The attempt was coming.
No one was watching, though it was happening in plain sight. Marco Stregazza was shouting, trying to make himself heard over the clamor, but my accusation had had its effect; support was beginning to ebb away from him and growing steadily around Cesare. "The Doge!" a voice bellowed, oth ers taking up the cry. "Rally to the Doge!"
Four Cassiline Brothers, a pair fore and aft, moving with uncanny fluid grace, a space around each where steel wove deadly patterns around them.
"Serenissimans, we are betrayed! I have been deceived! Benedicte de la Courcel has betrayed me!"
To his credit, Benedicte de la Courcel was no coward. He had been a hero, once, and a valiant warrior—eldest hero of the Battle of Three Princes, where his nephew Rolande had lost his life. I do not think he reckoned to fight again in his twilight years, but he did, wresting his ceremonial sword from its jeweled scabbard and wielding it courageously in defense of his people ... and his wife.
Not so with the mercenaries, who continued to fight. I do not think they were skilled or numerous enough to have taken Ysandre's guard. They didn't have to be. It wasn't the point. They were enough to press the D'Angelines, engaging them—even the Cassilines, who had not yet drawn to kill. They wouldn't, in a Serenissiman temple, not without the Queen's order, unless her life was truly threatened. It was enough to maintain a cordon of safety around her.
Ysandre's face was taut with fear and anger; mostly an ger. Across the Temple, I stared at her, at her Cassilines. One by one I stared at them all, my gaze returning again and again to one in particular, in the forward left position, as I remembered an afternoon in the Hall of Portraits, where there hung the image of Isabel L'Envers de la Courcel, my lord Delaunay's enemy, the mother Ysandre so resembled.
I knew; oh, how I knew! That death had shaped my life in ways I could scarce encompass, forging Anafiel Delaunay, a Prince's beloved, into the man his enemies would name the Whoremaster of Spies; turning me, an
anguissette
raised to serve pleasure in the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers, into one of his most subtle weapons.
I stared at Edmée de Rocaille's brother.
If I had not been watching him so hard, I might not have seen it, the beginning of that fateful turn in the clear space that surrounded him, graceful and flowing, tossing his right- hand dagger in the air and catching it by the blade to make ready for the throw.
"Joscelin!" I grabbed his arm with one hand, pointing with the other. "There!"
Joscelin had spoken truly; a Cassiline Brother planning to assassinate his sovereign would indeed be prepared to die.
David de Rocaille was performing the
terminus.
She hadn't even seen the danger, gazing instead at the balcony with the frown of an embattled monarch, wondering what new threat the outcry betokened.
Ready to die or no, David de Rocaille reacted on instinct, blocking the strike with one vambraced arm. Joscelin's dag ger clattered against it and fell harmlessly to the floor. Slow to react, those nearest turned, uncertain what had happened. Closing his eyes briefly, David de Rocaille bowed and sheathed his daggers, reaching over his shoulder to draw his sword.
With a wordless cry, Joscelin launched himself from the railing, scattering members of the Dogal Guard as he landed.
I daresay he would have been slain then and there had he stood still for it, but he took them by surprise and, by the time they responded, he was already halfway through the melee. I stood rigid with fear as he forced his way through them.
In the uncertainty, David de Rocaille attacked—but he had waited a heartbeat too long to seize his advantage. Shock and disbelief writ on their faces, Ysandre's other Cassilines closed ranks around her and faced their comrade.
One died quickly, too slow to raise his guard, thinking somehow, still, that it was all a terrible mistake until David de Rocaille opened his chest with an angled, two-handed blow. The second fought better and might have lived longer if he had drawn his sword instead of trusting to his daggers; he went down when de Rocaille dropped to one knee and leveled a sweeping blow at his legs, finishing him as he fell with a quick cut to the neck.
Outside the practice fields of the sanctuary, where they are raised and trained under the eye of the Prefect, no one living has ever seen two Cassiline-trained warriors do battle. It is a spectacle capable of bringing an entire riot to a stand still—and that, in fact, is exactly what it did. D'Angelines, Serenissimans, mercenaries ... all of them, quarrels laid by as they watched in awe, stepping back to give the combat ants room.
It is to this day one of the deadliest and most beautiful things I have ever witnessed. Their blades flickered and clashed in patterns too complex for the eye to follow, while they moved through form after form, those movements drilled into them from boyhood onward. On his side, Joscelin had the vigor of youth; but D'Angelines are not quick to age. De Rocaille was a man in his prime, his strength not yet faded, fighting with nothing to lose.
"Anathema!" he hissed as their blades locked. "You be trayed the Brotherhood for one of Naamah's pets!"
"I honor my vow to Cassiel," Joscelin said grimly. "How will you answer for yours, oath-breaker?"
David de Rocaille answered him with a clever twist, slip ping his blade loose and stepping back to aim a great blow at Joscelin's head; Joscelin ducked and spun, de Rocaille's blade passing harmlessly above his half-shorn hair, striking on the rise at his opponent's midsection. The other parried ably and they fought onward, whirling and dodging. It was an odd-looking match, David de Rocaille the model of aus terity and competence in his grey Cassiline garb and Joscelin in rough-spun attire, his tangled locks still streaked with walnut dye.
I'd been with him when he fought Waldemar Selig's thanes, alone and unaided in a raging Skaldic blizzard, one of his greatest battles still, and one unheralded by poets. I had been there when he fought the Tarbh Cró in Alba, de fending with blood and slaughter myself and the family of Drustan mab Necthana, who hailed him as brother for it. And I had been there on La Dolorosa, when he assailed it with bared daggers alone, fighting to win my freedom.
On the floor, Joscelin retreated warily, alert and aware, the glinting line of his blade deflecting de Rocaille's blows out and away, away from his body. He moved with care, placing his feet with precision, his body coiled and waiting as David de Rocaille spent his last, furious strength. He would live; he had to live. He had love at stake. I watched him with my heart in my throat. Surely, surely, that was victory writ in his gaze, biding and watchful.
I closed my eyes and chose.
"There is a thing I must do," I murmured unsteadily to Ti-Philippe, who had joined me in the balcony when Jos celin went after de Rocaille. "For Fortun, for Remy ... for all of us. Will you come with me?"
He nodded once, grim as death, my merry chevalier. "My lady, I have sworn it."
"Then come."