Kushiel's Chosen (4 page)

Ysandre laughed. "Then I shall have to wait and see." She swept her hand about the Hall. "They will be wonder ing, you know. They've naught better to do."

"Majesty." A man's voice spoke, deep and silken; from the comer of my eye, I caught a swirl of black and gold, intricately patterned, as a figure rose from a deep-backed chair. He bowed, then straightened, and I caught my breath. His blue-black hair hung in plaits like tiny chains, and eyes the hue of sapphire were set in a dangerously beautiful face, skin like ivory. He smiled, showing white teeth, and fanned an ornate deck of cards. "You promised me a game of batarde."

I knew him; I had last seen him in the company of his cousin, whom he had betrayed.

"I did, my lord Marmion, but I did not say when," Ysan dre replied lightly.

"I shall await the day." His deep blue gaze rested on my face. "My lady Phèdre no Delaunay de Montrève," he said, caressing my name. My knees turned to water. "For a short life, you have a long history with House Shahrizai."

"My lord Shahrizai." With all the willpower I could sum mon, I made my voice cool. "Your loyalty to the throne has prospered you."

He laughed, and bowed. "How not, when it has such a lovely occupant?" he said for Ysandre's benefit. "Her maj esty is wise beyond years, to recognize that the treachery of one member of a House does not taint all born within it." With one last florid bow, he turned away.

"I should have warned you." Ysandre gave me a compassionate glance. "He's been a great help, actually; we un covered several of Melisande's allies thanks to Marmion. I'd forgotten about your ... long history with his House."

"Allies." I wrestled my thoughts into order. "But not Mel isande?"

"No." Ysandre shook her head. "She's gone well and truly to earth, Phèdre, like a fox; and I suspect she's far beyond the borders of Terre d'Ange. Wherever she is, her power here is broken. What allies she had, have been executed, and no one, I think, would be fool enough to trust her with a bounty on her head. I promise you, you've naught to fear from Melisande Shahrizai."

Once upon a time, I was young and naive enough to have thought a Queen's reassurance beyond question. Now, I merely smiled and thanked Ysandre for her concern, holding my fear in check and gazing about the Hall of Games, wondering where the traitors lay.

Joscelin gave me a long look.

"It was the second floor," I said.

"So if the corridor was here ..." Kneeling beside the low table in my sitting room, Fortun plucked a long-stemmed iris from a vase and laid it lengthways atop the table. "How far from the stairs?"

I counted on my fingers, remembering. "Three doors. No, four. Her chamber was the first door past the corner."

"Yes."
Leaning over the table, I studied it. "Near enough."

"Leave them out of it." His expression was unreadable. "If you insist on playing dangerous games, so be it. Don't drag these poor, besotted boys into your intrigues. I can't protect the lot of you."

"Did I ask you to?" I felt my ire rise. "If it disturbs you so greatly, then leave. Throw yourself at the feet of the Prefect and beg forgiveness. Or go tell Ysandre I release you from my service, and beg leave to attend her. She's used to having Cassilines around."

I opened my mouth to reply, but Fortun cleared his throat, intervening. "Quintilius Rousse does not pick half-trained soldiers for his flagship, brother."

Their gazes locked, and I held my tongue. What would it profit, to come between them? Joscelin had to choose freely, or not at all. After a moment, he threw up his hands with a sound of disgust.

"I wish you me joy of them," he said harshly to me, and left the room.

I hadn't thought he would go. I stared after him.

"He'll be back," Fortun said calmly. "He cares too much to leave you, my lady."

"We would have a shortlist of suspects." Fortun's eyes glowed. "My lady, this is somewhat that we can do for you. For you to question the Queen's Guard, it would seem amiss. Even my lord Joscelin is not on ... easy terms, if I may say it, with the rank and file. But three ex-sailors, for mer soldiers of Admiral Rousse ... we could ask. Drinking, dicing; these are things we know, things that loosen men's tongues. He is trained to protect and serve, and not to battle. It is not the same thing, not at all."

He looked smug enough with it that I laughed, then sobered. "Truly, Fortun, this
is
a dangerous business. If any one suspected what you were about, you would be in grave danger."

"I saw you on the battlefield of Bryn Gorrydum, carrying water to the wounded and dying. And after, when you made us chevaliers. I know the Admiral asked it of you. His sword was nearly as long as you're tall." One corner of his mouth crooked at the memory. "Queen's emissary. You looked like someone had hit you over the head. How could I choose otherwise?"

I sighed and rumpled my hair. "All right, then. Learn what you may. But never..." I poked his chest for emphasis, "...
never
let them suspect you are aught but simple chevaliers, eager to relive your moments of glory and pore over the mysteries of nobility."

One thing else I did, when driven to it: I ran away.

I was no child, now, to run to Night's Doorstep and the comfort of Hyacinthe's antics. Still, it was a comfort to slip unnoticed from under the eyes of my well-meaning guards, go to the stable and convince the simple lad, Benoit, to saddle a horse for me. I led the gelding cautiously into the street, where Benoit considerately latched the gate behind me.

It was the doves that put it in my head, dozens upon dozens of them, caged offerings huddled against the cold. Choosing the smallest out of pity, I paid for a gilt cage.

"My lady has an eye," the vendor said obsequiously, transferring the bird. "This one, he is small, but he has a will to survive."

"Elua hear you, and grant it is so." I smiled, leaning down from my mount to take the cage in hand. The gelding snorted and tossed his head. "This one is for Naamah."

The vendor performed an elaborate bow, smiling at me sidelong. My dove rattled his wings against the gilded bars and the gelding shied, shod hooves ringing on the cobble stones; people cheered as I kept my seat. I was a dreadful rider, once. That was before I fled Waldemar Selig's steading on pony-back, through the direst winter. I have spent a good bit of time astride, since then. Strange, to look back and see how skill was acquired; at the time, I only thought to stay alive.

With my head up despite the snapping cold, I rode through the streets to the Temple of Naamah. If people called out and saluted me along the way, it was not because I was the Comtesse de Montrève or Phèdre no Delaunay— they could not see, from the street, my tell-tale gaze—but only because I was young, and beautiful, and I rode without care, bearing a dove for Naamah.

"Be welcome," he said, bending in his scarlet surplice to give me the kiss of greeting. His lips were soft, and I knew, in a way, I was home. He looked at me out of eyes the color of rain-washed lupine, eyes that studied my own. "Be wel come,
anguissette,
and give honor to Naamah."