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“Your business.” The Marquis d’Arguil smiled knowingly. “Naamah’s business, you mean!”

“As my lord says.” I smiled in reply, laying two fingers over my lips in the gesture betokening discretion. Joscelin, unseen, rolled his eyes. “I will do my best.”

We parted ways with cordial farewells, the d’Arguils’ Cassiline guard making another ceremonial display, bowing low enough to reveal his hair clubbed at the back of his neck. He bore no sword, though, only daggers. Ysandre had forbidden it in the Palace. This time, Joscelin acknowledged him with a dour nod. The hilt of his sword, wrapped in well-worn leather, was visible over his shoulder, token of the Queen’s trust.

“Elua preserve me,” Joscelin said when they had left. “Was I ever such a prig?”

I took his arm. “Worse.”

He laughed. “Well, mayhap. Remind me to have plans when next the d’Arguils invite us to a fête. Phèdre.” There was a change in his voice, and I glanced up at him. “Had you planned on questioning L’Envers yourself?”

“I had.” I gauged his thoughtful frown. “You think Ysandre will send for him?”

“Mm-hmm.” He looked down at me. “He’s her nearest kin. I think she’d confront him privately before accusing him for the world to see. How badly do you wish to ask him first?”

I thought about it. If Ysandre had a flaw, it was in her willingness to believe the best of people she loved. “Badly enough. Where is he?”

“Champs-de-Guerre.” Joscelin raised his brows, offering an unspoken comment on Barquiel L’Envers’ continued appointment to the role of Royal Commander. It had been a temporary thing, born out of necessity after Percy de Somerville’s betrayal. But Ysandre had never revoked her uncle’s appointment or named another commander. “It’s less than a day’s ride. We could arrive before she decides to send a courier if we left this afternoon.”

“Well.” I squeezed his arm gratefully. “It seems our business does require travel.”

If I thought we would get away clean, I was mistaken. Ti-Philippe was awaiting our return, bursting with news. He could scarce wait for me to finish giving instructions to Eugenie to prepare an overnight travel bag for our journey to the training-grounds and barracks of the Royal Army.

“My lady!” he said, grinning fit to split his face. “You were wrong. There
is
a scholar at the City Academy who’s studied Jebean lore, only she’s a musician, not a linguist. Her father was a master drummer at Eglantine House fifty years ago; he travelled the world by sea after he made his marque, and studied in Jebe-Barkal many years. She made a fair-copy of the scroll, and thought she could have it translated on the morrow. And the Tsingano, Emile, he promised to call upon you in the morning.”

“Tomorrow?” I pulled a face. “I’ve made plans to go to Champs-de-Guerre. Tell the Jebean scholar … what’s her name?”

“Audine Davul.”

“Tell my lady Davul that I will call on her on my return, and tell Emile … tell Emile I’ll do the same.”

“In Night’s Doorstep?” Ti-Philippe sounded skeptical. I laughed.

“Why not? It’s been too long since I had a drink at the Cockerel. It was my haven, once upon a time. Do you remember, we went there when first I brought you to the City. Mayhap I’ve been too long in rarified circles.”

“I’ll tell him.” Ti-Philippe paused. “My lady, he said to tell you that Manoj is dead, and the
kumpanias
of the Tsingani speak the name of Hyacinthe, son of Anasztaizia, at the crossroads.”

I went still, remembering. Manoj was Hyacinthe’s grandfather; the Tsingan kralis, King of the Tsingani. Anasztaizia was his daughter, Hyacinthe’s mother, betrayed and reviled by her own people. It would mean more than words could say to Hyacinthe that the Tsingani had not forgotten him, the Prince of Travellers, that he was remembered as his mother’s son. “Tell him …” I said softly. “Tell him I am grateful for the knowledge.”

“As you wish,” Ti-Philippe said, keeping his reservations to himself.

With our affairs thus in order and Eugenie’s admonitions ringing in our ears, Joscelin and I took our leave once more, and the white walls of the City of Elua fell behind us as we headed northward toward the Champs-de-Guerre. I told him as we rode what Ti-Philippe had related to me. Unlike my chevalier, Joscelin understood. He had been there, when Hyacinthe made his choice, turning his back on the inheritance that awaited him to lay the gift of the
dromonde
before me and assuage my terrors.

“The Prince of Travellers,” Joscelin said, shaking his head. “Do you know, I truly never believed him before that? Until we met the Tsingan kralis himself, I thought it was just another damned Tsingano lie.”

“So did I,” I murmured. “Elua forgive me.”

“Well, I’m not sure even Hyacinthe knew the truth of it until then.” He jogged his mount alongside mine, eventually glancing sidelong at me. “Master of the Straits. It’s hard to think of him thus. You do know she’s in love with him?”

I gazed at the road before me betwixt my mount’s forward-pricked ears. “Sibeal?”

“Mm-hmm.”

I thought of the hope that had shone in her face, in her soft-spoken words.
You will find a way to free him
. I wondered if Hyacinthe knew, and what he felt about it. I wondered what I felt about it. But all I said aloud was, “I know.”

Thirteen

WE PASSED the night in a pleasant inn, enjoying our evening meal in an open-air courtyard and conversing with other travellers. In the morning we found our mounts well rested, coats curried to a high sheen, led out to the roadside mounting-block by a country lad, his hands and feet too large for his gangling frame. He blushed and bowed when Joscelin gave him a silver centime, stealing glances at me beneath lashes as long as a girl’s. One day he would break hearts, I thought, but not yet.

And then we were on our way again, riding down tree-lined roads through the fertile heart of D’Angeline farmland.

The sun was not yet high overhead when we reached Champs-de-Guerre, those broad green fields where the standing army of Terre d’Ange trained and was barracked. Inquiring at the officer’s quarters, we were told that Duc Barquiel L’Envers was reviewing a corps of infantrymen on the main field.

“Shall we wait?” Joscelin asked. “They’ll break soon enough for the midday meal.”

“No,” I said decisively. “Let’s meet Lord Barquiel on the field.”

An obliging lieutenant directed us to the place, though I reckon we’d have found it by the noise alone. It was a vast field, green turf churned to muddy collops by a thousand booted feet, with the grunting of men at strife and the clash of armor against armor and sword on shield resounding in the sunlit air.

’Twas easy enough to pick out Barquiel L’Envers, striding alongside the skirmish, a surcoat of L’Envers’ purple over his steel-plated armor, shouting exhortations at subcommanders and infantrymen alike. I drew rein on my mount and Joscelin followed suit.

Presently Barquiel noticed, and gave orders to his standard-bearerto signal the practice ended. He himself came striding over with a grin.

“Well, well, well.” Planting his feet, Barquiel L’Envers cocked his head at me. “Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

“Your grace.” I inclined my head, still seated in my saddle. Sunlight flashed on the Companion’s Star pinned at my breast, an unsubtle reminder that I had leave to address him as an equal. “There is a matter I wish to discuss with you.”

Beneath his turbaned helmet, an affectation from his days as the ambassador to Khebbel-im-Akkad, Barquiel L’Envers raised his brows. “Is there, indeed? And what does my lady Comtesse offer in exchange for free range to my thoughts?”

I sat back, nonplussed. “What does my lord Duc desire?”

If it was an assignation, I had no intention of granting it; but Barquiel L’Envers was too clever for aught so obvious. His violet gaze, so like his niece Ysandre’s, moved off me and onto Joscelin. “There is a myth,” he said casually, “popular among my men, that a bare-headed Cassiline with a sword and vambraces can defeat a soldier in field armor bearing sword and shield in open battle. I say it is romantic folly. What do you say, Messire Verreuil? Shall we put it to the test?”

“Your grace.” Joscelin’s voice was mild. “I cannot claim that honor. I have been declared anathema by the Cassiline Brotherhood.”

“Ah, yes.” L’Envers smiled. “The Queen’s Champion, Lady Phèdre’s consort, the eternal apostate. And yet, Messire Verreuil, when people say
The Cassiline
, they speak of you. Will you not cross swords with me?”

Joscelin and I exchanged a glance. No words, not even a shrug were needed; we knew each other’s minds, and the decision was his. “As you say, your grace,” he said to L’Envers, “I am Cassiel’s servant still in my own way.” He shook his head. “And as such, I draw my sword only to kill, my lord. I will not draw it on you.”

“A convenient prohibition,” Barquiel L’Envers observed to his men, who had drawn nigh and watched with interest.

“My lord L’Envers.” Joscelin dismounted with grace, handing his reins to a startled soldier. Facing Barquiel L’Envers, he bowed with Cassiline precision, daggers ringing free of their sheaths as he straightened. The ghost of a smile hovered at the corner of his lips. “I said I would not draw my sword. I did not say I refused your request.”

A great cheer arose from the gathered infantrymen, who hastily arrayed themselves in a vast semicircle, clearing space for the combatants. Someone’s squire ran pelting off the field to alert the encampment, and one of the subcommanders pounded another on the shoulder with glee. Barquiel L’Envers’ eyebrows disappeared beneath the edge of his helmet in patent disbelief. “You propose to fight me with your
daggers
?”

“Your grace wished to fight a Cassiline,” Joscelin said. “
The
Cassiline?”

There was a pause, and then L’Envers laughed aloud, slapping a hand on his thigh. “So be it, then! Till first blood, or the other cries yield, whichever comes first. Anton, my shield!” He grinned, showing white teeth, and shook his head. “Naamah’s tits, but you’ve got balls, Cassiline. I almost like you for it.”

Joscelin smiled politely, crossed daggers at the ready.

It could have been worse, I will say that much. L’Envers wore a foot-soldier’s training gear of cuirass, greaves and gauntlets, and not full armor. Still, the tall, kite-shaped shield into which he slid his left arm would afford a good measure of protection, and his longsword had three times the reach of Joscelin’s daggers. Cold steel, these weapons were, and honed to a killing edge. I sat my mount in quiet fear, putting a serene face on it as the Duc L’Envers hoisted his shield, testing its weight, and made a few passes with his sword. All over Champs-de-Guerre, shouting echoed, and the sound of running feet and pounding hooves as the ranks of our audience swelled. An impromptu honor guard formed itself around me, soldiers jostling to fend off their comrades. L’Envers’ squire adjusted the cheekplates on his lord’s helmet, tightening the strap beneath his chin.

“Shall we begin?” Barquiel L’Envers inquired.

Joscelin merely bowed.

The fight began slowly, both combatants circling for advantage. For all his arrogance, Barquiel L’Envers was a veteran of countless battles, not to be goaded into rash action. He made a testing thrust with his sword, eyes narrowing as Joscelin deflected it easily, his steel-clad left forearm sending the blow wide as he stepped inward and turned, bringing the right-hand dagger up with deceptive speed. It glanced off L’Envers’ shield, which he swung in to cover his exposed side. Joscelin shifted backward, weight on his rear leg as he brought his daggers back to their crossed defensive pose, turning to meet the next attack.

I knew by heart the steps he took, the graceful, flowing turns of the Cassiline forms, daggers weaving an intricate pattern of bright steel. I had seen him perform them a thousand times and more, alone in our garden. Barquiel L’Envers sidled warily around him, leading with his shielded left side. Without warning, his sword-arm snaked forward in a low, lateral stroke aimed at Joscelin’s midriff. I gasped out loud … but Joscelin was already moving, turning to his left, dagger sweeping down to intercept, catching the deadly edge between the curved quillon and the base of the blade, his right elbow rising as he turned to land a jabbing blow at L’Enver’s throat.

Barquiel L’Envers coughed, eyes watering; I daresay the blow had bruised his larynx. “You wouldn’t try that against a man wearing a gorget, Cassiline,” he said in a strained tone.

“No, my lord.” Joscelin smiled slightly. “I would not.”

Catching his breath, L’Envers launched a flurry of an attack; short, quick blows that pressed Joscelin hard and left no opening for him to close. I watched it with my heart in my throat, for any number of them might have been deadly had they landed. To this day, I honestly do not know if the Duc could have pulled his stroke short if Joscelin’s guard had faltered. Blessed Elua be thanked, it did not.

But if it became clear that Barquiel’s sword could not penetrate the flashing circle of Joscelin’s daggers and vambraces, it was equally clear that Joscelin could not get within reach of the Duc’s longsword and past his shield. Around and around they went, churning the muddy field to mire, while the murmur of wagering rose among the watching army and cold sweat trickled between my shoulderblades.

At last, Barquiel L’Envers stepped back, setting his shield high and lifting his sword overhead, stepping up hard and fast to bring it down in a swift blow aimed at the top of Joscelin’s head. In a single, blurred movement, Joscelin raised his crossed daggers to catch the blow, pinioning the sword between his own blades. For a moment, they were locked thusly, straining-and then L’Envers brought his shield up with a fierce jerk, driving it into Joscelin’s unprotected face.

Joscelin staggered backward, twisting away from L’Envers’ sword, and the soldiers surged forward. Unnerved, my mount shifted restively, tossing its head and blocking my view. By the time I got her under control, the two men had closed again and were grappling. Joscelin had L’Envers’ sword-arm pinned low, blade caught in the curved quillon of his dagger; L’Envers pushed hard against him with his shield, striving to bring it up under his chin. Their legs were braced, feet struggling for purchase in the slippery mud.