Kushiel's Avatar (38 page)

I saw a good many servants hurrying about their business, but most of them were men-or eunuchs, I guessed, from their beardless state. Akkadians seemed to favor beards for men. There were no women, and I found myself relieved that Renée and I were veiled. Whatever status it conferred, I was glad of it.

At last we were shown to a small reception hall, and our chief escort presented himself briskly at the door, announcing us to a plump eunuch in rich robes, a gold chain about his waist, who bowed deeply and looked askance at the men in our party. The guardsmen drew back the doors, and we were admitted.

“Her highness the Lugalin Valère-Shamabarsin,” the eunuch attendant announced in Akkadian, his voice high and resonant. We all bowed or curtsied low before the figure seated on the dais before us, glittering in jewel-encrusted robes, her face veiled and hidden.

And then the doors closed behind us, and the seated woman drew back her veil, reminding me, for a terrifying instant, of Melisande in the Little Court. But no; this woman glanced anxiously toward the door, making certain it was indeed closed, and I would have known her anywhere for a scion of House L’Envers, with those deep-violet eyes. “My lord Trente,” said Valère L’Envers, descending from the dais to take his hands and offer the kiss of greeting. Beneath an elaborate headdress, her hair was the color of honey and she had her father’s strong jaw, though prettier. “Well met!” Unerringly, she turned toward me, and I made a second curtsy, hastily pulling back my veil. “Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève,” she said, smiling. “Our houses have a long history together. It is an honor to meet you.”

“The honor is mine, your highness,” I murmured, as she bent to kiss me.

“And Messire Joscelin Verreuil!” Valère clasped both his hands in hers with unalloyed pleasure. “You’ve no idea how many times I’ve listened to ‘The Cassilines’ Duel’ in the Serenissiman Cycle. It’s my favorite part. I’m so pleased you’re here.”

“Your highness.” Joscelin released her hands to give his Cassiline bow, vambraces flashing. “I am pleased it has given you pleasure.”

“Indeed.” Her smile turned rueful. “Though I fear it is not for my pleasure you have come, any of you. My lord Trente,” she addressed Amaury. “Let us not stand on ceremony. I’ve enough of that. What brings you to Nineveh?” She saw him glance at the eunuch. “Burnabash is loyal to me, else you would not be here. Come, Lord Amaury. Out with it.”

Taking a deep breath, Amaury Trente did. “As you are fond of the Serenissiman Cycle, your highness, you will remember that when we took possession of the Little Court of Benedicte de la Courcel, his infant son was discovered to be missing …”

He told the story in its entirety, or at least as much of it as he knew-Ysandre had told him only that I’d learned the boy had vanished from a Siovalese sanctuary and tracked him as far as Amílcar. Valère L’Envers heard it out in silence until he spoke of Drujan.

“Drujan!” She said the word like a curse, her expression hardening. “So that’s why you’re here.”

“Yes, your highness.” Amaury bowed. “I am here in the name of her majesty Ysandre de la Courcel, Queen of Terre d’Ange, to petition your aid in retrieving the boy from the Drujani, by whatever means you think best, whether it be trade or bribery or might of arms.”

All traces of welcome and girlish pleasure had vanished from Valère L’Envers’ features. Stiff in jeweled robes, she sat her throne like an effigy, only her lips moving as she said a single word: “No.”

Blinking, Amaury Trente opened his mouth in protest, “Highness, you have my word-”

She raised one finger. “Hear me, Lord Trente. In the first place, I do not have the power to grant your petition. This is Khebbel-im-Akkad. I rule only over eunuchs and women in my quarters. I command no guard of my own, and have no authority to negotiate, save what counsel my husband will hear in private, and the fact that I am the mother of his sons. In the second place, I question the wisdom of this course of action you pursue. This
boy
, this Imriel de la Courcel, is a traitor’s get twice-over, and the nearer he stands to the throne, the less I like it. And third …” She smiled humorlessly. “What do you know of Drujan, my lord?”

“Not much,” Amaury admitted. “Only that its priests are feared, even by Akkadians.”

“Jahanadar,” I said. “The Land of Fires, sacred to Ahura Mazda, later to Shamash. Thirty years ago, it rose up in rebellion, under the leadership of Hoshdar Ahzad. Under the leadership of General Chussar-Usar, the rebellion was crushed, thousands slain and the entire line of Hoshdar Ahzad put to the sword. And then twenty-some years later, something changed, and Khebbel-im-Akkad will not speak of it, except to forbid commerce with the Drujani.”

“Yes.” Valère L’Envers gave another bitter smile. “That much, we may still do, at least for now. You’ve done your research, Comtesse.”

I inclined my head. “Such as was available. Will you tell us of Drujan, highness?”

Her violet gaze, so like the Queen’s, was unreadable. “Drujan has extinguished its Sacred Fires. Do you know what that means?”

“No,” I said.

“Neither do I.” Her voice was grim. “Nor do any in Khebbel-im-Akkad, save the Persians, who look askance and mutter of ancient prophecies. I cannot say if there is truth in them. Only that men die when the Drujani priests will them to do so.”

“Drujan is sovereign?” I asked.

Valère L’Envers nodded. “For nine years. They rose up once more, fewer and twice as desperate, and slew the garrison-not just at Darsanga, but all the border forts. The Khalif sent a vast army. Three months later, a straggling remnant returned, bearing tales of poisoned water, rockslides, and wasting sickness.”

“War is brutal,” Amaury Trente murmured. “Such things happen.”

“Yes.” Valère looked hard at him. “Which is why the Khalif raised a second force, equipping them with the best mountain guides and a wagon-train of water, sending them into Drujan. Do you wish to hear what happened to them? They were trapped in a valley and slaughtered one another. Three survivors made it back, with scarce a set of wits between them. Under torture, all swore to the same story: In the night, the Mahrkagir and his Drujani army came down from the hills and fell upon them, cutting their forces to pieces. They fought back, fierce and desperate. And when dawn came, when the face of the Lion of the Sun gazed down into the valley …” She shrugged. “No Drujani. Only the Akkadian dead, slain by their own hands, brother against brother. The army had turned upon itself.”

There didn’t seem much to say to that. We all glanced at one another. Amaury Trente looked like he wanted to clutch his hair. Renée de Rives stood close to Royce Guidel, holding his hand in a fearful grip. The other delegates looked apprehensive. Only Joscelin’s face was calm. I frowned, thinking. “The Mahrkagir, my lady?”

“So he calls himself, he who leads Drujan and sits the throne in Daršanga.”

Old Persian is as close akin to Akkadian as Habiru. I sounded the word in my head, puzzling out the meaning. “The Conqueror of Death.”

“Even so.” Valère, pale-faced, nodded. “Now do you understand why your petition is futile? Even if I were inclined to grant it and beseech Sinaddan on your behalf, he will send no men of Nineveh into Drujan.”

“Have you tried diplomacy?” I raised my brows.

“Diplomacy!” She gave a harsh laugh. “The Khalif sent an envoy, under a flag of truce, to discuss terms of peace after two armies were destroyed. The Mahrkagir sent their heads back in a satchel, eyeless and untongued. I do not recommend you attempt diplomacy.”

“So you will grant us no aid, your highness?” Amaury Trente asked one last time, his voice torn between resignation and relief. I could not blame him for it. It was a hard assignment, and not, I surmised, one he welcomed. With Valère L’Envers’ refusal, it was ended. As much as Ysandre wanted the boy restored, she would never ask loyal D’Angeline citizens to enter a violent, hostile territory to find him.

“No.” Valère’s tone softened. “Forgive me, Lord Amaury, but it is not possible. And I believe, in the end, it is the best thing for the nation.”

It probably was, when all was said and done … but I had sworn a vow, and I was haunted, like it or no, by a vision from a dream, a pair of blue eyes raised in plea, the shadow of a staff falling like a bar across a boy’s face. And I remembered too the light of the sun winking on the garnet seal Nicola L’Envers y Aragon wore at her wrist as she bid me farewell.
It may come in handy again, one never knows
. It was for this that I had come to Khebbel-im-Akkad. I sighed, and addressed Valère L’Envers in Akkadian, knowing the others would not understand. “My lady, I understand you have little aid to give, but I ask you nonetheless to petition your husband on our behalf. By the burning river, I adjure you.”

She went very still and stared at me, looking in that moment nothing like her kinswomen. “You would use the password of my House to command me?” she asked in fluid Akkadian.

“Forgive me,” I murmured, “but I must.”

Valère looked away. “My House,” she said bitterly, “headed by my beloved father, who sold me into marriage to further his ambitions. You think I will honor its strictures?”

“I don’t know.” I kept my voice honest and level. “Will you?”

It was a long moment before she nodded, and she did it without returning my gaze. “I am D’Angeline, still,” Valère whispered. “And I consented to this union. Very well; I will ask Sinaddan. And I tell you.” She did look back at me then, tense and angry. “His answer will be the same. You have forced my hand to no avail, Comtesse, and I do not like it overmuch.”

“I know,” I said sadly. “But I had to ask.”

Thirty-Nine

SINADDAN-SHAMABARSIN, the Lugal of Khebbel-im-Akkad and ruler of Nineveh, threw a fête to herald our arrival.

It was Valère’s doing and no mistake, but in truth, the Lugal was an unusual man, at least for an Akkadian. In the dozen years of their marriage, he had attained a healthy respect for the intellect of his D’Angeline bride and the mother of his sons. If he did not acknowledge it publicly, he was comfortable doing so in private, and had developed a certain fondness for D’Angeline ways.

Hence, the fête, which was attended by a select few Akkadian high nobles, and at which the women-all three of us-might appear unveiled without shame.

It was a very mannered affair and an awkward one, for among our number, none but I spoke Akkadian, and the Lugal spoke no D’Angeline, nor any other tongue we might have held in common. It is, I learned, despised as a form of concession, save among those few diplomats and envoys for whom it is a necessity. As Valère L’Envers did not deign to serve as translator, that duty fell to me.

Sinaddan-Shamabarsin-whose surname meant ‘Exalted by Shamash’-was a handsome man in the Akkadian manner, some forty years of age, with dark, intelligent eyes and a neatly tended beard. His robes glittered with gold embroidery and a large emerald flashed on his turban, but he moved like a warrior despite it, fit and agile. He thanked Lord Amaury in courteous tones, which I translated, for bringing the Queen’s greetings to her kinswoman in Nineveh, and commended at length the grace of D’Angeline artistry.

Lord Amaury, for all his discomfort, hid it well and replied in kind, which I also translated. He’d not been pleased when he’d learned what I’d done. None of the delegates were, a fact which Valère L’Enversperceived. When she broached her request, she presented it as mine.

“My lord husband,” she said to him during the dessert course of candied rose petals and a sweet sherbet made of snow brought from the mountains, “may I presume to ask a boon on behalf of the Comtesse Phèdre de Montrève?”

Prince Sinaddan smiled at me. “For such a lovely translator, one may ask, my lady wife.”

“It seems,” she said deferentially, “that the Mahrkagir of Drujan has purchased a young D’Angeline boy, sold into slavery. Although I have told her such a thing is impossible, the Comtesse asks your aid in restoring the boy, my lord husband.”

His face darkened, strong brows drawing together. “Alas,” he said, regret heavy in his voice. “I would like nothing better than to try the strength of the Drujani, but it has been tried, to no avail. I will send no more of my people to die in that accursed land. I am sorry for your loss, Comtesse, and it grieves me to deny your boon. If it comfort you at all, the boy is not the only one. It is said that the Mahrkagir’s vile priests have brought slaves from many nations for his seraglio.”

Well and so; Valère had warned me. I had forced her hand in vain, and lost her goodwill in the bargain. “Do you know why, my lord?” I asked him. “Why does he assemble them?”

“I know what the Persians say.” Prince Sinaddan looked thoughtfully at me. “Is your stomach strong, lovely translator?”

I could have laughed, at that. I didn’t. “A man once tried to skin me alive, my lord Lugal. Is that strong enough?”

He did laugh, showing white teeth against his beard. “Aiee, Shamash! D’Angeline women are always full of surprises, is it not so? Well, you are here, so I suppose you may bear it. The Persians say the Mahrkagir has turned Drujan from the worship of Ahura Mazda, the Lord of Light, to Angra Mainyu, the Lord of Darkness.” He shrugged. “It is an eternal battle between the two, they say. And it is written in their prophecies that Angra Mainyu shall be defeated, but he shall rule for ten thousand years before it happens.”

“The Mahrkagir is willing to settle for ten thousand years,” I said.

“Even so.” Sinaddan nodded. “And to win Angra Mainyu’s aid, he has extinguished the Sacred Fires, and raised up the priests of darkness. All things he may do to repudiate the Light, he has done. As for the act of love, which begets life …” He smiled grimly. “He has transformed it into an act of hate, begetting only death. These are the seeds he would sow in the nations of the world, enacted upon the flesh of its denizens. Hence, his seraglio. It is said the Mahrkagir searches,” he added, “for the perfect victim, an offering beyond compare, whose violation will secure Angra Mainyu’s ascendance.” He shrugged. “It is folly, so claims the priesthood of Shamash, all folly and play-acting. But when the bone-priests of the Drujani walk the streets, they hide behind locked doors and pray.”