Kushiel's Avatar (13 page)

It was Joscelin who faltered. I saw it, as they heaved and strained, saw his left foot slide, almost of its own volition, saw his left knee buckle. Overborne by L’Envers’ shield, their blades entangled, he went down. With a crow of victory, Barquiel L’Envers wrenched his sword free and leveled the blade, tip pointing at Joscelin’s throat. “Do you yield, Messire Cassiline?”

On his back, Joscelin put up his hands. “My lord, I yield.”

The army roared its approval and I let out a sigh, glad it was over. Barquiel L’Envers chuckled and handed his sword and shield to his squire. Removing his helmet, he tucked it under one arm and extended the other hand to Joscelin, pulling him to his feet. “Well fought, Messire Verreuil, though I daresay your lady won’t thank me for the condition of your attire. Still, you’ve earned her the right to her questions. Shall we retire to my quarters? I’ll give you a proper welcome and see if my valet can’t do something about that mud.”

And with that, we were adjourned.

The Royal Commander’s quarters at Champs-de-Guerre were spacious and well appointed, though not luxurious. A scattering of Akkadian pillows and carpets gave it Barquiel L’Envers’ stamp. No sign of a woman’s hand was in evidence. In all the years I have known him, I’ve met the Duc’s wife only once. A strong woman in her own right, she seems content to run their ancestral estates in Namarre while her ambitious husband plies his skills elsewhere.

True to his word, L’Envers made Joscelin the loan of a pair of clean breeches, sending his mire-sodden doublet and hose with his valet. A repast of cold chicken was served, along with salted melon slices, crusty bread and a sharp white cheese. Afterward, Joscelin sat cross-legged on the floor in his linen shirt and borrowed breeches, methodically cleaning mud from his weapons and gear while I spoke to Barquiel L’Envers.

“My lady Phèdre.” Still pleased with his victory, the Duc was in an expansive mood. “What is this matter you wish to discuss with me?”

“Your grace.” I inclined my head to him. “What do you know of Imriel de la Courcel?”

“Melisande’s boy.” L’Envers shot me a shrewd glance. “Why? What do you know, Comtesse?”

I shrugged. “You have looked for him, my lord. I know that much.”

He pursed his lips and stared into his wineglass, deciding how much to tell me. “Yes,” he said at length. “I’ve looked.” He set down his glass and looked frankly at me. “Your methods differ from mine,
anguissette
; on that much, we are agreed. The last time we failed to trust one another, we nearly gave the realm into Melisande Shahrizai’s hands. If I tell you what I know, will you return the courtesy?”

The sound of Joscelin’s movements paused, then continued. “I will,” I said.

“All right.” Barquiel L’Envers drew a breath and ran one hand through his fair, short-cropped hair. “You know I’ve ties to Khebbel-im-Akkad, and to Aragonia. I’ve had agents search for word in both places, high and low; and from thence, Ephesium, Carthage and the Umaiyyat. No one has found a trace of the boy. I trust you’ve implored your connections in La Serenissima, Hellas and Illyria to do the same?”

“Yes.” There was no strain in his voice, no flicker to his eyelids, not a single one of the tell-tales of a lie. “And I have sought rumor in Terre d’Ange as well.”

L’Envers nodded. “As I thought. Anafiel Delaunay trained you well. If it were anyone close to Ysandre, I trust you’d have found them in ten years.”

“It wasn’t.”

He stared at me. I saw his pupils dilate as comprehension dawned. Fear and excitement look much the same at close range; I wasn’t sure which it was. “You know.” He caught his breath in his bruised throat, coughed impatiently, closed one hand hard around my wrist. A few feet away, Joscelin unobtrusively readied his daggers. “You know!” L’Envers’ eyes gleamed, his lips parted in a eager smile. “Who is it?”

“It doesn’t matter, my lord,” I said, ignoring his grip. “The boy is missing.”

Letting go my wrist, Barquiel L’Envers swore a stream of invective filled with heartfelt passion. On the floor, Joscelin relaxed and continued cleaning his gear. I waited until the Duc had finished, and then told him an abbreviated version of Melisande’s story.

“And you thought I had done it?” he asked when I was done.

“My lord has the means and the wits,” I said diplomatically. “It occurred to Melisande as well. And,” I added, “I suspect you’ll be hearing from the Queen.”

“A dubious compliment. I’ll take it as such.” Barquiel L’Envers grinned and shook his head. “Elua’s sanctuary! I thought she must have spirited the lad off to Skaldia. It’s the one place we’ve no means of searching, and like as not she’s still got ties there from Selig’s day. I never dreamed she’d allies among Elua’s priesthood.”

“Nor did I, my lord,” I said. “Nor did I.”

Joscelin, scrubbing at the buckles of his vambraces, made a sound of profound disapproval.

“Well.” L’Envers glanced reflexively in his direction. “If she’s outsmarted you and me, my lady Phèdre, it seems she’s outsmarted herself as well. I’ll not pretend I’d be sorry to hear of the child’s demise. Innocent he may be, but while he lives, he’s a weapon to be used against the descendents of House L’Envers. And I mislike not knowing whose hand might wield him,” he said, looking back at me. “Has Ysandre summoned the priest responsible?”

“Not yet.”

“She will.” He leaned back in his chair. “It may take her some time to work up the resolve to confront the priesthood of Elua, but she’ll do it. I know my niece.”

I nodded, taking his words for warning. “Duly noted, my lord. My thanks for your candour.”

“Ah.” L’Envers grinned at Joscelin’s bowed head. “You paid a fair price for it. I trust you’re satisfied I was not less than forthcoming? Or do you require me to swear on it… by the burning river?”

I flushed as he spoke the ancient password of House L’Envers, the vow that binds its members to truth and succor. It was with those very words that I had charged him to defend the City of Elua against the traitorous Percy de Somerville, words given me in trust by his kinswoman, Nicola L’Envers y Aragon. “Would you so swear, if I asked?”

The Duc’s gaze never wavered. “I would.”

“No,” I said. “I believe you.”

It was late afternoon when Joscelin and I took our leave of Champs-de-Guerre, reckoning we could make the City of Elua by nightfall if we rode without stopping, for the days had grown long with the coming of summer. Barquiel L’Envers’ valet had done a good job of cleaning Joscelin’s clothing, now dry and only slightly stained. He was in good spirits despite his loss.

“If it wasn’t L’Envers,” he said, speculating aloud, “then who?”

“I don’t know. You think he was telling the truth?”

“As surely as you do.” He glanced at me. “It increases the odds that the boy’s alive. L’Envers is right, he’s a dangerous weapon for someone’s hand.”

“I wish I could think of whose.” I sighed. “You know we’re going to have to go to the Sanctuary of Elua in Landras and ask questions before Ysandre decides to summon Brother Selbert.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Joscelin?” I looked at his calm profile. “You let him win, didn’t you.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in the hint of a smile. “What self-respecting Cassiline would do such a thing?”

I raised my brows at him. “Only one.” Joscelin laughed and made no reply.

Fourteen

UPON RETURNING to the City of Elua, I sent word to Ysandre, reporting briefly on my meeting with her uncle the Duc L’Envers and asserting my belief in his innocence. I stated also my intention to travel to Siovale, to the Sanctuary of Elua in Landras, in order to question the priests there about the disappearance of Imriel de la Courcel.

Well and so; if Ysandre wished to forestall me, let her do so. Until she did, I would pursue my inquiry in my own fashion.

First, though, I kept my postponed appointment with Audine Davul at the City Academy.

I have been there many times, but seldom to the Musicians’ Hall, where I was escorted past various salons from which issued sounds both melodious and cacophonous. Students of all ages were intent upon their lessons, learning to play harp and lyre and mandolin, tambors and timbales, flutes and pipes-and of course, the drums. Audine Davul’s quarters held more drums than I ever believed existed, great and small, low and squat, tall and narrow, goat hide stretched taut over bases of wood, copper and ceramic, steel kettles struck with tiny mallets, hand-held rattling drums. And each one, I was told, had its own voice.

An intent, wiry woman in her forties, grey-eyed and honey-skinned, Audine Davul was the product of her D’Angeline father’s liaison with an Ephesian dancing-girl. When her mother died in childbirth, her father had taken her with him on his wanderings, paying passage aboard ship with his drumming, entertaining crews and setting the beat for the rowers. It was said that an oarship had wings when Antoine Davul gave the pace. From the time Audine was five until she was fifteen, they had lived in Jebe-Barkal. She grew up speaking and writing Jeb’ez while her father studied the “mountain-talkers,” the percussive language of the great hollow log drums used in the highlands of Jebe-Barkal.

Audine Davul had translated the scroll Melisande had called the
Kefra Neghast
.

“Yes,” she said, indicating the vellum parchment she had prepared. Not only was a translation in D’Angeline neatly transposed beneath each line of Jeb’ez, but she had included phonetic markings to indicate the pronunciation of the unfamiliar script. “Your information is correct; this is the story of Melek al’Hakim, the Prince of Saba. One does not hear it so much, any more.”

I held the precious document gingerly, scanning the text. “It’s true, then? He was Shalomon’s son?”

“True.” The music teacher smiled, turning calloused palms outward. “What is true? It is true that this legend is told in Jebe-Barkal, where the inhabitants of Saba fled after quarreling with the Pharaoh of Menekhet, and ruled for many years. I have translated the words truly as they are written. No more can I tell you, Comtesse.”

“Thank you.” Until that moment, I hadn’t dared believe with a whole heart. Putting down the parchment, I flung both arms about her neck, impulsively kissing her cheek. “Mâitresse Davul, thank you!”

She laughed, returning my embrace. “Now the Academy will talk, saying I have known the favors of Phèdre nó Delaunay.” Faint lines crinkled at the corners of her eyes. “And mayhap it will bring more students to study drumming.”

“I hope it does.” I accepted the scroll-case she handed me containing the original Jebean manuscript. “You’ve never been back to Jebe-Barkal, have you?”

“No.” Audine Davul shook her head. “My father’s feet followed a rhythm only he could hear. I did but follow him. When he brought me at last to Terre d’Ange, I knew I had come home. I have brought his rhythms with me to the City of Elua. I do not wish to leave it.”

I laid a purse on the table before her. “Please accept this with my thanks for your excellent work. With your permission, I’d like to talk more with you about Jebe-Barkal some time. I’m only sorry my schedule precludes it now.”

She bowed from the waist, smile-lines deepening. “As you wish, Comtesse. I am not going anywhere.”

I envied her that, I thought in the carriage during my homeward journey. Strange, how her father’s wandering urge had grounded itself in his half-D’Angeline daughter. Strange, that the child of a former adept of Eglantine House and an Ephesian dancing-girl should make her life in the arcane pursuits of academia. I thought about my own parents-my beautiful, languorous mother and my foolish, spendthrift father-and wondered for the thousandth time if they had ever known what became of me, if they had ever linked the Comtesse de Montrève, Delaunay’s
anguissette
, the Queen’s confidante, with the flawed, pretty girl-child whose marque they had sold to the Dowayne of Cereus House. They surrendered all claim on me to the Night Court, and until I was ten, I knew no other life. I never saw my parents again.

It was not a bad life, on the whole. Each of the Thirteen Houses has its own specialty, and in Cereus, it is appreciation for the transient nature of life and beauty. The adepts were kind enough, and I learned a reverence for Naamah’s service. Many of the graces I carry, I learned in Cereus House. But their lives are given wholly over to entertaining patrons, and mine … mine has encompassed a great deal more. I cannot help but wonder if my parents ever knew.

If they did, they kept silent about it-and because of that, I think mayhap they no longer live. A good many people died during the Bitterest Winter twelve years ago, between the sickness that ravaged the land and the Skaldi invaders who did the same. I like to think they would have come forward if they had been alive afterward, when my name was first spoken in the City of Elua by poets as well as patrons. My mother wept the day she abandoned me to the Dowayne’s care. I remember that she wept. I wondered if she would have marveled that a child of their loins should become an adept in the arts of covertcy. When all was said and done, I was Anafiel Delaunay’s creation more than theirs.

I thought about Melisande Shahrizai’s son, raised by Elua’s priests. I wondered what he was like.

If time had permitted, I would have spent every waking hour of the next days poring over Audine’s translation of the
Kefra Neghast
. Unfortunately, it didn’t. Loathe though I was to admit it, Hyacinthe’s plight was the less urgent of the two. Like the drumming-mistress, he wasn’t going anywhere. Imriel de la Courcel was another matter.

Once again, Joscelin and I made ready to travel.

Since no word had come from Ysandre, I took it as a hopeful sign and gave license to delay our departure a half-day to keep my other postponed appointment, journeying to Night’s Doorstep to meet with Hyacinthe’s old companion Emile.

It is in truth the most disreputable district of the City of Elua, a warren of taverns and inns and gambling-houses at the base of Mont Nuit, the hill on which the Thirteen Houses of the Night Court are located. If it lacks the sophistication of the Night Court, it makes up for it in bawdy enthusiasm, and for countless years, it has served as the slightly dangerous playground for the daring nobles of the City. The denizens of Night’s Doorstep know a thousand ways to fleece the pockets of the D’Angeline peerage.