The Bandit King (23 page)

And I… lived.

Weak as a newborn kitten. There was a cup at my lips—broth with bitter herbs; I drank. Sought to grimace at the foulness of whatever medicinal properties the draught had. Cursing, a lake of broth spilling over my face, a familiar voice answering my oath with an equally improper one.

“Do not
drown
him, lackwit!” Young di Siguerre grabbed at the cup, and a foreign voice cursed him roundly.

I found myself on a camp-cot, gracelessly sideways, my boots scraping at carpets as I recognized the fabric. Indigo, rich and expensive.

Vianne.

“Where—” My voice would not work properly. Burning invaded my cramped limbs. I coughed, harshly. A gobbet of something foul lodged in my throat, I retched, and the Pruzian cursed again, this time cheerfully, as a basin appeared to catch the bloodclot. Cold air stung all the way down, then, and I was suddenly exquisitely aware of the simple act of breathing in a way I never had been before.

“Son of a donkey-loving whore,”
he finished in Pruzian, spitting each syllable disdainfully.
“I am playing nursemaid to a babbling
Hekzmeizten
so weak I could knife him with no trouble—”

I jerked, twisting, and his harsh caw of amusement scraped my ears.
“I jest,”
he muttered.
“The
fralein,
she left thee in our care. Ease yourself, friend, the
Hekz
takes a toll even while it heals.”

A Pruzian Knife, calling me
friend
? I blinked crusted blood and other matter away.

Young Siguerre cursed as he lifted my legs, managing to slop me onto the cot in passing-fair fashion. “There. You weigh a dray-and-cart, d’Arcenne, and you smell none too fresh either. You are to rest, and the hedgewitch is fetching something for tisane—”

Hedgewitch?
“Vianne…” I sought to raise myself. Managed it shakily, but the tearing in my chest forced me to cease. “What in the name of the Blessed—”

“You are to
rest
, she said. We follow her as soon as you may travel.” Di Siguerre’s young face was graven. “She rides for the relief of Reimelles with those who did not follow the Duc d’Orlaans. He escaped, and no few went with him. Methinks he goes to join the hounds of Damar, or some other such black treachery. Much joy may they have of him, too, wherever he lands. The Queen let him leave with his life.” It was
awe
behind his gaze, I realized, uncomfortable but evident. “She says we will drive back the Damarsene. She says the gods have spoken.”

Reimelles?
The world had gone mad. I stared at him, forcing my wits to work through a cotton-fog.
Damn the woman. Will she never stay in one place?

But Reimelles was one of the first defenses on the road to the Citté. If the Citté fell, Arquitaine was lost. Had Badeau, that ancient hedge against attack from the north and west, granted passage to Damarsene armies? If they had not, there was a faint chance—but Badeau could not hold out for long, and the Damar might simply march through their territory first and ask forgiveness later.

That had happened before, and tis said to be the reason why those of Badeau are ever nervous.

“Gods. What have they to do with Reimelles?” I tested each limb in turn. My chest was a cracked egg of tenderness and aching, but I could move.

“
I
do not know.” Young Siguerre took the basin and blood clot from the Pruzian. “You were lung-pierced, Captain. She healed you. The Aryx broke d’Orlaans’s… thing, whatever it was.”

“He studied long on sorcery,” I managed, gaining another deep breath. Lung-pierced. Such a wound was likely a death sentence unless one had a greatly skilled physicker immediately by, but I was merely tender all through. And strengthless, my limbs heavy and inert.
And he was never very careful of method. Only of results.

Oh, twas possible, I supposed. The dark half of Court sorcery is fueled with blood and pain, and tis not meet for a nobleman. Nor is it quite safe—those who take the Rose Path, as it is known, risk the thorns and sores of sorcery-sickness, not to mention insanity.

I did not think d’Orlaans would cavil overmuch at the risk.

Di Siguerre shrugged. “Good riddance, whatever twas. Here’s the hedgewitch now.”

Twas Coele, one of the pair who had tended horse and Guard during our ride. His broad face was familiar, and his phlegmatic mien doubly so. He thrust a cup of something thick, foul-smelling, and sulfurous under my nose. “Drink, an it please you,
sieur
.”

I had no choice, unless I wished to drown.

“He coughed this up. Should we worry?” Di Siguerre managed the impression of a fretting old maiden auntie tolerably well.

“Clears the lung.” Coele nodded, one arm under my shoulders. I sought not to splutter the contents of the cup. “See the charm, there? Fine work. A goodly scar to tell the
d’mselles
of.”

The Pruzian glanced up at the tent’s interior, then back to me. His quality of silence was the patience of a man who knew how to wait—perhaps the most dangerous sort there is.

When the hedgewitch finally took pity on me and removed the cup, I found myself breathing again with deep, disbelieving gratitude. “Reimelles,” I croaked. “We must ride.”

“Not yet.” Coele immediately gainsaid me. “
M’dama
gave orders. Charm will tear if you ride now.”

“How long?” I sought to rage, could only rasp. “Blessed curse you,
vilhain
, how long am I abed?”

“Longer you thrash, longer it takes.” The man nodded to di Siguerre. “
Sieur
. I’m off to mix more tisane; back in an hour to charm him afresh.”

“Very well.” Siguerre was left holding the basin; he made a face at it and stamped out of eyeshot, the bowl clattering as he placed it somewhere.

The Pruzian leaned over me.
“Rest,”
he said, in his unlovely mother tongue.
“I shall be watchful,
m’Hier.
She suspects.”

I would have inquired just what he meant, but Siguerre returned to my bedside. “Di Sarciere’s half of the Guard went with Her Majesty, Captain.”

“How many left with her? Who commands at Reimelles?”

“The Old Guard, half the New, more than half of d’Orlaans’s forces gathered here. Of the command of Remeilles… I do not know.”

Jierre would have known.
I could have cursed at him. Instead, I merely closed my eyes. I had attempted what she asked of me—yet I had miscarried. D’Orlaans still lived. I had not gained the chance to challenge him afresh after di Narborre fell.

And here I was, lung-pierced, sedated by a peasant hedgewitch, and
useless
, while she rode with an army perhaps full of treachery. Much would depend on who commanded the forces at Reimelles, whether twas one of d’Orlaans’s creatures or a noble who cared little for the erstwhile Duc. There would be much to do, and much she would not think to ask for or on. I racked my brains, but I could not think of who had been enseated at Reimelles during the last year.

It was perhaps not possible for her to turn back the Damarsene with a ragged army of possibly-treacherous men, and she must guard against d’Orlaans even more carefully now. Relieving him of the burden of ceremony and protocol meant that he could strike from the shadows at any moment—and she had none at her side capable of anticipating or turning aside such a blow.

At least she had her new Captain. Jierre, showing a depth of dissimulation I had scarce thought he possessed. Had he been pretending to think me a traitor, or was he pretending to think summat else now? Either way, he was showing subtlety.

Vianne could make a man into whatever she wished, did she but realize it.

She knew what I had done, and perhaps hated me for it. Yet she had spilled from her palfrey and come to me. She had
held
me. Had even cried aloud.

Because I could not stand the thought of your beheading, Captain
, she had informed me, archly, once.

Could she still not stand the thought of my death? Twas another small mercy, one with thorns. But I took it, and fell into a drugged, twilit sleep.

*   *   *

The Field d’Or was deserted. Yellowed grass, stamped-bare dust, the charred remains of fires, the Pavilion standing lone and dark against a gray-clouded sky. Stray dogs nosed among the smoking midden-heaps d’Orlaans had left behind.

Packhorses and plenty of provisions were left for our small band. Perhaps Jierre had seen to it. Tents had been left as well for my nursemaids, and the large blue embroidered monstrosity as well.
I shall not need it
, Vianne had said to young Siguerre.
Let him rest in comfort, for once.

Other than that, she had left no word for me. Nothing but the scar on my chest, angrily red and tender, and a matching scar on my back. Di Garonne had done his work well. The mark on my face did not count, for twas healed already. But still I felt it, plucking at my expression as I lay exhausted and fretting.

Coele did his level best to keep me down and drugged, but the second day after the duel I grimly hauled myself from the cot, barked at di Siguerre to fetch my shaving-kit, and cursed the hedgewitch roundly when he sought to dose me with a sedative draught again. The Pruzian found this amusing indeed, to judge by his sardonic grin.

At least he had not knifed me while I lay abed.

“No more sleep-herbs, by the Blessed,” I snapped. “Dose me with aught else you will, hedgewitch, but do not blunt my wits. They are blunt enough.”

“Aye to
that
,
sieur
,” he snapped in return, flushed and irritated, clutching the rejected cup in both hands. “The charm is fragile; it may tear and you will bleed out in a heartbeat. Or drown in your own claret.
M’dama
said you were to rest—”

“She is my Queen, not my nursemaid. I serve her better thus.” I forced my legs to straighten, pushing myself up. To stand made my chest ache in a wholly different way, but twas bearable.

Just, but bearable.

“She said—”

“She is
not here
,” I pointed out. “And I am determined,
sieur
physicker. Turn your attention to mixtures that will not send me to Kimyan’s realm, and I shall take charge of aught else. And eat something,” I called after him as he stamped away. “I shall need you hale!”

“Idiot,”
the Pruzian commented, pleasantly.

“He keeps muttering in that foreign tongue of his.” Siguerre, his thumbs in his belt, stood slim and dark and maddeningly young at the other doorflap. “What does he say?”

“Oh, he oft insults me. Mayhap he thinks I do not notice.
Son of a monkeyfaced dogsucking fishmonger’s collop-rod
.” The little filth in Pruzian managed to vent some of my spleen.

The Knife actually laughed, a surprisingly merry sound.
“I begin to think you a worthy brother,
m’Hier.”

“Which does not explain why you are here, and she without your services.”

He shrugged.
“She is remarkably persuasive.”

“What does he say?” Young Siguerre looked uneasy. I had noted he did not turn his back to the Pruzian, which said well of him.

I did not give it much thought, being too occupied with keeping my unruly body from toppling. “He remarks that the Queen is marvelous persuasive when she makes requests of her subjects. So I have found, indeed.”
Has she found it easy to outplay me? She was wasted as a lady-in-waiting.
“Did you bring my shaving-kit? Ah, good man. Tell the men to cache whatever we cannot carry; we leave for Reimelles at the nooning.”

“Not another ride,” he groaned, with feeling, and I was surprised into a grim laugh.

“We have a slow-moving army two days afoot of us. I
think
we are capable of catching such a beast without injuring your tender backside further.”

“Dear Blessed”—he addressed the tent’s indigo-dyed roof—“did our Captain unbend enough to jest with me? Surely the Riving of the Maelstrom is nigh.”

He was young, after all—and he had earned some small right to jest at my expense. Jierre would have had harsher words for me—and he still might, did he survive Vianne’s next adventure.

So I chose judicious severity, leavened with praise. “If the hounds of Damar break Reimelles, it may very well be. But with us in the field, Tieris, Arquitaine is safer. Your grandfather would be proud.”

He all but flinched. “If he is, Captain, twould be the first time. We shall leave at the nooning.” A nobleman’s salute, and he ducked through the flap.

Well. That is interesting.
I blew out a long, frustrated breath. When the body will not obey, despite all a man’s cursing and will, tis almost as maddening as following a foolhardy woman across a war-torn country as she flings herself into every danger she can find.

Almost.

Fridrich van Harkke was suddenly at my side. He even
smelled
foreign, some odd combination of oil and tanned Pruzian leather, a bitter undertone as of young
dandille
greens. He braced me, and murmured something in his harsh tongue. Sorcery tingled along my fingers and toes. Twas merely a simple warming-charm, but its oily harshness scraped my skin.