Authors: Jacqueline Carey

Tags: #High Fantasy

Kushiel's Chosen (10 page)

"Marmion might have got past the guards at Melisande's chamber," I said thoughtfully. "They knew he was her cousin; they'd have let him in to speak with her on the eve of her death. They did me. Joscelin." I turned to him. "Ysan dre questioned the Shahrizai. There was talk about that, at least; they were under a lot of suspicion. Didn't one visit Melisande that night? After... after I did?"

He tore off a hunk of bread, frowning. "Yes. But it was Persia, not Marmion. She needed to beg Melisande's for giveness, she said." He shrugged. "I don't know if it's true. But she did leave, and well before daybreak. The guard at the stairs backed her story, or Ysandre would never have let it go. He saw her coming and going." Joscelin paused, then added, "Ghislain de Somerville said he saw her leave the audience hall in tears, after Ysandre was done questioning her. He said it was the only time he'd ever seen one of House Shahrizai cry.”

"But not Marmion." Deep in thought, I rapped my spoon against my empty stew bowl. "Well. Even if he did visit Melisande, the guard at the postern gate would have chal lenged him. So if he was involved ..."

"There still had to be someone else," Fortun said, finish ing my thought. "Someone the guard would have trusted."

"Yes." I set down my spoon. "Which gives us a new question: Who is in league with Lord Marmion Shahrizai, and why? And the answer to those questions ..." I smiled, "... lies in my purview."

"Phèdre," Joscelin murmured, gazing into his wineglass. "Have a care with the Shahrizai."

"He's not Melisande." I did not need to add that Marmion Shahrizai was as the pale moon beside the blazing sun next to his cousin. Joscelin knew it. Poets wrote odes to Melisande Shahrizai, although I never heard one that did her justice. They still sing them; they just change the names. Even inadequate verses were too beautiful to sacrifice to politics.

"No." He gave me a hard look. "But a viper is no less dangerous for being small. And if Marmion Shahrizai ar ranged the death of his own sister, he'll scruple at naught."

"I'll be careful."

"Ysandre favors him," Ti-Philippe announced. "So the guards say. He makes her laugh."

Well he might; from time out of mind, House Shahrizai has produced deadly skillful courtiers. None of them have ever held the throne—nor even the sovereign duchy of Kusheth—but they have amassed tremendous amounts of wealth, and a network of influence rivaled by none. If Marmion was in league with Melisande, then he had sacrificed some of his allies in gaining Ysandre's trust. If any survived, they must be nervous.

"Well," I mused aloud. "If the Captain of the Guard allows it, maintain contact with these disgruntled Shahrizai retainers, and learn what you may. More than ever, it's im portant that we find the men on guard that night at Troyes- le-Mont.”

"Yes, my lady!" Grinning, Remy gave me a crisp salute. "We didn't do too badly, though, did we?"

"No," I said. "Not badly at all. Except for the fighting part."

"My lady!" Ti-Philippe protested. "He said we were lack eys to a—"

"Stop," I said mildly, cutting him off. The words died in his mouth. "Philippe, you have pledged your service to an
anguissette
and a Servant of Naamah. If the jests you hear are no worse than the ones you have made yourself, then you will be quiet and swallow them."

Muttering, he subsided into some semblance of acquies cence.

"What if they are worse?" Remy inquired.

"They couldn't be," I answered him dryly.

It may seem at times as if a riddle has been chased to ground, all possibilities exhausted, all avenues of inquiry covered. So it seemed to me that night, but in the morning, a new thought struck me. Thelesis de Mornay, the Queen's Poet, had interviewed many of the survivors of Troyes-le- Mont, taking copious notes for her epic of the Ysandrine Cycle. Mayhap there was somewhat in her notes that might prove useful.

I voiced my suggestion to Joscelin as he came in from his morning's exercises, and he nodded agreement. "It's worth a try, at any rate." He smiled. "I missed her visit, the other day. I'd not mind seeing her."

We arrived at the Palace at midday, and were swiftly granted audience. Thelesis' rooms in the Palace were spacious and well-appointed, with an elegant mural of Eisheth at her harp on the eastern wall and a lovely bronze statue of the Tiberian poet Catiline. For all of that, they were a mess, strewn about with books stacked in teetering piles, carelessly heaped scrolls and half-scratched parchments. Truly, a working poet's quarters.

"Phèdre, Joscelin!" The ink smudged on her cheek took nothing away from her glowing welcome. "I'm pleased you've come. Joscelin Verreuil, let me look at you." The lesis took his hands, regarding him with pleasure. "You look splendid," she declared. He bent to kiss her cheek. Thelesis de Mornay was one of the few people for whom Joscelin felt unalloyed affection.

"So do you," he said fondly. "I hope you've been keeping well."

"Well enough." Thelesis gestured to her blazing fireplace. "Ysandre makes certain there's no chance of my taking a chill," she said, amused. "It's hot enough for a steam bath in here, most of the time. I hope you don't mind. So tell me, what brings you here?"

I told her, and watched her expression turn keen and thoughtful.

"I took some notes, I remember that much. Ghislain de Somerville was dreadfully upset; his father had entrusted the watch to his command that night."

Joscelin and I exchanged a glance. He shook his head slightly.

"You don't suspect—" Thelesis began, then stopped. "Ghislain. You do."

"I don't want to," I said. "We travelled under Ghislain's command from the banks of the Rhenus to the mountains of Camlach. He could have laughed in my face, when I proposed we offer Isidore d'Aiglemort a chance at redemption, and he didn't. But still."

"Not Ghislain," Joscelin said firmly. "I don't suspect Ghislain."

I shrugged. "What did he tell you?"

Thelesis moved stacks of paper and books, unearthing a bulky folio tied with leather thongs. "I think this is the right one," she said ruefully, glancing at a marking scratched hast ily on an upper corner. "This may take a moment."

We sat quiet, waiting while Thelesis de Mornay shuffled through sheaves of parchment.

"If it were verse," she murmured, "I'd have it committed to memory, you know, but I chose in the end to give scant play to Melisande's disappearance ... let her be a footnote in the annals of history, after all, it is better than she de serves ... here it is." Holding her notes at arm's length, she read aloud. " 'And the night passed fair quiet, with the solemnity appropriate to an eve whose dawn brings the exe cution of a member of D'Angeline peerage. I made my rounds at one bell, and three, and five, and all was quiet. Then with the changing of the guard at dawn, all seven hells broke loose, when Phanuel Buonard made to relieve the guard at the postern gate and found him dead of a knife to the heart. He ran shouting through the lower halls for my father, and I caught him to ask what was the matter. By the time he had told me, half the guard had mustered in the lower quarters, and I had to order many back to their stations. By now, my father had emerged, and assumed command unthinking. He wasted no time in ordering a detachment to the second floor, to Melisande Shahrizai's chamber where she was confined. There, he found her guards slain; one with a dagger to the ribs, and the other with his throat cut. The chamber itself was empty.' " Thelesis cleared her throat and looked up apologetically. "That's all, I'm afraid. It's not much help."

"Nothing we didn't know, at any rate," Joscelin observed.

"That's not true." Pinching the bridge of my nose in thought, I glanced up to meet their surprised gazes. "We know that it didn't happen before five bells. We know that Ghislain commanded the watch that night, and not his father Percy. We know that the death of the gate-keep was discovered before the disappearance of Melisande, and we know the name of the man who discovered it. And we know that the gate-keep and the guards at Melisande's door were not killed in exactly the same manner."

"Phèdre, there are a dozen different killing strikes with a dagger," Joscelin said reasonably.

"Mayhap." I shrugged. "But it is worth noting, nonethe less." I turned to Thelesis. "Thank you, indeed. Was there anyone else you spoke to about that night?"

"No." She shook her head, regretfully. "Would that I had, now. If you'll trust no one else, I still think you should speak to Ysandre."

"I will," I said. "When I know somewhat more."

ELEVEN

1 had learned no more by the day of the Midwinter Masque. It would have to do, for now the time was come to devote my energies unto the Service of Naamah.

Everything was in readiness. My costume and Fortun's attire had been delivered by an Eglantine House courier. After making certain that no final adjustments were wanting, I began my preparations by luxuriating in a hot bath fragrant with scented oil, with half a dozen candles set about to il luminate the wreathing steam.

"Phèdre."

It was Joscelin's voice at the door; I started, splashing water over the edge of the tub. "Come in."

He let himself into the room, closing the door carefully behind him. I leaned my arms on the rim of the tub, looking up curiously. "What is it?"

"I just wanted to see you one last time," he said quietly, kneeling opposite me and taking my hands in his. A rueful smile hovered at the corner of his mouth. "Before the rest of the world did."

"Oh, Joscelin." I squeezed his hands; mine were slippery with water and oil. His face by candlelight was heartbreak ingly beautiful. "Can you forgive me, a little anyway?"

"If you can me." He stroked my damp hair. "I love you, you know."

I nodded. "I know. And I you."

"Elua have mercy on us." He rose, and stood looking down at me. "You'll dazzle them. They won't reckon the tenth part of your worth, but you'll dazzle them, Phèdre." Tears Stung my eyes; I'd no reply. After a moment, he gave his faint smile. "I've got to leave now if I'm to be at the Temple of Elua before dark. Naamah hold you in her hands and keep you safe."

Somewhere, I found my voice. "Thank you," I whispered.

With an unwontedly awkward bow, he nodded in return, and left.

I closed my eyes and let myself wallow in the bittersweet pain of it for a moment. At least he
had
come to see me, and given me his blessing, after a fashion. Naamah's Servant and a Cassiline; Elua have mercy, indeed. But there was too much at stake to linger overlong in the intricacies of my relationship with Joscelin. After a moment, I set it reluc tantly aside and emerged from the bath to pat myself dry, calling for Gemma to assist me.

In truth, I could have used a coterie of attendants to make ready for the Masque. Since I didn't have them, I made do. My hair, I twined carelessly atop my head; it would have to wait until the last. First, came the gown.

Finespun as a whispered prayer, the scarlet jersey slithered over my head and fell like water about me, fitted close to the hips and then falling in immaculate folds to sweep the floor. It had a high neckline, rising like a crimson flame to clasp around my throat, belying the daring nature of the low back; and low it was, skimming the very base of my marque.

"Oh, my lady!" Gemma cried, wide-eyed, biting her knuckles.

"Not bad, considering the cost." I surveyed myself in the mirror. "Here." I pointed to the seam along my left side, which gaped open. "This is where you'll need to sew it. Are you sure you're up to the task?"

"Ye ... yes." Her voice trembled, and her fingers shook with nervousness as Gemma endeavored to thread the needle Favrielle no Eglantine had provided. After a minute, I sighed.

"Here, let me—no, wait. Gemma, fetch Remy, will you?"

She brought him in a trice, and he entered grinning, caught sight of me, coughed and promptly tripped over his feet.

"Remy." I eyed him impatiently. "If I remember right, all of Rousse's sailors are handy with a needle and thread, and you in particular, yes?”

"Elua!" He breathed it. "You really
do
notice everything! What do you need sewn, my lady?"

I told him. His grin grew enormous.

If things had gone otherwise in my life, I reflected, this would have been a very different evening. I could have made a fortune working under Delaunay's patronage; by the time I opened my own salon, I'd have been well settled. I would not have been the Comtesse de Montrève, with most of my monies tied to the welfare of my estate and its in habitants, begging funds, at the mercy of a surly young clothier for my costume, with a war-seasoned sailor as my chief attendant.

It is a good thing Blessed Elua saw fit to endow me with a sense of humor.

As it happens, Remy did a neat job of it, and when he had finished, the scarlet gown clung to my upper body like it was painted there. That damnable Favrielle was a genius. "Thank you," I said to Remy, dismissing him; he grinned once more, and left chuckling. "Gemma, bring my cosmet ics."

I do not use a great deal; I am young enough that it would be vulgar. A hint of kohl to accentuate my eyes, which would be mostly hidden behind the veil, and carmine for my lips. When that was done, I set about styling my hair. One must learn such things, in Cereus House; happily, I had not lost the touch. It took some time, recreating the elaborate coif I'd seen in Favrielle's illustration of Mara, but I was well satisfied when I was done.

The half-veil, I secured with hairpins topped with glitter ing black jet, and when it was in place, a stranger's face gazed back at me from the mirror. My veiled gaze was lustrous and mysterious, for once not betrayed by the scarlet mote in my left eye. The elaborate coif of my dark hair added an archaic elegance, and my fair skin glowed against the black gauze of the veil. And the gown—I rose, and it swirled around my hips in a crimson glissade.

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