Kushiel's Scion (42 page)
"Gilot!" I pointed toward the alley. "That way!"
Montrève's men-at-arms don't need to be told twice. Gilot took off at a dead run, boots skidding on the icy cobblestones, and plunged into the alley. I got to my feet and felt Bertran's hand descend on my shoulder.
"What did he say to you?" he repeated.
"Later." I shook him off, racing after Gilot.
Once I passed beyond the faint illumination from the street, it was pitch-black in the alley. Within twenty paces, I slowed to a walk, then halted. Closing my eyes, I listened. I could hear footsteps and someone's breathing. "Gilot?"
"Aye." He sounded disgrunted. "He's gone, Imri."
Bertran appeared at the mouth of the alley with a lit torch. "Any luck?"
"No," I said. "Bring that here, will you?"
By torchlight, it was obvious the alley grew too narrow to admit him on horseback. Bertran dismounted and came on foot. With the torch casting wavering shadows on the crowded buildings of Night's Doorstep, we searched to no avail. The back alleys branched and branched again. There were too many paths my unwelcome messenger could have taken, and all of them were silent and empty.
"Come on." Gilot clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Let's go back; the others must be freezing."
A dozen yards from the mouth of the alley, Bertran pointed. "What's that?"
I stooped and picked up the object. "His cap. He was wearing this."
"Let me see." Bertran held out his free hand. I gave it to him. He examined it, frowning, then peered inside it. I saw his mouth tighten.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Hold this." He thrust the torch at Gilot, who took it without comment. I watched as Bertran worked at a scrap of parchment sewn into the interior of the cap. There was a message written on it. He read it silently to himself, and I felt my blood run cold.
"Bertran," I said. "Please."
He met my eyes and his were dark with distrust. "Read it."
I took it from him, squinting at the blurred ink. " 'Dolphin fountain, sunset, two days hence,'" I read aloud. "Bertran, I have no idea what that means. I swear to you, I have no idea who that man was or what he was talking about."
"Friends," he said softly. "'True of heart and pure of blood. Don't play me for a fool, Imriel. Prince Imriel."
It was like a nightmare. I shook my head. "No," I said. "You know me. Name of Elua, Bertran! I don't want the throne. I don't want the holdings I have! Have I ever given you any reason to doubt me?" I asked fiercely. "Any reason?"
"No." The torchlight made a mask of his face, strange and unfamiliar. "But your mother played a long game, didn't she? So my own mother always said, and she's cause to know." A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Melisande Shahrizai destroyed my grandfather, too, and he was a hero, once. Percy de Somerville. My father gave up his name to be free of the taint of her treachery." He laughed bitterly. "Imagine that! Baudoin de Trevalion was executed for treason, and the stench of the Trevalion name still reeked less than Somerville's after your mother was done with it."
"I know," I said quietly. "And I am sorry for it. But I am not my mother's son."
"Pray you're not." Bertran looked hard at me. "Pray you're not, Imri! Because I will see you dead before I let you follow in her footsteps."
"My lord de Trevalion!" Gilot interceded, cool and crisp. "Do you question the honor of House Montrève?" He shifted the torch into his left hand, placing the right on the hilt of his sword. "If you do, I will be pleased to answer for it."
"Enough!" I moved between them. "Gilot, stand down. This is absurd. Bertran…" I spread my hands. "Whatever is going on, I have no part in it. The first thing in the morning, I'll take the matter to the Queen."
Nothing in his expression changed. "Give me the note. I'll do it myself."
"Fine." I shoved it at him. "Take it."
He took it without comment and we returned to the Cockerel. Our companions were waiting, shivering with cold and excitement, stamping and hugging their cloaks around them as they speculated on what had transpired.
"Was it a cutpurse?" Julien called. "Did you catch him?"
Bertran eyed me.
"No, and no." I took a deep breath. "It's nothing. I've no idea who he was. He tried to imply that I'm involved in some manner of intrigue, that's all."
"Oh, good!" Julien said happily. "Are you?"
"No!" The word burst from me. I sighed, taking the Bastard's reins from a wide-eyed stable-lad. "Come on," I said. "It's late. You'll hear all about it on the morrow."
We made our respective ways home. Gilot and I rode the last few blocks alone. I kept silent for as long as I could stand it, and then finally spoke.
"I am telling the truth, you know," I said.
"Of course!" He looked surprised. "Imri, I've known you since you were thirteen years old. I never doubted it."
A wave of gratitude overtook me. "My thanks."
Gilot shook his head. "No thanks needed." He grinned at me. "Well, except mayhap mine to you, young highness. Hélène is a peach."
I smiled. "I'd forgotten. It seems like days ago, doesn't it?"
"Aye." His face turned sober as we entered the townhouse courtyard. "Whatever this business is, it's no good. I think you'd best wake her ladyship and tell her."
"I mean to," I said.
We woke the household and held a conference in the salon. Everyone sat or stood around, blinking and stifling yawns. Phèdre listened without interrupting, the vague softness of sleep giving way to a fierce clarity.
"What of the man?" she asked when I had finished.
I shrugged, feeling stupid and helpless. "I couldn't see well enough! I know, you trained me better than that, but it's just like the assassin in Nineveh. I wasn't expecting it, I didn't think."
"That's all right," she said gently. "Go slowly, and tell me what you remember."
I closed my eyes, hearing his muffled voice in my memory. "He was youngish," I said. "Older than me, but still young. And he knew Night's Doorstep, but he's not City-born. He had a provincial accent; Namarrese, mayhap." I thought about it. "Yes, Namarrese. He sounded a little like the master cheese-maker at Heuzé."
"Good," Phèdre said. "How tall was he?"
Opening my eyes, I held my hand out a few inches above chin level. "Not tall. He stood about so high to me. Slight, and quick."
"He knew what he was about," Gilot agreed. "He vanished like a rabbit."
"Lucky for him," Joscelin said darkly. He looked absolutely thunderous. For the first time in years, I shivered a little at the sight of him.
"Not lucky," Phèdre said. "This was carefully planned. But why?" She paced the salon, frowning in thought. "Imri, is there anything you might have said or done to give someone reason to believe you might welcome such an overture? Anything?"
Her words were an unexpected blow. "How can you ask?" I said bitterly. "I wouldn't, not in a thousand years! How can you think it? How can you possibly?"
"Imriel." She touched my hand. "I don't. But people hear what they wish to hear, and a careless jest may be taken in earnest."
It calmed me enough to think. "No," I said. "It's not somewhat I'd jest about. Only…" I paused. "Last year, at the Midwinter Masque, when I came as Baldur… because he was a god of light, Sidonie asked if I thought I might be asked to play the Sun Prince."
"Like Baudoin de Trevalion," Phèdre said softly.
I nodded. "Someone might have taken it for a sign."
She looked a little sick. "I never thought of that."
"Nor did I." I squared my shoulders. "But that's all. There's nothing else."
"So why this?" Phèdre mused. "Why now?"
"Because Imriel turns eighteen and gains his majority in the spring," Joscelin said in a blunt tone. "And there are members of Parliament unhappy about a half-Cruithne heir to the D'Angeline throne while Drustan's damned nephew appears to be laying claim to the succession in Alba without a D'Angeline in sight."
They exchanged a glance.
"Mayhap," Phèdre said slowly. "Or it may be somewhat else altogether."
Joscelin raised his brows. "What are you thinking?"
She shook her head. "Nothing, yet." Her dark eyes focused on me, clear and impossibly deep, save for the scarlet mote. "Go to bed, love. There's naught to be done about it tonight. We'll speak with the Queen in the morning."
Chapter Twenty-Four
My status at Court was altered overnight.
It wasn't Ysandre's doing. To her credit, the Queen heard me out with aplomb. By all appearances, she was unwavering in her support. But Bertran was there, a shadow of suspicion in his eyes, the damning note in his hand.
He told her it was he, and not I, who found the cap.
He told her I fouled his pursuit of the messenger.
"Oh, please!" I said in disgust. "You're the one who blocked my path. And for all I know, you're the one planted that note. You were awfully quick to assume the worst of me, Bertran."
He bristled. "I would never stoop—"
Ysandre raised her hand for silence and we both complied, chastened. She looked somberly at Phèdre. "What do you think?"
"I don't know, yet," she said. "But I think it's time to start asking some serious questions about what members of Parliament may have been overheard using the phrase 'true of heart and pure of blood.'"
The Queen raised her brows. "An open inquiry? Surely we have more to gain by concealing our hand."
Phèdre glanced at Bertran. "How many people have you told of last night's encounter, my lord?"
His face turned brick red. "Only those who were there!"
"So," Phèdre said mildly. "I imagine it will be all over Court by this evening."
"Name of Elua!" I clenched my fists. "I'm an idiot. I should have sewn my mouth shut." I pointed at Bertran. "I should have sewn your mouth shut!"
"Oh, you'd like that!" He glared at me. "Look, I saw what I saw."
Ysandre sighed. "Did you tell your companions about the note's contents?"
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