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“Ysandre will see him safe,” I said.

“She’ll do her best, I know. Still…” Joscelin shrugged. “’Twill be a hard path.”

I thought about Imriel de la Courcel. What would it be like, at ten years old, to learn that everything you had believed about your life was a lie? To learn that you were a traitor’s get, that your very existence was part and parcel of an unthinkable scheme, and people you’d never met would gladly see you dead?

“Poor boy,” I murmured.

“Poor boy, indeed.” Gathering himself, Joscelin eyed the pile of fish guts. “Ah, well. I suppose I’d best get rid of these, unless you’d care to do it.”

I raised my eyebrows at him. “You’re the one loves fishing.”

He gave his wry smile. “That’s what I thought.”

Twenty

IT TOOK nearly a fortnight to reach Amílcar. We lost two days to summer storms in which Jean-Richarde, the senior of the men-at-arms, deemed it unsafe to travel. I was impatient at the delay, but after seeing the torrential downpour swell the river until it overflowed its banks in a churning rage, lapping at the foot of the caverns where we’d taken shelter, I ceded to his wisdom.

We timed our arrival for the morning, taking lodgings in one of the better inns near the bustling harbor. Luc, who spoke fluent Aragonian, negotiated for our rooms. I understand the tongue, a little-it is a variant of Caerdicci, fluid and melodious, with lengthened vowels and a softly lisped ‘s’ sound-but I am ashamed to say I have never studied it myself.

Once ensconced, I penned a swift note to Nicola L’Envers y Aragon, stamping it with the impress of Montrève’s seal and sending it with Dolan, the younger of the men-at-arms, to the Consul’s Quarters in the Plaza del Rey. When it was done, I ordered a bath and procured a laundress to press the creases from my best gown, such as it was-a silver-grey silk, the bodice finely embroidered with silver thread. It would do. I hadn’t packed my garments with thoughts of a visit to the King’s Consul of Amílcar in mind.

Nicola’s reply, I thought, would come promptly if she was in residence; indeed, she was, and her response was faster than I had reckoned. No sooner had I finished applying a touch of kohl to my lashes and tucking my hair into a mesh caul laced with seed pearls, but a wide-eyed Aragonian lad knocked at the door, a servant of the inn come to announce in comprehensible Caerdicci that the King’s own carriage was awaiting us below.

It wasn’t, of course-it was the carriage of the King’s Consul, but it was impressive enough, with a driver and a footman and the arms of the House of Aragon worked in gilt on the sides. Luc sat nervously on the tufted velvet seats, fussing with the curtains, taking up a good deal of space for one man.

“Elua, but it’s stifling in here!” he said, tugging at the frogged closure of his doublet. His summer-blue eyes, so like and unlike his brother’s, were wide and anxious. “Are you sure I’m dressed aright? I’ve never met foreign nobility before. Phèdre, what’s the proper form of address for a lord of the House of Aragon? Should I kneel or bow?”

“The Lady Nicola is D’Angeline, and a friend,” I reminded him. “And Ramiro is Consul, not the King himself. Just… pretend you’re greeting the Marquis de Toluard, Luc. Accord them the same courtesies you would him.”

“Tibault de Toluard would haul me off to the parapets to see his engineers’ latest improvement on the trebuchet,” Luc said glumly. “I don’t think Ramiro Zornín de Aragon will do the same.”

“No.” Joscelin lounged against the padded seats, unconcerned. “He’ll likely show you the latest game of
hazard
instead, and if you’ve not brought your dice, I’m sure he’s a set to lend. Don’t worry, Luc. You’ll not embarrass Verreuil.”

“I hope not,” his brother muttered.

Amílcar is a pleasant city, though we saw little enough of it through the drawn curtains of the carriage, alighting in the Plaza del Rey. On one side of the square stood the Count’s palace, a solid affair of grey granite with adornments of wrought-iron scrollwork. The quarters of the King’s Consul faced it on the opposite side, a lower, more modest building. A pair of guards waved us through the archway into the courtyard, where we were met by a majordomo in the livery of the House of Aragon.

“Comtesse de Montrève,” he said in fluent D’Angeline as I stepped from the carriage. “Messires Verreuil. The Lady Nicola will receive you.”

We followed him into the marble foyer. It was cooler within than without, light filtering through fretted windows to cast complex patterns, date palms in vast pots lending a suggestion of green shade. He led us to the salon of reception, which had a narrow marble frieze about the walls depicting the King of Aragon pardoning a Prince of Carthage, much gilt trim and a carpet of a startling red hue.

“It’s a bit much, isn’t it?” Nicola L’Envers y Aragon smiled, coming forward to greet us. “I’m not allowed to make changes to the decor in the reception hall. Phèdre, my dear. Well met.” A gold seal-bracelet tinkled at her wrist as she raised one hand to touch my face, giving me the kiss of greeting. “And Joscelin.”

“My lady Nicola.” There was a trace of amusement in his voice as he bent to kiss her.

“You must be Luc.” Nicola regarded him with interest. “They breed tall in Verreuil.”

“My lady.” Luc blushed and bowed. Nicola laughed.

It was a familiar laugh, low and intimate, and one that set my pulse to beating faster whenever I heard it-even here, even now. But I have been an
anguissette
all my life, and I have grown accustomed to dealing with the distraction. “Nicola,” I said. “I would that it were otherwise, but we’re not here on pleasure. It’s a serious matter.”

“I assumed as much.” She nodded toward a group of over-gilded chairs set around a low ebony table. Wine and olives awaited us on a tray. “Ramiro should be back before sundown. He’s meeting with Fernan’s Chancellor of the Exchequer to go over some accounts. Do you want to tell me now, or shall it wait?”

“I’d sooner you heard it first,” I said.

Nicola listened without interruption as I laid out the story, her face betraying little of her thoughts. It was odd, seeing her in Amílcar, with her D’Angeline composure and beauty, clad in an Aragonian gown with a square-cut neck, her bronze hair pinned in an elaborate coif, stuck through with a pair of long hair-pins that sported the golden crown of the House of Aragon at the ends. Luc watched her raptly, unabashedly fascinated. I didn’t blame him. I continued with my account, tracing our journey through Siovale. It was not until I related what the Tsingano Kristof had told us that Nicola reacted in astonishment.

“
What
?” Her violet eyes went wide with outrage.

“So he said, my lady,” I said. “Carthaginian slave-traders, bound for Amílcar. Do you say it cannot be so?”

“I don’t know.” Nicola rested her chin on one fist, frowning. The dangling seal at her wrist winked gold in the slanting light from the high windows, the sun’s rays turning lucent the cabochon garnet with which it was set. “No. I won’t say it’s impossible. Count Fernan does his best to see the harbor is patrolled, but there’s a good deal of illicit trade goes on anyway.”

“The harbor,” Joscelin said. “What about the rest of the city? What if they were but passing through en route to Carthage?”

Nicola shook her head in dismissal. “If they were taking the risk of transporting D’Angeline captives to Amílcar, it would be for the seaport. There’s no other reason.”

“Can you help?” I asked her. “I’ve sent word to Ysandre, if it needs must go to a matter of state. She would demand Aragonia’s aid. But it will be some time before a delegation could arrive, and every day we lose, the trail grows colder.”

“Oh, I can help, all right.” Her lovely jaw set and a look of cold determination settled in her gaze, familiar to anyone who knew members of House L’Envers. I’d seen it in the Queen, and Duc Barquiel before her. “You may be sure of it.” Nicola picked up a small gilded bell from the table and rang it. A liveried servant entered the room in prompt reply, and she addressed him in fluent Aragonian. “I’m sending word for Ramiro to return posthaste,” she added to us in unapologetic D’Angeline. “He’s like to linger over his cups if I don’t. It shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

“My lady Nicola.” Joscelin stood. “With your permission, there are a few things Luc and I must needs procure at the market. Shall we return in an hour’s time?”

Luc opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. Nicola looked at Joscelin, and what unspoken words were exchanged between them, I could not say. She inclined her head. “As you will, Messire Cassiline. I have given standing orders that you are to be admitted to the Consul’s quarters.”

“On the hour, then.” Joscelin bowed and left, taking Luc in tow.

I watched them leave.

“He’s learned a measure of grace,” Nicola observed, refilling our wine-cups and sitting back in her chair, relaxed and less formal now that we were alone.

“He likes you,” I murmured into my wine. “I don’t think he wanted to, but he does.”

“And why not?” She gave her cat’s-paw smile, like unto her cousin Barquiel’s, but more subtle. “I’m likeable enough, after all.”

“You are.” I lifted my head and met her eyes. “Truly, I’m sorry to come to you like this, my lady. It was never my intent.”

“Phèdre.” There was a mix of resignation and genuine affection in Nicola’s voice. “Much as I would enjoy it, I never expected you to turn up on my doorstep on a pleasure-jaunt. I know what you are. I’ve known from the beginning, Kushiel’s Chosen. It is folly, to make claim on one whom the gods have marked for their own. And unlike the others, I am no fool, to grasp at that which burns to the touch. What you have given …” she raised one hand, palm upward, the garnet seal dangling at her wrist, “… I hold in an open hand.”

It reminded me of Emile, closing his fist in the Cockerel; it reminded me of Hyacinthe’s vision of Kushiel, holding a key and a diamond in his grasp. It reminded me that I had known too few people in my life with the courage and wisdom to hold that which they valued in an open hand. It reminded me of why I had commissioned Nicola L’Envers y Aragon’s garnet seal to be made in the first place.

“You wear it,” I said softly.

“Yes.” She laughed. “Ah, Phèdre! I always wear it. ’Tis the only one of its kind, after all. Aragonians may not know what that means. I do.”

A cabochon garnet, as vivid a crimson as the mote in my left eye, bearing a single emblem carved in relief: a dart, exquisite in detail, from the sharp tip to the fine lines etched in its fletching.

Kushiel’s Dart.

I have only ever given a lover’s token once in my life, and that this seal, to the Lady Nicola. She was a patron, once; a friend, after. I have never forgotten that had I trusted to her advice, had I not been ruled by my suspicions, a good deal of harm would have been averted. It was at a time when Barquiel L’Envers and I were at cross-purposes to each other, both of us seeking Melisande Shahrizai, neither of us willing to believe the other. How Melisande must have laughed, safely ensconced in the Little Court of La Serenissima, watching us circle each other in mistrust! If we had shared information, if we had joined our forces, we would surely have found her sooner.

And my beloved chevaliers Fortun and Remy would not have died, nor many others besides. Imriel de la Courcel would not have been sent to the sanctuary of Elua, would not now be missing, stolen by slave-traders.

An outsider, exiled by marriage to the courts of Aragonia, Nicola had seen our folly. She had tried to tell me, though I would not hear it. And when I would not, she entrusted me with the sacred password of House L’Envers, the words which compelled aid in direst need.
By the burning river
…

Not even the Queen had broken with the protocol of her mother’s House to trust me with those words. Only Nicola. It taught me something I never learned elsewhere. And some eight years ago, I returned the favor, giving her that which I never gave any other.

“I am glad,” I said aloud, “that you value it.”

“Ah, well.” Nicola turned the seal-bracelet absently on her slender wrist. “I am glad, my dear, that you do not regret it. I am passing fond of your Cassiline, too, but he is a jealous consort.”

“Joscelin …” I spread my hands, “… is Joscelin.”

“Yes.” She smiled. “And probably a worse torment to you than I could devise. Well, it must be hard on him, that you serve Melisande’s will in this.”

“Hard?” I pondered it, shaking my head. “Truly, Nicola, I’m not sure whose will I serve, anymore. What am I to make of it, when Melisande’s will accords with Ysandre’s? I am Naamah’s Servant, twice-pledged-and yet Naamah has no role in this, none I can see. I am Kushiel’s Chosen, yes, and Kushiel …” I shuddered. “Kushiel is architect of this horror, if I am no fool. Do I serve his will to thwart it? I thought, when I began, that it was my own will I served, my sole true goal to free Hyacinthe, my friend.”

“And now,” Nicola murmured, “you are not so sure.”

“No.” I drained my wine-cup and set it down. “Now that I have spoken to the warders and companions and parents of children, innocent children, who have suffered for Kushiel’s justice, I am not so sure, not so sure at all whom I serve. There is something at work here. I do not know what it is.”

A lesser friend would have spoken easy words of comfort. Nicola didn’t. “I can make no promises, Phèdre. As you say, the trail is cold. But if it is to be found in Amílcar, Count Fernan’s men will find it.” Her smile this time was grim. “I don’t care if it serves Melisande Shahrizai or the Khalif of Khebbel-im-Akkad. If there is trade in D’Angeline flesh going on in Amílcar, I will see it stopped.”

“Thank you,” I said simply.

Nicola shrugged. “This one needs no thanks. I have some influence. I am pleased to have a good reason to exercise it. They’re few and far enough between as it is.”

“Speaking of which …” I eyed her. “Will I find Marmion Shahrizai in residence?”

“Marmion?” Nicola relaxed again, looking amused. “No, Lord Marmion stayed at court, attending on the King. He has carved out a place for himself, and anyway, we quarrel if we are in the same place over-long, he and I.”