Kushiel's Scion (15 page)
Once they had gone, I packed my things. There was not much—a few items of clothing, including a luxurious robe of deep blue silk that had been the Queen's gift, two books Phèdre had left, and the wooden daggers, the blades chipped and splintered, the hafts polished and smooth. I stroked the worn grain, hearing Alais' giggles echoing in my memory, seeing the look of shock and terror on Sidonie's face.
When I had done, I left my chamber. There was a guard lounging in the hallway outside my door, clad in the blue livery of House Courcel. On the smallest finger of his left hand, he bore a ring of solid silver, a subtle indicator that he was one of the Queen's personal guard. As I emerged, he came to attention with a start. "Your highness! You're not supposed—"
"Yes," I said wearily, cutting him off. "I know. Where are my retainers?"
"The… the Hall of Games," he stammered. "B-but…"
I gave him a long, hard stare. "Take me there."
He obeyed without arguing, escorting me down the long hall with its fretted balustrade and down a broad marble stair to the main floor of the Palace.
The Hall of Games was a vast, bustling space, surrounded by a colonnade for strolling. There were tables reserved for all manner of game-playing and wagering, and other areas for conversing, made intimate with chairs and low couches. Other than the theatre, it was the single largest space within the Palace proper, larger even than the Hall of Audience. It was said that half the business of Terre d'Ange is conducted within its confines.
"Prince Imriel!" The head guardsman saluted me, exchanging a wary look with the guard who accompanied me. "Shouldn't you—"
"Montrève's retainers?" I asked coolly.
He shut his mouth and pointed. Following his finger, I made my way through a host of royal peers toward the Dicers' Corner, Ysandre's guardsman trailing in my wake.
It was a familiar sound; the rattle of shaken dice, the tumble of the cast. All around the world, men dice for pleasure and wager on it. But I used to hear it in the zenana, where the women would consult Kaneka's oracle, to determine when the Mahrkagir would summon them. She used to draw circles in a tray of sand; a day, a week, a month.
Only Phèdre threw all ones, ever.
The sound and the memories it evoked made me unsteady. I'd overtaxed myself, and it had taken its toll. I wobbled, brushing against a tall nobleman clad in a maroon velvet, with golden silk showing in his slashed sleeves. He cast an irritable glance at me, then checked himself, features turning smooth with diplomacy. I knew too well what he saw; me, gaunt and pale, knobby-limbed, my eyes sunken into dark-hollowed sockets. A traitor's ill-gotten son to whom he was forced to pay respect.
"Your highness," he said, inclining his head a scant inch. "Forgive me."
"My fault," I said hoarsely. "Sorry."
One immaculate brow arched. "As you say."
It made me angry, at last. Ysandre's guard hovered ineffectually behind me. The unknown nobleman looked down his nose. I wanted to spit at his feet, on his glossy, shining boots, and wished I were a commoner who could do so.
"Cousin!" A voice cleaved the crowd, light and friendly. I looked up to see one of the Shahrizai approaching. It was one I had seen before, a few years older than me. He reached out to clasp my forearm. He was smiling, filled with assurance, midnight braids framing his face with its high cheekbones. "Remember me?" he asked, winking.
"Yes," I said, remembering. "You're Mavros."
"So I am." He turned his smile on the nobleman, at once pleasant and dangerous. A kind of heat seemed to emanate from him, playful and predatory. "I suggest you be gone, Messire Bauldry." He paused. "Or… forgive me… did you wish to offend?"
"He jostled me!" Bauldry spat.
"Oh?" Mavros raised his brows, still smiling pleasantly. "As you say."
Somehow, he had turned it all around, and I was grateful to him for it. I returned his arm-clasp; glad, for the first time, to see a face that echoed my own. Both of us laughed as Messire Bauldry stomped away. "Who is he?" I asked.
"No one," Mavros said, amused. "A minor lordling with aspirations. Look, highness—"
"Imriel!" At the dicing table, Gilot broke away, hurrying toward us. "What are you doing here?" he asked. "You're supposed to be resting."
"I've rested," I said irritably. "I want to go home."
Gilot ran a hand through his disheveled brown hair. "Queen Ysandre—"
"Surely the Queen would not deny her kinsman the comfort of his own home," Mavros remarked, sounding eminently sensible. "Not after he has been given insult under her very roof!" He laid a hand on my shoulder, still smiling. "The Shahrizai do not countenance such treatment of their kin."
Gilot eyed me dubiously. "Given insult? Is that so?"
"Yes," I said. It was, though not for the reasons Mavros thought. Still, it felt good to have an ally at my side, one who understood how to negotiate the treacherous shoals of Court intrigue with effortless ease. I sighed. "Gilot, let it be. I'm fine. The Queen's chirurgeon will attest to it. I don't want any fuss. I just want to go home, that's all."
"All right, Imri." His expression softened. "Let me find Hugues, and we'll fetch your things. Stay put and I'll come for you." Patting his pockets, Gilot grinned. "Time enough, any road! I've precious little left to wager."
As Gilot plunged into the crowd, Mavros steered me toward the colonnade, sensing my discomfort. "Here," he said. "Walk with me." We strolled together. Away from the sound of rattling dice, I felt my head clear.
"Thank you," I said to him.
He shrugged. " 'Tis nothing." He gave me a sidelong glance. "Your retainer is familiar with you. Is he a lover?"
Heat rose, scorching my cheeks. "Gilot?"
"No, then." Mavros laughed softly. "Ah, well… Imri, is that what you are called?"
"Sometimes." I drew away from him.
"Forgive me." Mavros halted, turning his hands outward. Everything changed; his tone, his demeanor, all of it turning somber. "Cousin Imriel, you are the last person on earth I wish to offend. I forget that you were not raised as I was. What you have suffered, I cannot begin to guess. I spoke out of turn. Can you forgive me for it?"
I studied his face. He let me measure his expression. I did, and found no trace of a lie in it. Whatever his reasons, he was sincere. I nodded, slowly.
"Good." Mavros blew out his breath in a sigh of relief, shaking his braided head and grinning at me. "So it's girls for you, then, is it?"
I thought about the Thirteen Houses of the Night Court, and I thought about Katherine Friote, and the scent of her flesh, like a sun-warmed meadow. The memory was overlaid with the odor of the zenana, the fecund stench of its stagnant pool. And still, all of it stirred desire. Something in my throat grew tight.
"Yes," I said thickly. "Someday."
"You have desires you fear?" Mavros asked.
All I could do was nod.
He smiled, nodding in return. "Don't be afraid," he said. "There are reasons, and Kushiel is merciful." Once again, he laid his hand on my shoulder, squeezing it gently. "Think on our offer, cousin. It yet stands. It would be good for you to know your kin."
With that, he left me.
I watched him go, swaggering with insouciant grace, his thumbs hooked onto his belt. Left alone with my thoughts, I walked slowly along the colonnade, accompanied only by Ysandre's worried guardsman.
In time, Gilot and Hugues came for me, and I dispatched my escort with a terse message of gratitude to the Queen. If Ysandre learned what had transpired earlier, she would know why I left; if not, well, it was true. I was on the mend, and there was no reason to stay at the Palace throughout my convalescence. If not for Alais, I might have left sooner.
There was some commotion upon our arrival at the townhouse, though not as much as I feared. Phèdre took one look at me and ordered me back to bed. I obeyed without arguing, feeling bone-weary.
She got the story out of me that evening, after I had slept for a few hours and eaten a light dinner. There are some things it was easier to tell Phèdre than anyone else, and this was one of them. It seemed almost silly now, and I felt foolish telling it, even to her. Still, when I closed my eyes, I could still see the look on Sidonie's face, stricken with the utter, terrified certainty that I was murdering her sister. Phèdre understood. I didn't have to tell her that it had hurt, or why.
"I'm sorry, love," she said when I had finished. "I'm so sorry."
I shrugged, sitting propped against pillows. "I shouldn't blame her, not really. She saw what she saw." Resting my chin on my knees, I smiled a little. "She was brave, actually, shouting like that. Like you did in the zenana that time, remember?"
"I remember," Phèdre said quietly. "But I had cause."
We were both silent, then, remembering. It had been one of the times I had been sent to attend Jagun; afterward, when a few of the Chowati women were tormenting me. There was no reason for it, save that cruelty begets cruelty. Phèdre does not raise her voice often, but it had cracked like a whip that day. It was the moment, I think, when the women of the zenana began to believe that perhaps the gods of Terre d'Ange were not as soft as they had reckoned.
Thinking about the zenana, I remembered the rattle and cast of dice in the Hall of Games, and Mavros Shahrizai coming to my aid. "Phèdre?" I asked. "Has Duc Faragon pursued his request to send some of the Shahrizai to summer in Montrève?"
"How did you know?" She cocked her head, regarding me. "He sent a letter the other week. I was waiting until you felt better to discuss it. We can speak of it later, Imri. You need to sleep now. There's time enough to think on it."
"I know," I said. "But I don't need to think. If you're willing, I'd like them to come."
Phèdre looked surprised. I hadn't told her about the Hall of Games. "Are you sure?"
I nodded. "I'm sure."
"All right," she said, bending to kiss my cheek. "We'll talk about it." As she straightened, a glimmer of deep amusement lit her eyes. For some reason, it made me think about my vigil on the Longest Night, reminding me that darkness fades, and there is reason in life for rejoicing. "This," she said, "ought to be interesting."
Chapter Nine
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