“He will live.” The hedgewitch’s grudging failed to wound me, though he looked as if he wished it did.
Still, my graciousness did not waver.
Well, perhaps it wavered slightly. “Thank you, Bryony.”
“Tis my duty.” Bryony gathered up his physicker’s implements, and left without so much as a good-bye. He had to press past Tristan, whose shoulders nearly filled the door.
“I need summat to perch upon — Adersahl?” I did not wish to loom over the wounded man.
The stocky Guard pointed out the low, three-legged stool near the door, which I fetched myself, overriding his protests. Then I set it by the cot and sank down, arranging my skirts. I am not so tall for a woman, so I was able to rest my hands on my knees properly, my back straight.
It was time. I met the man’s glittering, fevered glance. “B’joure,” I said, as if meeting him at Court. “I am Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy. Do you speak Arquitaine?”
He blinked. His gaze flicked over Tristan and Adersahl. Back to me.
“Oh dear.” I switched to Tiberian. “Tiberian? Do you speak Tiberian?”
He coughed. It was a low, thin sound. “Some,” he rasped. “Arq’taine.” His accent mangled the words — Pruzian is an unlovely tongue at best. It sounds like hacking with a heavy cold and chopping the words into little bits as you spit in the face of your conversational partner. “You. D’mselle.”
My eyebrows lifted. “You speak some Arquitane. That is very good.” I made my words slow and distinct. “What is your name?”
He had a strong jaw, stubbled with charcoal hair; the swelling on his face had gone down. “Fridrich.” His lips shaped the word oddly, and he smelled of illness and pain. “Fridrich van Harkke.”
“Tis a pleasure, sieur.” I offered him my hand, dropped it back in my lap when he made no move. “I am very sorry they mistreated you. It will not happen again.” Or I will be forsworn, and I will do much more than give the Guard a verbal spanking. “I wish to ask you questions. Surely you understand?”
“Hired. Word is bond.” He shook his head painfully, his hair rasping on the pillow. “No name of aufsbar.”
“Aufsbar?” It was my turn to mangle a word, my mouth would not shape the harsh sounds.
“Client,” he supplied, his eyelids drooping still further.
“Surely you can tell me who your targets were? Please?” I reached up and gently pushed the tangled dark hair from his face. I tried not to touch his bruised skin. Sickness, like a fruit laid too long in a dark corner, an unhealthy reek. “If that is an affair of honor too, I am afraid we shall have to keep you in the donjon. It will not be comfortable, but you will not be mistreated.”
His eyes glittered, glittered. Watching me as a wounded snake might watch a bird hopping just out of range.
I sighed, and laid my hand against his chest where Bryony had. Fever-heat blurred through the cloth doublet they had given him.
The charm rose, simple and undeniable in its rightness, the Aryx lending its strength to the healing with no demur. When I opened my eyes and took my hand away, the faint green glimmers of hedgewitchery still clung to my fingers. “As you like. But hear me. If you tell us who your targets were, I offer you your freedom, Fridrich van Harkke. You may leave Arcenne as soon as you are well enough, and we shall give you a horse and supplies too. You may go home, or whither you will.”
That seemed to strike him as terribly amusing. He gave a dry whistling laugh. “Was not meant to kill. Bring back the prettybit — you. Kill blue-eyed Baron and his son. Was our job. You were not meant to be harmed, fralein. Only brought.”
Well, that’s comforting. At least the game has not changed to that high a degree. “Thank you, sieur van Harrke. You shall be visited every day by the physicker, and I shall visit as well. When you are hale enough, you shall be set free outside the town’s walls.”
He closed his eyes, blowing out a sigh. He obviously did not think much of my promises.
I did not blame him.
There was only one thing left to say. “Your friends.” My voice was soft. “I am sorry for them.” I would not have more death, not even yours. I cannot prevent it, but I would not have it.
“Know the risk. Das miez’weizs,” he rasped. His breathing deepened into the steady harsh rhythm of sleep.
I made it to my feet a little less than gracefully, backed away from the cot for a few steps before turning to the door. Tristan offered me his hand. “Did you learn aught of interest?” His eyes rested on the assassin, and he made no attempt to disguise his loathing.
Far more than I thought possible. “I did.” I learned the Duc wishes me unharmed, that I was to be brought. Presumably there were plans to take me from Arcenne, which makes it even more imperative to know precisely where di Narborre is. I have also learned a little of this man, and I think he may be amenable to further usefulness.
After all, returning to the Duc is not a choice he can make. Not comfortably, at least.
Adersahl followed us out, locked the door. I saw the shadows under his eyes. I should set another Guard, but who can I trust? “Adersahl? Who may I trust to watch him, and not slip a knife between his ribs?”
Adersahl considered this, glancing at Tristan, who manfully restrained from commenting. “Jespre di Vidancourt. Levelheaded, not given to impulsiveness.”
“I shall have him sent down. Thank you.” He had been on guard for far too long, down here in this dank hole. “No — it strikes me, Tristan and I shall stay here. Go tell Jespre to hie himself here, and you take some rest.”
He swept me a bow with alacrity. “Now there is a happy thought. My thanks, Your Majesty.”
“Oh, do not flatter.” I offered him my hand, which he kissed. “Thank you, Adersahl. I am glad of you.”
He grinned, twirled his mustache, and left. Which left me alone with Tristan outside the Pruzian’s cell. He leaned against the wall, his entire posture languid and easy. But his jaw was too tight, and his left hand clenched on his swordhilt.
I peered through the door. The Pruzian lay in torch-dappled shadow, and I wondered if I could see a gleam of eyes. I wondered also if he needed more than just a thin blanket against the chill damp. “You are angry.” I stated the obvious once again.
“Why do you say that, m’chri?” But his fingers tapped his swordhilt.
“Because I would be a poor Consort indeed if I could not tell.”
He sighed, deeply, an aggrieved sound. “I am not angered at you.”
“Who else would you be angry at?” Speak to me. Let us not allow silence between us, my darling.
“The vilhain that sent Pruzian Knives to collect you, perhaps? The vilhain who killed my King? Or perhaps the saufe-tet that chased us through Arquitaine and nearly cost you your life?” He shook his dark head, the gray at his temple flashed. “But I could not ever be angry at you. Why do you not understand?”