit, but for Vianne’s. “Which means the royal House did not send any of
its
provincial units. We may be viewing a way to cause havoc and clear some of the troublesome nobles from Damar. Which will give us leverage, do we find some means of defeating
this
army.”

“Which will be just as easy as setting cats at cream?” A bitter snort of laughter. Adersahl resumed his pacing. “I am all agog to hear how we will set about doing so.”

My friend, I have no idea. Perhaps Vianne will hear reason in this, though.
“Not here. The Citté, perhaps. If we can hold there long enough for my father to bring an army… perhaps. I do not know.”

Vianne stirred slightly. Her hand still cupped her right shoulder, though she had shown she could move her right arm and hand with little discomfort. Perhaps she was thinking of how close the bolt had been to piercing something else—her chest, perhaps. Her head. Was she trembling at the thought?

Good. She is not made for this. She should listen to Jierre and Luc, and take ship.
“The Citté is a far better place to hold them, though. And did we leave, they will still have to invest Merún. Twill bleed their strength.”

The boy next to me said nothing, but his jaw tightened. Of course, a
Merúnaisse
would not take kindly to the thought of their city left so.

Vianne pushed herself away from the parapet. She approached, dangling the empty waterskin in her right hand. Flakes of ash clung in her hair, and two of her side-laces had broken. The neckline slid aside, showing a slice of her shoulder; more flesh was visible through the rent made by the bolt. “Take heart, Mauris.” Her tone was gentle, and she halted before me. “These fine gentlemen may take ship to the Citté, but I’ll not leave until we are relieved. Just a little longer.”

He made no answer, swishing the tisane in the heavy wooden goblet that had been found for his use.

“The Queen speaks, boy.” I sought to sound menacing.

“Leave him
be
, Tristan.” She winced. The Aryx, still glowing, writhed on her chest. “When I wish for you to bludgeon younglings in my honor, I shall inform you of the event.”

The Blessed know I have done much more in your honor.
But to say such would not do well. “My apologies, Your Majesty.” Quiet and brittle.
You are being a fool
, my tone said.

No more than you
, she replied silently, with a fractional lift of her eyebrows and a slight movement of her mouth. She might have been tempted to say more, but she halted, her head tilted slightly.

“Vianne?” I cursed my weakness. The hedgewitch boy proffered the goblet. I pushed it aside, and, irritated, he slapped my hand down and put the cup to my mouth.

Vianne turned. Her shoulders came up. The fog flushed gold, the Sun showing his face with a vengeance. Adersahl’s pacing ceased. I gagged on the foulness of tisane.

“What is that?” di Parmecy asked, his hand to his rapier-hilt. My fingers sought my own, but I was half-drowned, swallowing as fast as I was able, thin trickles of the brackish concoction sliding against my stubbled chin.

Vianne straightened. Her hands fell to her sides, and she dropped the empty waterskin. It made a slight sound against the paving, and there was a different noise intruding on the morning hush.

A rumble and a clashing, as the fog steamed and thinned, pulling aside.

“What?” Adersahl asked again, and she turned to him with a smile of such utter radiance I choked.

“Tis aid, my Guard.” Her eyes lit from within, and in that instant every echo of the lovely girl she had been and the beautiful woman she had become was left in the dust. Now she was purely splendor itself—ashen and bloodied, disheveled and draggled as she was, still the most glorious thing I have ever witnessed.

Thus it was that I was gagging on tisane when she looked to me, joyous and half-disbelieving. “Tis aid,” she repeated. “We are relieved.”

They fell upon the backs of the Damarsene like ravening wolves. Instead of one thin screen of fog to mask them, they had a whole contingent of hedgewitches reinforcing several charms to hold the morning’s vapor and thicken it. They had marched long and ridden hard; they were not so large as the besieging force, but they had the advantage of complete surprise.

The hounds of Damar are well-trained, and they fought well. Yet by the time the fog vanished completely, showing the dimensions of the battle, twas too late. They struggled to move the siege engines, struggled to form and re-form their shattered lines. The Pruzians struggled as well, for they do not retreat easily—if at all.

Yet the fourth charge broke even the horsehair-crested Pruzians, and though much is sung of the Battle of Merún, none of the songs speak of the cries of the dying. Or the smell of the field after twas soaked in blood and fouler matter. There was precious little difference between the screams of the city under siege and the cries of the Damarsene and their fellows falling beneath the blades of the army flying the devices of Arcenne, Siguerre, Timchaine, Markui, and other provinces that had declared for the Hedgewitch Queen. Peasants with pikes and scythes were also much in evidence—but the measure that tipped the balance was the detachments of ragged Shirlstrienne bandits and less-ragged Navarrin under a strange device, a simple red flag.

And who should be riding at their head but Adrien di Cinfiliet?

Adersahl and Mauris held me up, the boy openly weeping, Adersahl’s cheeks wet as well. The walls were full of cheering men, the crossbows hummed, bolts laden with death-sorcery crackling into the mass pinned close to the walls. When the Damarsene broke into full flight, harried away from their trenches and the walls, abandoning their siege engines and supplies, another massive cheer went up. Even a fool could have seen the battle was over. The Temple bells of Merún rang wildly, peal after peal, and I was told later that the scenes of joy at the quays were almost as dangerous as the melee outside the walls.

Vianne did not weep. For some while she stood on the battlements, motionless, watching, her face colorless and her hands fists in her skirts. She sent for Jierre, left orders that I was to be taken to the infirmary, and retreated to the Keep to begin preparations to welcome the relieving army.

Thus it was that I did not see the scene at the battered Gates of Merún, where the old Conte di Siguerre, in armor that was older than his grandson Tieris, swept the Queen a bow and greeted her with fine flowing oratory. I also did not see when Adrien di Cinfiliet rode to the Gates, dismounted, and my Vianne ran to his arms. Their embrace caused a round of fresh cheering, and the bandit and the old Conte were the heroes of the day.

No, I was in the infirmary. It was there that Bryony, sunburnt and dusty, found me. The hedgewitch, my childhood friend, sent the
Merúnaisse
boy from the room with its walls of wool-bale, and examined the charm on my chest.

“
You
are a right welcome sight!” I had actually been laid atop a couch made of wool-bales, and I must say, twas more comfortable than any bed I had been possessed of lately. “How does Arcenne fare? How did you come to be here?”

“Arcenne still stands.” He looked grave, but I thought twas because he was peering at the scar on my chest. “You have been seeking to kill yourself, as usual. Dear gods.”

“How did you—”

“I bring word. One message from your mother—she says to take care and sends her regard. One from… your father. Divris di Tatancourt was found on Rieu di Heifors. He had been set upon and stabbed several times. Your father thought it best to ride with what army we had gathered.”

“I last saw di Tatancourt in the
Quartier Gieron
.” I thought on this. “Stabbed?”

“Aye. Your father… Tristan.” He ceased poking at my chest and looked up at me. “I bring news.”

Outside the wool warehouse, the entire city was still pealing and cheering with joy. Even the wounded and burned packed among the bales sought to cheer instead of moan with pain. “Well, out with it, Bry!”

He stepped back, spread his feet, and clasped his hands together. “There is no easy way to say this…”

“Bry, for the love of the Blessed, simply spit it forth. I must be fit to ride in short order, and have little time to waste.”

“You will not be riding soon,
sieur
, with that charming on you. I bethought myself to find you first. You will be seeing Siguerre soon.”

For a moment I thought he spoke of Tieris, and I made an impatient movement. “Of course, but what…”

I suppose twas then that I knew. The words halted. I lay, near to witless with shock, and stared at him.

“Conte di Siguerre has your father’s signet.” Bryony took a deep breath, visibly bracing himself. “He…
Sieur
, your father has fallen. He fell at Bleu-di-Font. D’Orlaans was there, with some Damarsene from the
Dispuriee
. The false king was riding for the Citté; we gainsaid him. Your father…” The hedgewitch swallowed hard, his dark eyes suddenly full. “Your pardon, Tris. I was not able to… there was no… He fell against d’Orlaans.”

I stared, unable to quite credit what my ears heard. Surely there was a mistake. This was a dream brought on by fever and foul tisane. It could not be true.

“D’Orlaans.” My mouth shaped the word.

“In a tumbril, kept under guard. Siguerre wished to kill him outright, but the Conte di Dienjuste said twas the Queen’s pleasure he was remanded to. Di Dienjuste was left to guard him; he follows our army within a day or so. I am… I am sorry, Tris.”

“Tis not your fault,” I said, woodenly. “I thank you for your pains, Bry.”

“We sought to save him. Twas… there was
nothing
—”

A nobleman does not strike an underling for bringing ill news.
My father had oft quoted the proverb, usually with a grim smile and his hand to his rapier. “I understand. Ease your mind, my friend. If he could have been saved, I know you would have done so. Please, withdraw a little.”
I would not unman myself with an audience.

He nodded. Unwilling pity and relief warred on his countenance. “You are Baron now. We have not sent word to your mother. Siguerre did not think it wise.”

“He was right,” I said through the numbness descending on me. “She has enough to bear. My thanks, Bry. Leave me.”

He did.

My father.
I tried the words inside my head. They refused to form.
Is dead. Someone is dead. It cannot be him.

He had told me to take care as I left him in Arcenne. Had even granted me his
blessing
, and now…

Now what?

I did not know.

My eyes were dry, and burned fiercely. I could not even weep. I lay on the bales, looking at the ceiling beams, smelling wool and foulness and my own unwashed illness, as around me a city celebrated deliverance.