Kushiel's Scion (67 page)
I clinked the rim of my cup against his. "To risks, then."
"What are we toasting?" Eamonn asked cheerfully.
"Lucius." I nodded at him. "He's made an offer for a wife."
"Oh, aye?" Eamonn drained his cup, then hoisted it. "To Lucius and his wife!" Brigitta made a guttural noise deep in her throat, and Eamonn glanced at her. "What is it?"
"You might at least ask her name," she said contemptuously.
Eamonn made to answer, then checked himself. The two of them exchanged a long glance. Whatever had passed between them since the sun rose and set and rose again over the Tiber River, there was substance to it.
I found myself envying them.
"True," Eamonn said slowly, turning his winecup in his big hands. "Has she a name, Lucius, this bride of yours?"
"Helena." Lucius permitted himself a tight smile. "Helena Correggio da Lucca. If her father consents, the wedding will take place later in the summer. You'll all be welcome as my guests, of course."
"Do you think he will?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "I think so. Domenico Martelli, the Duke of Valpetra—the suitor I mentioned—has grown impatient. Overbearing, one might say. It's clear he's got designs on Lucca itself, and not just Helena. I suspect Gaetano Correggio will be glad of an excuse to tell him no."
"Well," I said. "Congratulations." I hesitated, and lowered my voice. Eamonn and Brigitta had resumed their own conversation and were paying little interest. "Has it improved matters with the dead?"
"Oddly enough, it has." With a self-deprecating twist of his lips, Lucius tapped his temples. "I hate to admit it, but the old bastard's been quiet since I sent off the missive. Not a ghost in sight, not a rant to be heard." He raised his cup. "Here's to peace and quiet in the confines of one's own skull."
"Indeed," I murmured.
"What's your family like, Montrève?" he asked curiously. "Any ghosts?"
"Only living ones," I said, thinking of my mother, then waved my hand in quick dismissal when Lucius gave me a sharp look. "Pay me no heed, I'm short of sleep. My family, they're…" I paused, words failing me.
"Oh, they're very beautiful!" Eamonn interceded helpfully.
"Naturally," Lucius said in a dry tone.
"No, it's true." He grinned. "Even in Terre d'Ange, because they're kind, too. Both her ladyship and her consort. She taught me to speak Caerdicci, you know. She spent hours teaching me, and she was so kind and patient. And even though they're welcome at Court, they don't put on insufferable airs like most D'Angelines. Sorry, Imri," he added, glancing at me.
I sighed. "I know."
"Her consort!" Lucius raised his brows. "She's not wed, then?"
"No," I said. "They never married."
"Why?" he asked.
I glanced at Eamonn, who shrugged. I was on my own with this query. "It's a long story," I said, temporizing. "Look, Lucius, we don't do things the way you do here in Caerdicca Unitas. Women are eligible to inherit as full-fledged heirs. They're free to take lovers outside the bounds of marriage. There are reasons," I added haughtily, "that we put on airs."
Lucius snorted into his winecup.
"It's not funny." Brigitta scowled at him. "In Skaldia, too, women are treated with greater respect than you Caerdicci do."
"Alba, too, and Eire." Eamonn leaned back in his chair, stretching out his long legs. He was enjoying Lucius' discomfort. "My mother Grainne is the Lady of the Dalriada. With one word, she can send our people to war."
"Do not remind me," Brigitta muttered.
He smiled sidelong at her. "We did not start it, lady."
"All right!" Lucius raised his hands in surrender. "Yes, I'm willing to own that Caerdicci law is unfair to women. I'm certain Master Piero would agree. But I did not make the laws, and I am bound by them."
"You could change them," I suggested. "As Prince of Lucca, at any rate. Don't all the city-states maintain their own charters?"
Lucius shot me an annoyed look. "Yes. Yes, they do." He raked his hands through his unruly curls. The sight gave me an involuntary tremor, as though the shadow of his sister was present. Truly, I was haunted by the living. "And if I ever become Prince of Lucca," he said to Brigitta, "I will give the matter due consideration. Does that please you?"
She smiled at him. "Yes, thank you."
With the conversation steered onto less risky ground, I agreed to stay for another jug. Either the wine and my brief nap had restored me somewhat, or I'd travelled clear through my own exhaustion and come out the other side of it. Betimes, that can happen. When Phèdre and Joscelin and I rowed all through the night to Kapporeth, I had reckoned myself exhausted; but when Hanoch's men caught us and made to give battle, a ferocious energy had coursed through my veins. This was altogether different, but whatever the reason, I no longer felt as though I would fall into a well of oblivion.
So we sat and talked a while longer.
Lucius and I watched the interaction of Eamonn and Brigitta with bemusement.
"Are they lovers, do you think?" he whispered.
I studied them. They were careful of one another. He was solicitous, but he never touched her, and she held herself back; opening, but wary. "No, not yet."
"What a pair!" Lucius laughed.
"Well, from all I hear, his mother is an imposing woman in her own right," I said philosophically. "Mayhap he's predisposed." The thought touched too closely on my own situation. By all accounts, my mother Melisande had relished being steeped to the eyeballs in intrigue, not unlike Claudia Fulvia. I shuddered and changed the subject. "What of Aulus?" I asked. "He seems… out of sorts."
"Aulus!" Lucius drained his cup. "Oh, indeed. I suspect Master Piero may ask him to leave." He refilled his cup, contemplating its contents. "Aulus only asked to study with him to be with me."
"Was he your lover?" I asked him.
Lucius gave me a long considering look. His eyes, Elua be thanked, were unlike his sister's; a dark hazel, and altogether a different shape. It made it easier to meet his gaze. "Have you ever felt you were born in the wrong time and place?"
"I'm not sure," I said. "Why?"
He cocked one leg, snagging his boot-heel on the rung of the chair, and laced his fingers around his knee. "'O, dear my lord'… it's beautiful stuff, Anafiel de Montrève's poetry. He modeled it on the ancient Hellenes. And there was nothing soft about them." A fierce light hardened his face. "Warriors, sworn lovers, each vowed to hold the other's honor more dear than their own. There was a city-state that fielded an army forged of such couples. The Sacred Band, they called it. Have you heard of it?"
I nodded.
"For a time, they were invincible," Lucius said softly. "I could have lived then. I could have been born in Terre d'Ange, where men still believe such things and write poems about them. They do, don't they?" There was a catch in his voice, vulnerable and hopeful.
"Yes," I said. "They do."
"Do you?" he asked.
His gaze was direct, and I returned it honestly. "No," I said. "I can understand it. Truth be told, there is no one outside Montrève that I have ever loved better than Eamonn mac Grainne. He is like a brother to me, and I would gladly spend my life to defend his honor. But…" I hesitated, then forged ahead. "Some bad things happened to me, Lucius, when I was a child, before I was adopted. Betimes I find it hard enough to be with women, although that has changed. Still, I find myself shying from the thought of being with a man. Mayhap that will change, too. But for now… no."
"I didn't think so." Lucius tilted his head and regarded the ceiling.
"Lucius." I laid one hand over his laced fingers. "I'm sorry."
"Not your fault." He bowed his head, contemplating our hands. "Though surely this must be the first conversation betwixt Caerdicci and D'Angeline that fell out thusly." His lips quirked and his fingers stirred, catching mine in a hard grip. "You named me friend when we first met, Imriel nó Montrève. Are you willing to stand by it?"
I returned his grip, hard. "I am."
"Good," Lucius said briefly. "I have need of friends."
After the second jug, we left the wineshop. Lucius bade us farewell, and I accompanied Eamonn as he escorted Brigitta to the insula where she lodged. There was a landlady who rented her entire complex to female scholars only, and allowed no men past the gate. I loitered while they exchanged good-byes, trying not to eavesdrop.
We went to the Great Forum and bought skewers of grilled chicken from a vendor, sitting on the low steps that bordered the Forum to eat them. It was nearing dusk, and the street performers were getting in their last fleeting hour of work. We watched a fire-eater spew gouts of flame from his mouth, lurid against the gloaming sky, then lower the torch, extinguishing its flame with his mouth.
"I'd like to learn to do that," Eamonn said. "Do you think he'd teach me?"
"I have no idea," I said. My weariness was returning with a vengeance and my head ached with a dull, steady throb. The thought of lying on my pallet and letting myself slip into unconsciousness seemed like bliss.
Eamonn studied the fire-eater. "He must hold a sponge in his mouth, don't you think?" he mused. "But no, there has to be oil, too. I think he sips it from that flask and spits it into the flames." When I shrugged in mute reply, he turned his study on me. "What are you up to, Imri?"
"Me?" With an effort, I laughed. "What of you? Brigitta… you like her, don't you?"
"Yes," he said. "I do. And you are changing the subject, as you have been doing all day. I understand why you do it with Lucius, and I'm willing to help. He doesn't notice, because he's absorbed in his own concerns. But I know you. Why are you doing it to me?"
I gazed across the Forum. Beyond the fire-eater, I could make out a familiar figure, bare-legged, clad in a filthy tunic. He was talking to a group of students, gesturing animatedly with one hand, holding a wooden bowl out in the other. "Is that Canis?"
"Canis?" Eamonn frowned.
"My philosopher-beggar, the one in the barrel." I nodded. "Him."
"Yes, it looks like him," Eamonn said. "And you're doing it again."
"Sorry." I rubbed my eyes, trying to scour away the exhaustion. "I don't mean to. It's just all a bit odd, don't you think?"
"Well, he does live in a barrel," Eamonn observed. "Imri, we always swore we could tell one another anything, didn't we?"
Is that a warning? Yes.
"I know." I rocked on the step, rubbing my palms over my knees. With a second corpse in close proximity to me, I was inclined to take the warning more seriously. "Eamonn, just… please. Don't ask, not now. I'll tell you when I can, I swear." I searched his face. "You do trust me, don't you?"
"With my life," he said simply. He sat for a moment longer, then sighed and rose. "Come on, let's get you back to the insula. You look half-dead." He eyed me. "Whoever she was, she rode you hard."
"You might say that," I murmured.
Halfway across the Forum, jostled by the milling crowds, I felt a hand catch my elbow from behind. I wrenched free, taking a step back and spinning, my sword hissing from its sheath. A half-step behind me, Eamonn followed suit.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry!" A small man in coarse homespun put up his hands, backing away. His voice squeaked with fear. "Sorry, young sir! It's only that my mistress would like you to call upon her, begging your interest. She may have work for you."
"Your mistress," I echoed. I stared at him, trying to determine if I recognized him from Claudia's domus. I didn't. "Who is she? What are you?" My voice hardened. "A procurer?"
Eamonn sniggered.
The small man drew himself up with dignity. "I'm an artist's apprentice, sir."
I blinked at him like an idiot. "Your mistress is an artist?"
"Erytheia of Thrasos?" he asked in a condescending tone. When I continued to blink, he sighed. "You're new to Tiberium, aren't you, young sir?"
"Rather," I said.
"I've heard of her." Eamonn sheathed his blade. "She's a painter, yes?"
"A painter." Her apprentice repeated the words with disdain. "Yes, young sirs, my mistress is & painter. A very famous painter." He measured me with his gaze. "She would like you to sit for her for a particular subject. The pay is good."
I shook my head, putting up my own blade. "Not interested."
He pattered after us when we turned our backs on him. "Wait!" He thrust a scrap of parchment into my hand. "Her patron was very specific," he said. "Think on it."
With his message delivered, he melted into the crowds, swift and darting. I gave a half a thought to pursuing him, then abandoned it. I was too damnably tired to give chase. Instead, I opened the note and read it.
Tomorrow afternoon. Erytheia's atelier.
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