Her throat worked as she swallowed. “Captain,” she whispered.
“Vianne.” I could not speak any louder.
She visibly gathered herself. I waited. “Is it… is it time?”
I realized what she was asking, and cursed myself for being lackwitted clear through. “Tis time, Vianne, but not for what you think. I would not harm you.”
She shook her head. “I…”
“How can you even think I would harm you?” Quietly, but with great force.
Her chin lifted a fraction. “I had… I must be sure. How did you…”
“I am a fool for you, m’chri. Not an idiot.” I spread my hands slowly, so she could see what I held.
The ear-drop glowed in my palm. She inhaled sharply, and her gaze fluttered to my face, seeking to read whatever it could.
I wished her luck. I wished to be an open book to her. But would she ever know what language to read upon my features? “He is well, Vianne. You would have heard by now, were he not. We have come to an agreement, your bandit cousin and I.”
“And I am unnecessary, now?” Her chin tilted up slightly, brave to the last.
“Not to me.” I searched for the right thing to say. “I am not his Left Hand.”
The breath left her in a rush. She had paled alarmingly. “Tristan…” A mere ghost of a word.
Finally. Not “Captain” or “ sieur.” I throttled the hope rising in me. “Do your R’mini pass near Arcenne, Vianne?”
“What?” She struggled to understand. Or perhaps to throttle the hope plainly visible on her features.
Finer than I deserved, as always. She hoped for my redemption, my Vianne. She had played her hand well, and freed us both. Except she could not unlock the chains of what I had been, and what I had done.
Not even the Blessed held that key. But if I could, if she let me, I would do my best to be the man I should have.
Unless it was too late. I cast my dice. “I would see my mother again. She would no doubt be glad to see your face as well. We may not stay in Arcenne. It could be… misconstrued. But over the mountains, to Navarrin… or, Tiberia. There is a house in Citté Immortale, ready to be filled with books.”
“And if I do not wish to?” A swift, abortive movement, as if she wished to flee.
I pointed to her left hand. The copper marriage-band glittered as the music throbbed outside, yells rising as the pair dancing performed some sorcery that earned the approval of their audience.
“It seems I cannot rid myself of…” She lifted her hand slightly, gazed ruefully at the band. “Tris.”
“You do not have to forgive me.” The consciousness of lying struck me, quick and hard as a mailed fist. My pulse pounded in my ears. “I will not ask it of you.” That was the truth. “If you tell me to go, I will. I will pass the remainder of the life the Blessed see fit to grant me in Arcenne, waiting for your call. I will even, do you require it of me, return to your cousin and safeguard his life with my own. I will trouble you no more. I am… sorry. It does not erase the ill, Vianne. I am worse than you can imagine. But I would be… better, if I could.”
She hesitated. Did she wish to, she could scream. They would come running, her traveling-companions.
Her shoulders lifted. She stepped back, her hand searching for the door. I forced myself to stand mute, frozen, every scar I had gained in my life a map of fire and failure, the blackness in me rising as my hope drew back from me. I closed my eyes. Why were my cheeks wet? The scar on my face gathered a tear, hot salt water tracing a runnel down its seam.
There was a click. Slight creaking as her weight shifted.
Her fingertips touched my damp face. Slid down the scar she had gifted me, and twas a balm. Mercy for the desperate, hope for the hopeless.
She had locked the wagon’s door.
“Tristan.”
“Vianne.” A whisper. I could not speak louder.
“If I am to trust you, there are things you must do.”
“Anything.” The word was merely a croaking prayer. Please. If there is any mercy, let it be spent here.
“No politics.” Her voice caught. Was there summat caught in her throat, as there was a rock in mine? “No Queen, no Left Hand. No Court. No power, or position, or games of loyalty. No betrayal, no assassination, none of it. I will not have it. I cannot bear it. I have given up everything.” She touched my lips. “Are you willing to be simply Tristan, as I am simply Vianne?”
I nodded, helpless. “That was all I ever wanted,” I admitted. D’Orlaans may show himself again, though. If he does, he will strike at you. “Vianne—”
She covered my mouth, standing on tiptoe, her slender weight pressed against me and her soft palm a brand against my skin. “Hush.”
I did. I found the courage to look at her again. No more burning in her gaze. Nothing but sadness and terrible knowledge. A burden I would ease, would share—if she would let me.
If she would allow it.
She bit her lower lip, and I longed to erase her uncertainty.
Finally, she reached yet another decision, and her face eased. She nodded, once, as if I had spoken. Perhaps she thought I had; perhaps my longing was a cry she could hear.
“Douse the candle,” my hedgewitch said. “I will think of something to tell them in the morning.”
A small golden flame winked out as the music crashed to its finish outside, and the cheers and laughter of the R’mini echoed, rising to the cold stars. She took me in her arms once more. And here I will cease, for what else that night held is not to be told to strangers, and the Left Hand is dead.
For now.
Finis
Glossary
Ansinthe: A venomous green liquor distilled from wyrmrithe
Aufsbar: (Prz.) Client
Blessed, the: (Arq.) The Twelve Gods of Arquitaine, six Old (indigenous) and six New (brought by the conqueror Angoulême)
Demiange: (Arq.) Sorcerous or half-divine spirit; many of them wait upon the gods in the Westron Halls
Demieri di sorce: (Arq.) Sorcerous spirits of night and mischief
D’mselle: (Arq.) Honorific, for a young woman
Festival of Sunreturn: One of the great cross-quarter festivals
G’ji g’jai: (R’m.) Foreign (lit. Other) whore
Hedgewitch: (Arq.) One who practices peasant sorcery
M’chri, m’cher: (Arq.) Beloved, dear one
M’dama: (Arq.) Honorific, for an older woman
Rhuma: A fiery clear liquor distilled from sucre
Sieur: (Arq.) Honorific, for a man
Valadka: A clear, very potent liquor
Vilhain: (Arq.) Bastard
Meet the Author
Lilith Saintcrow was born in New Mexico, bounced around the world as an Air Force brat, and fell in love with writing when she was ten years old. She currently lives in Vancouver, WA. Find her on the web at: www.lilithsaintcrow.com.
Lilith Saintcrow, photo © Daron Gildow, 2010.
If you enjoyed THE BANDIT KING,
look out for
THE IRON WYRM AFFAIR
Banon and Clare: Book One
by Lilith Saintcrow
Chapter One
A Pleasant Evening Ride
Emma Bannon, Sorceress Prime and servant to Britannia’s current incarnation, mentally ran through every foul word that would never cross the lips of a lady. She timed them to the clockhorse’s steady jogtrot, and her awareness dilated. The simmering cauldron of the streets was just as it always was; there was no breath of ill intent.
Of course, there had not been earlier, either, when she had been a quarter-hour too late to save the other unregistered mentath. It was only one of the many things about this situation seemingly designed to try her often considerable patience.
Mikal would be taking the rooftop road, running while she sat at ease in a hired carriage. It was the knowledge that while he did so he could forget some things that eased her conscience, though not completely.
Still, he w
as a Shield. He would not consent to share a carriage with her unless he was certain of her safety. And there was not room enough to manoeuvre in a two-person conveyance, should he require it.
She was heartily sick of hired carts. Her own carriages were far more comfortable, but this matter required discretion. Having it shouted to the heavens that she was alert to the pattern under these occurrences might not precisely frighten her opponents, but it would become more difficult to attack them from an unexpected quarter. Which was, she had to admit, her preferred method.
Even a Prime can benefit from guile, Llew had often remarked. And of course, she would think of him. She seemed constitutionally incapable of leaving well enough alone, and that irritated her as well.
Beside her, Clare dozed. He was a very thin man, with a long, mournful face; his gloves were darned but his waistcoat was of fine cloth, though it had seen better days. His eyes were blue, and they glittered feverishly under half-closed lids. An unregistered mentath would find it difficult to secure proper employment, and by the looks of his quarters, Clare had been suffering from boredom for several weeks, desperately seeking a series of experiments to exercise his active brain.
Mentath was like sorcerous talent. If not trained, and used, it turned on its bearer.
At least he had found time to shave, and he had brought two bags. One, no doubt, held linens. God alone knew what was in the second. Perhaps she should apply deduction to the problem, as if she did not have several others crowding her attention at the moment.
Chief among said problems were the murderers, who had so far eluded her efforts. Queen Victrix was young, and just recently freed from the confines of her domineering mother’s sway. Her new Consort, Alberich, was a moderating influence–but he did not have enough power at Court just yet to be an effective shield for Britannia’s incarnation.
The ruling spirit was old, and wise, but Her vessels… well, they were not indestructible.
And that, Emma told herself sternly, is as far as we shall go with such a train of thought. She found herself rubbing the sardonyx on her left middle finger, polishing it with her opposite thumb. Even through her thin gloves, the stone prickled hotly. Her posture did not change, but her awareness contracted. She felt for the source of the disturbance, flashing through and discarding a number of fine invisible threads.
Blast and bother. Other words, less polite, rose as well. Her pulse and respiration did not change, but she tasted a faint tang of adrenalin before sorcerous training clamped tight on such functions to free her from some of flesh’s more… distracting… reactions.
“I say, whatever is the matter?” Archibald Clare’s blue eyes were wide open now, and he looked interested. Almost, dare she think it, intrigued. It did nothing for his long, almost ugly features. His cloth was serviceable, though hardly elegant–one could infer that a mentath had other priorities than fashion, even if he had an eye for quality and the means to purchase such. But at least he was cleaner than he had been, and had arrived in the hansom in nine and a half minutes precisely. Now they were on Sarpesson Street, threading through amusement-seekers and those whom a little rain would not deter from their nightly appointments.
The disturbance peaked, and a not-quite-seen starburst of gunpowder igniting flashed through the ordered lattices of her consciousness.
The clockhorse screamed as his reins were jerked, and the hansom yawed alarmingly. Archibald Clare’s hand dashed for the door handle, but Emma was already moving. Her arms closed around the tall, fragile man, and she shouted a Word that exploded the cab away from them both. Shards and splinters, driven outwards, peppered the street surface. The glass of the cab’s tiny windows broke with a high, sweet tinkle, grinding into crystalline dust.
Shouts. Screams. Pounding footsteps. Emma struggled upright, shaking her skirts with numb hands. The horse had gone avast, rearing and plunging, throwing tiny metal slivers and dribs of oil as well as stray crackling sparks of sorcery, but the traces were tangled and it stood little chance of running loose. The driver was gone, and she snapped a quick glance at the overhanging rooftops before the unhealthy canine shapes resolved out of thinning rain, slinking low as gaslamp gleam painted their slick, heaving sides.
Sootdogs. Oh, how unpleasant. The one that had leapt on the hansom’s roof had most likely taken the driver, and Emma cursed aloud now as it landed with a thump, its shining hide running with vapour.
“Most unusual!” Archibald Clare yelled. He had gained his feet as well, and his eyes were alight now. The mournfulness had vanished. He had also produced a queerly barrelled pistol, which would be of no use against the dog-shaped sorcerous things now gathering. “Quite diverting!”
The star sapphire on her right third finger warmed. A globe-shield shimmered into being, and to the roil of smouldering wood, gunpowder and fear was added another scent: the smoke-gloss of sorcery. One of the sootdogs leapt, crashing into the shield, and the shock sent Emma to her knees, holding grimly. Both her hands were outstretched now, and her tongue occupied in chanting.
Sarpesson Street was neither deserted nor crowded at this late hour. The people gathering to watch the outcome of a hansom crash pushed against those onlookers alert enough to note that something entirely different was occurring, and the resultant chaos was merely noise to be shunted aside as her concentration narrowed.
Where is Mikal?
She had no time to wonder further. The sootdogs hunched and wove closer, snarling. Their packed-cinder sides heaved and black tongues lolled between obsidian-chip teeth; they could strip a large adult male to bone in under a minute. There were the onlookers to think of as well, and Clare behind and to her right, laughing as he sighted down the odd little pistol’s chunky nose. Only he was not pointing it at the dogs, thank God. He was aiming for the rooftop.
You idiot. The chant filled her mouth. She could spare no words to tell him not to fire, that Mikal was—
The lead dog crashed against the shield. Emma’s body jerked as the impact tore through her, but she held steady, the sapphire now a ringing blue flame. Her voice rose, a clear contralto, and she assayed the difficult rill of notes that would split her focus and make another Major Work possible.
That was part of what made a Prime–the ability to concentrate completely on multiple channellings of ætheric force. One’s capacity could not be infinite, just like the charge of force carried and renewed every Tideturn.
But one did not need infinite capacity. One needs only slightly more capacity than the problem at hand calls for, as her third-form Sophological Studies professor had often intoned.
Mikal arrived.
His dark green coat fluttered as he landed in the midst of the dogs, a Shield’s fury glimmering to Sight, bright spatters and spangles invisible to normal vision. The sorcery-made things cringed, snapping; his blades tore through their insubstantial hides. The charmsilver laid along the knives’ flats, as well as the will to strike, would be of far more use than Mr Clare’s pistol.
Which spoke, behind her, the ball tearing through the shield from a direction the protection wasn’t meant to hold. The fabric of the shield collapsed, and Emma had just enough time to deflect the backlash, tearing a hole in the brick-faced fabric of the street and exploding the clockhorse into gobbets of metal and rags of flesh, before one of the dogs turned with stomach-churning speed and launched itself at her–and the man she had been charged to protect.
She shrieked another Word through the chant’s descant, her hand snapping out again, fingers contorted in a gesture definitely not acceptable in polite company. The ray of ætheric force smashed through brick dust, destroying even more of the road’s surface, and crunched into the sootdog.
Emma bolted to her feet, snapping her hand back, and the line of force followed as the dog crumpled, whining and shattering into fragments. She could not hold the forcewhip for very long, but if more of the dogs came—
The last one died under Mikal’s flashing knives. He muttered something in his native tong
ue, whirled on his heel, and stalked toward his Prima. That normally meant the battle was finished.
Yet Emma’s mind was not eased. She half turned, chant dying on her lips and her gaze roving, searching. Heard the mutter of the crowd, dangerously frightened. Sorcerous force pulsed and bled from her fingers, a fountain of crimson sparks popping against the rainy air. For a moment the mood of the crowd threatened to distract her, but she closed it away and concentrated, seeking the source of the disturbance.
Sorcerous traces glowed, faint and fading, as the man who had fired the initial shot–most likely to mark them for the dogs–fled. He had some sort of defence laid on him, meant to keep him from a sorcerer’s notice.
Perhaps from a sorcerer, but not from a Prime. Not from me, oh no. The dead see all. Her Discipline was of the Black, and it was moments like these when she would be glad of its practicality–if she could spare the attention.
Time spun outwards, dilating, as she followed him over rooftops and down into a stinking alley, refuse piled high on each side, running with the taste of fear and blood in his mouth. Something had injured him.
Mikal? But then why did he not kill the man—
The world jolted underneath her, a stunning blow to her shoulder, a great spiked roil of pain through her chest. Mikal screamed, but she was breathless. Sorcerous force spilled free, uncontained, and other screams rose.
She could possibly injure someone.
Emma came back to herself, clutching at her shoulder. Hot blood welled between her fingers, and the green silk would be ruined. Not to mention her gloves.
At least they had shot her, and not the mentath.
Oh, damn. The pain crested again, became a giant animal with its teeth in her flesh.