“I wished to be dressed.” My eyelids were so heavy. A great lassitude stole over me. The Aryx pulsed against my chest. Now was not the time to admit I had wanted to leave him the Aryx and flee. Or that I had been planning to intrigue among the Guard to do so. “And the watercloset.”
“Rest, m’chri,” he urged quietly, and I wondered if I had misheard him. Why did he name me thus? It was such an intimate term I would have flushed if I had not been so sick and weak. “We shall speak of this when you wake.”
“Be…careful.” I sighed. My eyes closed, and I sank into the bed. The tisane formed a hard lump in my stomach, spread out in waves of warmth.
When next the Captain spoke, it was that soft considering tone of leashed violence far more frightening than screams or shouts. “Adersahl. Stay here, stand guard. If even a mouse moves in this room, kill it.”
“Aye, Captain.” I had never heard the elder man sound so grave.
“Jierre, Luc, bring our guest. I have a few questions I would ask of him.” He sounded so calm, so reassuringly ordinary, that I sighed again. All was well. D’Arcenne would make it well.
“And if he tries…?” A di Yspres I had never heard before as well — a crisp, almost peremptory lieutenant. No, he would not intrigue against his Captain, even for his Captain’s own good.
“Stick him in the kidneys. It will not matter much later.”
I curled on my side among the pillows. Something pressed against my forehead. It was a kiss, a gentle one, and the smell of Tristan d’Arcenne, leather and steel and male musk, enfolded me for a brief moment.
It was the second kiss he had given me. “My thanks, m’chri.” His breath warmed my ear, as if we were a-horseback and fleeing again.
They dragged the man out, and I wondered even in my daze that they were all alive. The man had a Court accent. How had he found us?
And could di Narborre be far behind?
Chapter Eleven
The angle of sunlight falling into the room said twas morning. I was also hungry — famished, in fact. I was about to reach for the bell on my night table to summon a servant when I remembered, yet again, that I was no longer at Court.
I pushed myself upright and saw the room lying quiet under its gilding of gray, muffled sunglow, and I blinked. I felt lucid, clear-headed, and very weak.
D’Arcenne was at the table, his head on his arms, asleep. His face turned toward me, his eyes closed, and the deep regularity of his breathing was…comforting. He looked as if he had been studying, and merely put his head down for a moment to rest.
The marks of the beating they had gifted him with were only shadows now. His eyelashes lay against his cheeks in two perfect arcs, charcoal-black, and his mouth was slightly open, relaxed. His cheeks were faintly brushed with stubble.
Jierre di Yspres slept on a bedroll by the door. I swallowed hard, and returned to myself in a rush. What had happened to the man last night?
Had he survived until morning? Somehow I doubted it.
Yveris di Palanton. I did not know the name. I thought I knew everyone at Court, at least by sight. I slid my feet out of the bed, inch by inch. The floor was cold, especially after the warm nest of blankets. I felt as one does after prolonged bedrest — weak, itching to move, but not quite sure how far one’s strength will hold.
I tried to stand, my knees shaking, and a floorboard squeaked.
D’Arcenne bolted upright, his sword leaving the scabbard with a whisper. I let out a gasp and sat down so hard my teeth clicked together.
D’Arcenne blinked, examined every corner of the room with a swift glance. The sword vanished. His blue eyes met mine. “Good morn, d’mselle.”
“Captain.” My throat dried like a drought-parched field. It seemed a bloodless way to greet him. So did d’Arcenne. Perhaps I had earned the right to address him otherwise. “Tristan.”
“Vianne.” A slight bow. “You saved my life again.” His gazed locked itself to mine, and his shoulders were stiff. He stood straight as his own rapier, as if he were at drill in a courtyard. “I am beginning to think you a demiange sent from the gods to watch over me, m’chri.”
There it was again. Tristan d’Arcenne was calling me beloved.
A slip of the tongue, nothing more. He was close to death yesterday, that may make a man charitable. “Captain…” I chewed at my bottom lip, searching for something light and diplomatic to say. Nothing arose.
Jierre di Yspres yawned from his bedroll. “And a bright good morn to everyone,” he grumbled, sleep’s gravel evident in his tone. “What time is it, anyway?”
“Time for you to get our fair d’mselle some breakfast.” Tristan’s gaze had not moved from my face. I felt rumpled — I had slept in Tinan di Rocham’s shirt and trousers. Someone had taken the leather vest — perhaps d’Arcenne. That thought sent a hot flare of not-entirely-unpleasant embarrassment through me.
Jierre grumbled a bit more, but he hauled himself upright and made a very pretty Court bow to me, sweeping a nonexistent hat. “Good morn, d’mselle Your Majesty, and lovely to see your fair face.”
I gathered myself. “And better to see your smiling face, sieur chivalier.” I found my accustomed tone, light and accented sharply, as all the Princesse’s women spoke. “What happened?” Is there yet another death lingering in this room?
“Breakfast, Jierre.” D’Arcenne’s tone brooked no discussion.
The lieutenant rolled up his bedroll and stumped cheerfully out the door, scratching at his face and yawning. But he wore two daggers at his belt that he had not before, and I caught a dangerous glint in his dark eyes. I have not seen that look often, except before a duel at Court — a duel I would not witness, being weak of stomach.
It was the look of a man prepared for violence.
I was left with Tristan d’Arcenne and pearly, rainy light filling a room that did not seem to have enough air for me. I sought to breathe deeply, and had little luck. He stood rapier-straight, as if he had not been sleeping in a chair all night.
There, Vianne. Speak of that. It is a safer subject than most. “You slept in a chair, sieur?”
He shrugged. “Jierre and I took turns at the door.”
So little was he disposed to keep to safe subjects. I supposed there was small use for such grace between us, then. “Who was he?” All my attempt at humor dropped away.
He shrugged. Even unshaven and after a night that could not have been comfortable, he was still sharp as a fresh-honed blade. “A nasty little boy who played assassin for the Duc d’Orlaans. I think he is probably the one who killed Simeon di Rothespelle. Cut and spelled his saddlegirth, at least.”
What little breath I had left escaped me. “To kill me?” I had difficulty making myself heard, though the room was quiet and I heard faint marketsong from the other side of the window — chanted songs of wares for sale, cart wheels, horse hooves, murmurs of conversation.
“I doubt he even knew you were here, and I doubt it was more than chance. He often visits his aunt at the manse less than two leagues from here, and he may have recognized me. I was his target, m’chri, and you stopped him.” The Captain took one step, two, away from the table. He did not look at me, now, but at some fixed point above my head. “I owe you my life yet again. And more.”
My hands trembled, so I clasped them firmly together. “I could smell the killspell. I—”
“I know.” He took another two steps. Then another.