The Bandit King (19 page)

My jaw fair threatened to drop. Even when I had gone to Court, he had never unbent so much as to grant me a
blessing
.

He must have seen my surprise, for he laughed. It was a small, bitter sound. “I have not dealt well with you, Tristan. It does not matter. Attend the Queen, and do take care. I like not the thought of your mother’s grief, should you… should anything happen. To my… my son.”

Should I have stayed? Sometimes I think so. Yet at that moment I was simply glad to be set free, and to have a direction, a road that would lead me to my Vianne. I saluted him, one Captain to another, and was in the hall before I realized I was running.

*   *   *

The large grays the Guard rides are precious. Their fields are near Tiberius’s palace at Vienciai, south and west of the Citté and under d’Orlaans’s control. So Arran was the only one of their proud number to ride out; the nascent Guard rode their own beasts. Most were of high quality, since a nobleman should know to take care with his horseflesh. But they were motley, and we had no uniforms. I would be hard-pressed to remember a sorrier-looking group of noble younglings, sober with the import of their mission and frightened to death of failure or dishonor.

Sieurs et chivalieri,
we ride to the aid of the Queen of Arquitaine
, I had informed them in the barracks, a few of them retrieved bleary-eyed from the fleshpots of the
Quartier Salieu
.

If you have any doubt of your desire to be of Her Majesty’s Guard, now is the time to express it. Any man may stay behind—there is no shame in deciding, now, that you would rather not hurry toward death. From the moment we ride forth, you are expected to comport yourself as a nobleman and a Queen’s Guard, and any man who does not will feel my wrath.

I was slightly gratified to see no few of them blanch openly at the prospect.

We left Arcenne three hours after I stole Divris di Tatancourt’s dispatch bag; I had no lee to worry of the Messenger and his fate. No doubt he would return to the Keep bearing interesting bruises.

The dark was still summer-soft, but with an edge of chill; the Road was cracked and broken from the siege. For the first hour it was a steady jogtrot, the horses warming themselves. Then I murmured to the lieutenants I had chosen—Tieris di Siguerre, the Conte’s grandson, and Antolan di Sarciere et Vantroche—and the ride began in earnest.

There are songs written about the Ride of the New Guard. None of them come close. I will say this for those younger sons of the Angoulême: Once they passed the gates of Arcenne, they rode uncomplaining, at a pace that punished mere flesh and bone, and they deserve every burst of melodic effort a minstrel can scrape together.

Two Arcenne hedgewitches rode with us, both broad peasant men unused to the saddle. To them fell the task of charming injuries and stretching the endurance of both man and beast. They started the ride with wide shoulders and bellies straining at their shirts; they ended it gaunt as the sleepless noblemen, their belts taken in notch by notch as we passed over Road and countryside as a burning dream through the mind of a fevered woman.

We did not gallop, though the temptation to do so beat in my chest like a Sea Countries clock-tower. Jogtrot and canter, cooling and resting the horses just enough, husbanding our strength as much as we dared. Fifty men and two hedgewitches—a pittance of a Guard. Henri’s had been three hundred strong, and I their leader. Now a bare half-dozen of
them
were left, a frail fence around my Vianne, and they would likely try to separate me from my liver on sight.

We requisitioned what we needed from large holdings or towns on our way, meeting little resistance, as we largely paid in good coin for what we took—when necessary, that is. Rumor ran rife, and I am certain no few of those who provisioned us thought us a troupe of bandits fleeing d’Orlaans’s dragoons. Haggard men with Court sorcery and finemetal blades are not to be trifled with, in any circumstance, and I was not overgracious.

Those days are burned into my dreams. Jingle of tack, the rhythm of hooves, creak of saddle, exhausted breathing of man and horse alike, Arran’s back like a coracle on an unsteady sea, and the rasping. Rasp of stubble, rasp of leather, rasp of exhaustion against the nerves. The peasant men chanting, their throats dry and their eyes rheumy, one of them passing his hands over a horse’s swollen leg, the injury retreating from a burst of green-scented hedgewitchery. Clerion di Hanvrault asleep in the saddle, swaying dangerously before Tieris di Siguerre woke him with a curse and a clout, Tespre and Luc d’Archim, brothers, sometimes singing snatches of courtsong when they had the breath. Antolan di Sarciere reporting on our supplies in a monotone, half-asleep on his feet but still sharp-eyed, his cheeks rough and thinning almost as one watched.

And I? I rode. That was all.

We took the north and eastron route past Bourdanneau, a city and region famed for its bright garnet wine and loyal to Irion di Markui. I had decided not to press too close to the middle of Arcenne held by d’Orlaans, and I deemed it the route with the best Roads; also, I thought it likely we might catch Vianne and her small group. For the R’mini who had brought the dispatches had recently come from very near Santie-di-Sorce, where the sea breathes inland and the famous cheeses are ripened in salt-crusted caves.

We struck inland on the great curve to Doitiers, and there the Roads became clogged with refugees. The Damarsene pressed hard, held at Diljonne and Reimelles at great cost. They burned as they came, and the border provinces, already ravaged by plague, were now scarred by rapine and fire. Citte d’Arquitaine was choked with those fleeing, d’Orlaans and his dragoons turning from the work of tax collection and squeezing every drop of the harvest to the more pressing problem of holding a line against the wolves of Damar. Reimelles had not yet fallen, but twas only a matter of time. An amnesty had been declared—any bandit or rebel, no matter how shameful, was offered a clean escutcheon if he came to the aid of d’Orlaans’s army, and the Hedgewitch Queen, as she was called, had been seen riding hither and yon, rallying the fainthearted.

I worried much on this account, until we reached the warren of Chauvignienne and I heard she was said to have flax-golden hair, instead of Vianne’s dark curls. Rumor, the false mistress, was merely working her mischief.

Peasants fleeing, their carts piled high and creaking; also, bloody and bandaged men, having had their fill of war already, trudging for the south and west with no real thought but to escape. The Damarsene’s reputation—and the fact that their army contained several Pruzian companies with their fire-breathing siege engines, their high horsehair-crested helms, their black armor and their refusal to retreat—only added to the general terror. There were even wild tales of Far Rus mercenaries, Polis and Hese-Arburg vassal companies come to feast on the bones their lords threw.

Our passage slowed on the choked Road between Chauvignienne and Chetenerault, impatience bursting from me at almost every stop, halting only to water our glaze-eyed horses.

One must be careful with charmed beasts; after a while their submission becomes complete and they will run until their hearts burst. It falls to the rider to conserve their strength, to ask just short of the ultimate from them. It falls to a lieutenant to ask just short of the ultimate from his
peloton
, and the captain from his lieutenants. We had to arrive quickly, yes—but also with enough strength to fight.

Though the question of whether we would be given a chance to fight or be simply mown down as we sought to come to Vianne’s aid was an open one.

It takes three weeks or so in good weather to ride from Arcenne to Orlaans—for yes, that is where we were bound. The Field d’Or is very near the city given to the younger sibling of the Heir to the Throne of Arquitaine, Timrothe d’Orlaans’s pride and the fount of his power, from which he rode to Court and engaged in his dances of intrigue, duel, and debauchery.

Vianne—and the men I had commanded as well as the ones I commanded now—were riding into the jaws of a dragon.

It took us six days.

Night, soft and prickling as the straw-yellow wine of Anjerou. Full of the rustling crispness of harvest season, a chill sparking in the blood of every creature. Sleek fat coneys gleaning the leavings, market-squares a-chaos in every town we rode through, peasants begging us for news as we passed with haggard faces and globes of witchlight spelled in relays among the men to light our way. From Tourleon to the outskirts of Orlaans we rode against the tide, but word of our passage seemed to have spread like wildfire. I did not know whom to thank for that—perhaps my father, or merely the chain of rumor written on air that tugs on every peasant ear. In any case, the refugees sought to scatter as we passed, some cursing, shaken fists, children crying in fear. Our pace quickened, though the horses were almost reduced to bone. Arran hung his head at every stop, barely flicking an ear as I muttered to him, apologizing for this treatment and yet, never ceasing to demand.

In the distance, Orlaans lit with torches and witchfire, and the faint carillon of its towers pealing to mark the watch wafted to us on the breeze. We breasted a short rise, as a bloody, not-quite-full harvest moon heaved its bloated self over the horizon, and the Field d’Or glittered below us. Torch and witchlight, smoke from the cookfires, horses neighing in greeting and our own mounts too exhausted to reply. None of them lame or stumbled, one of the hedgewitches riding double with a Guard, the twain belted together so the peasant could sleep without fear of falling.

“Halt! Who goes there?”
they challenged through the moonlit dimness, and I found myself forced to use my voice.

“In the Queen’s name!” My shout, gravel from a long-abused and dust-scorched throat, surprised even me.

But what surprised me more was the answering bellow from fifty scarecrow-gaunt young noblemen, witchlights fizzing and sparking into being as they answered.
“For the Queen’s honor!”

Perhaps twas enough of an answer. In any event, there was some to-ing and fro-ing. Our horses stamped, the hedgewitches waking and tending to them automatically, several of the Guard dismounting to save their mounts’ strength. Hands rested on rapiers, and there was precious little talk. We were too tired, too nerve-strung. And too conscious of the crossbows leveled at us, not to mention the size of the breathing animal that an army becomes while it sleeps.

“Dear gods.” A familiar voice, shaking me from my torpor as I forced myself to perch, spine straight and knees tight, on Arran’s bony back. “As I live and breathe,
Tristan
!”

It was Adersahl di Parmecy et Villeroche, in the familiar crimson-sashed uniform of a Guard—black doublet, white shirt underneath, black breeches, boots that had seen hard use and fresh polish. I finally dismounted, and he approached at the head of a dragoon of hard-faced lowlanders, their pikes held high and their mustaches waxed—though none so fine as Adersahl’s.

He was freshly shaven, except for said mustache, and looked as fit as hard drilling can make a man. I offered my hand and we clasped forearms. To his credit, he did not flinch at my appearance. “You look terrible,” he muttered in my ear, and relief threatened to unloose my knees.

“Where is she?” I rasped. “Is she safe? Is she well?”

“Oh, aye, well enough. Let us tend to your
peloton
; they look ready to drop. How did you come to be
here
?”

“Six days ago we were in Arcenne.” I coughed, clearing the dust from my throat. “See to them, Adersahl; they are good men and well worth it. And tell me where to find my Queen.”

“Six days?” He sounded baffled, a thing I had rarely heard. “But she only sent for you three—”

“I do not
care
.” Why could he not grasp that essential fact? Behind him, the pikesmen eyed us with no little trepidation. “Where is she?”

“Abed, Captain, and we are loath to disturb her. Tis late. We’ll see to your comfort—such as it is. You’ve arrived just in time.” Adersahl was pale, and his smile, now that I looked more closely, was more stretched-thin than I liked. “Tomorrow she treats with d’Orlaans. It is well you’ve arrived.”

I swallowed a venomous curse, made a sign to my lieutenants, and we followed him into the encampment.

*   *   *

To wake in the middle of an unfriendly army camp after a ride such as that is to truly understand
discomfort
.

In the moment before I lunged upright, the camp-cot almost collapsing under me—they are not made for violent movement—I thought I heard a muffled cry, or the sound of a blade drawn from its sheath. Cold sweat greased me, and I found myself with every bone aching, in a rude tent that barely kept the chill of a late harvest-season morning outside its flapping door and thin walls.

I was alone.

The wind moaned. Clashing metal, woodsmoke, nothing amiss. The sound was any army’s rising-song, made up of cursing, the sizzle of cooking, horses stamping and speaking in their own fashion, and the regimented cries and clashes of drill.
One two three, get your arms up, you maggots; polearms come forward; march in time; swing it like you mean it, one two three—death doesn’t wait for chai-time, you
saufe-tets,
move! Move! Move!

The tent was small, no carpet but bare-beaten ground, my saddle and saddlebags on a rickety frame, my swordbelt and the cot. I rubbed sleep from my eyes, yawned, and pulled the doorflap aside to behold the familiarity of an Arquitaine army going about its dawn-waking business. My neck was stiff as bridge stanchions, my back a solid bar of muscle-locked pain, my legs numb. The rest of me did not bear mentioning. Suffice to say no part of my body was happy with the abuse it had endured.