Kushiel's Chosen (10 page)

"But not Marmion." Deep in thought, I rapped my spoon against my empty stew bowl. "Well. Even if he did visit Melisande, the guard at the postern gate would have chal lenged him. So if he was involved ..."

"Yes." I set down my spoon. "Which gives us a new question: Who is in league with Lord Marmion Shahrizai, and why? And the answer to those questions ..." I smiled, "... lies in my purview."

"No." He gave me a hard look. "But a viper is no less dangerous for being small. And if Marmion Shahrizai ar ranged the death of his own sister, he'll scruple at naught."

"I'll be careful."

"Ysandre favors him," Ti-Philippe announced. "So the guards say. He makes her laugh."

Well he might; from time out of mind, House Shahrizai has produced deadly skillful courtiers. None of them have ever held the throne—nor even the sovereign duchy of Kusheth—but they have amassed tremendous amounts of wealth, and a network of influence rivaled by none. If Marmion was in league with Melisande, then he had sacrificed some of his allies in gaining Ysandre's trust. If any survived, they must be nervous.

"Yes, my lady!" Grinning, Remy gave me a crisp salute. "We didn't do too badly, though, did we?"

Muttering, he subsided into some semblance of acquies cence.

I voiced my suggestion to Joscelin as he came in from his morning's exercises, and he nodded agreement. "It's worth a try, at any rate." He smiled. "I missed her visit, the other day. I'd not mind seeing her."

We arrived at the Palace at midday, and were swiftly granted audience. Thelesis' rooms in the Palace were spacious and well-appointed, with an elegant mural of Eisheth at her harp on the eastern wall and a lovely bronze statue of the Tiberian poet Catiline. For all of that, they were a mess, strewn about with books stacked in teetering piles, carelessly heaped scrolls and half-scratched parchments. Truly, a working poet's quarters.

"I took some notes, I remember that much. Ghislain de Somerville was dreadfully upset; his father had entrusted the watch to his command that night."

Joscelin and I exchanged a glance. He shook his head slightly.

"You don't suspect—" Thelesis began, then stopped. "Ghislain. You do."

"I don't want to," I said. "We travelled under Ghislain's command from the banks of the Rhenus to the mountains of Camlach. He could have laughed in my face, when I proposed we offer Isidore d'Aiglemort a chance at redemption, and he didn't. But still."

"Not Ghislain," Joscelin said firmly. "I don't suspect Ghislain."

We sat quiet, waiting while Thelesis de Mornay shuffled through sheaves of parchment.

"That's not true." Pinching the bridge of my nose in thought, I glanced up to meet their surprised gazes. "We know that it didn't happen before five bells. We know that Ghislain commanded the watch that night, and not his father Percy. We know that the death of the gate-keep was discovered before the disappearance of Melisande, and we know the name of the man who discovered it. And we know that the gate-keep and the guards at Melisande's door were not killed in exactly the same manner."

"Phèdre, there are a dozen different killing strikes with a dagger," Joscelin said reasonably.

"Mayhap." I shrugged. "But it is worth noting, nonethe less." I turned to Thelesis. "Thank you, indeed. Was there anyone else you spoke to about that night?"

"No." She shook her head, regretfully. "Would that I had, now. If you'll trust no one else, I still think you should speak to Ysandre."

"I will," I said. "When I know somewhat more."

"Phèdre."

It was Joscelin's voice at the door; I started, splashing water over the edge of the tub. "Come in."

He let himself into the room, closing the door carefully behind him. I leaned my arms on the rim of the tub, looking up curiously. "What is it?"

"I just wanted to see you one last time," he said quietly, kneeling opposite me and taking my hands in his. A rueful smile hovered at the corner of his mouth. "Before the rest of the world did."

"Oh, Joscelin." I squeezed his hands; mine were slippery with water and oil. His face by candlelight was heartbreak ingly beautiful. "Can you forgive me, a little anyway?"

"If you can me." He stroked my damp hair. "I love you, you know."

I nodded. "I know. And I you."

"Elua have mercy on us." He rose, and stood looking down at me. "You'll dazzle them. They won't reckon the tenth part of your worth, but you'll dazzle them, Phèdre." Tears Stung my eyes; I'd no reply. After a moment, he gave his faint smile. "I've got to leave now if I'm to be at the Temple of Elua before dark. Naamah hold you in her hands and keep you safe."

With an unwontedly awkward bow, he nodded in return, and left.

Finespun as a whispered prayer, the scarlet jersey slithered over my head and fell like water about me, fitted close to the hips and then falling in immaculate folds to sweep the floor. It had a high neckline, rising like a crimson flame to clasp around my throat, belying the daring nature of the low back; and low it was, skimming the very base of my marque.

"Oh, my lady!" Gemma cried, wide-eyed, biting her knuckles.

"Not bad, considering the cost." I surveyed myself in the mirror. "Here." I pointed to the seam along my left side, which gaped open. "This is where you'll need to sew it. Are you sure you're up to the task?"

"Ye ... yes." Her voice trembled, and her fingers shook with nervousness as Gemma endeavored to thread the needle Favrielle no Eglantine had provided. After a minute, I sighed.

"Here, let me—no, wait. Gemma, fetch Remy, will you?"

She brought him in a trice, and he entered grinning, caught sight of me, coughed and promptly tripped over his feet.

"Elua!" He breathed it. "You really
do
notice everything! What do you need sewn, my lady?"

If things had gone otherwise in my life, I reflected, this would have been a very different evening. I could have made a fortune working under Delaunay's patronage; by the time I opened my own salon, I'd have been well settled. I would not have been the Comtesse de Montrève, with most of my monies tied to the welfare of my estate and its in habitants, begging funds, at the mercy of a surly young clothier for my costume, with a war-seasoned sailor as my chief attendant.

It is a good thing Blessed Elua saw fit to endow me with a sense of humor.

As it happens, Remy did a neat job of it, and when he had finished, the scarlet gown clung to my upper body like it was painted there. That damnable Favrielle was a genius. "Thank you," I said to Remy, dismissing him; he grinned once more, and left chuckling. "Gemma, bring my cosmet ics."

I do not use a great deal; I am young enough that it would be vulgar. A hint of kohl to accentuate my eyes, which would be mostly hidden behind the veil, and carmine for my lips. When that was done, I set about styling my hair. One must learn such things, in Cereus House; happily, I had not lost the touch. It took some time, recreating the elaborate coif I'd seen in Favrielle's illustration of Mara, but I was well satisfied when I was done.

The half-veil, I secured with hairpins topped with glitter ing black jet, and when it was in place, a stranger's face gazed back at me from the mirror. My veiled gaze was lustrous and mysterious, for once not betrayed by the scarlet mote in my left eye. The elaborate coif of my dark hair added an archaic elegance, and my fair skin glowed against the black gauze of the veil. And the gown—I rose, and it swirled around my hips in a crimson glissade.