The Bandit King (35 page)

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

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

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

E
mma 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 was 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.