Kushiel's Scion (59 page)
I shook my head, then remembered he couldn't see. "No," I said, replying in kind.
Eamonn smiled, eyes still closed. "Does it make you proud?"
"No," I said, feeling at my smooth cheeks. "Why, should it? It's a matter of heritage, nothing more." I shrugged. "There are differences. Do they matter?"
"Aye." Eamonn opened his eyes. "They do to some."
In the unctuarium, we lay side by side on marble tables while attendants massaged scented oil into our skin.
"Make no mistake, Imri," Eamonn said. "There's envy at work. You…" He gestured at me with a languid arm. "You D'Angelines, you got lucky. You're a pretty folk, and you're a strong nation. Your gods gave you gifts you can number. And," he said candidly, "D'Angelines are nothing loathe to boast of it."
I gazed at him through my lashes, eyes half-lidded. "I don't, do I?"
"True," he admitted. "You're different. But people here don't know you, yet. All they see is a D'Angeline face." He pillowed his head on his arms. "Give it time, Imri. They have long memories here in Tiberium. Their star has set, while Terre d'Ange's has risen; higher than ever, under the rule of Ysandre and Drustan. And now even D'Angeline scholars are disdaining the University for their own academies. It breeds resentment."
I sighed. "Can nothing ever be simple?"
"Ah, don't let it worry you." Eamonn grinned. "You worry too much."
"I have too many reasons to," I muttered.
Clean and fragrant, I returned to the insula to change my attire, reckoning the plain student's togs I was wearing weren't suitable for an evening with one of Tiberium's wealthiest citizens. Most of the clothing I had brought was simple and sturdy; well made, but nothing too fine. But I had brought one or two items I thought might suit, though they were doubtless worse for the wear after being crumpled in our packs.
A strange sight greeted me as I drew near the incense-maker's shop. A beggar had esconced himself near the gate that led to the courtyard of the insula. Somewhere, he had obtained a vast pine-wood barrel, still intact, though its staves were cracked and sprung. An opening had been cut into it and the beggar sat cross-legged in its confines, cradling a wooden bowl, neat as a statue in an altar's niche.
He poked his head out as I approached. "Good day, young sir!" he called cheerfully. His Caerdicci was good, but he spoke it with an accent I couldn't place. He shook his wooden bowl, rattling the few brass sestertii it contained. "The wise man frees his soul from the burden of wealth," he said. "Will you not lighten your burden?"
I raised my brows. "And burden you in turn, my friend?"
"Ah!" A smile dawned on the beggar's face. Beneath the dirt and the lank hair, he was younger than I had thought at first glance, not yet thirty. Still seated, he gave a little bow. "I see, you are kind. I thank you, young sir, for sparing me temptation. Perhaps, as my wisdom grows, I will learn to live upon air and sunlight." He inhaled deeply through his nose. "Or the sweet fragrance of incense, like the gods themselves. Yes! I shall become godlike in my wisdom."
Laughing, I dug into my purse. "Here," I said, depositing a silver denarius in his bowl. "Lest your mortal part fail you ere your ascendancy."
The beggar repeated his seated bow, eyes bright. "And thus in abjuring temptation, I am tempted thrice over. My thanks, young sir! I will seek to ascertain the meaning of this lesson."
"I wish you luck," I said, turning to the gate.
"Wait!" He beckoned to me. "I have a gift for you in turn." Ducking into his barrel, he scrabbled in the darkness, emerging with a rude clay medallion strung on a leather thong. "Here!"
I shook my head. "My thanks, but it is unnecessary."
"A kindness must be returned," he said stubbornly, thrusting out the medallion in one grimy hand. "Besides, everyone in Tiberium knows 'tis ill luck to refuse a beggar's gift."
I hesitated, then thought about Eamonn's words. I didn't want to further perpetuate the myth of D'Angeline arrogance, which was not entirely a myth. I accepted the beggar's gift with a bow. "My thanks," I said, placing it around my neck. "I, too, am seeking wisdom."
"I wish you the finding of it," the beggar said.
In the courtyard, I found Gilot sitting on the stoop of our apartment, conversing with a pleasant-faced young woman. She sprang up at my approach, blushing.
"Imri!" Gilot got to his feet. For the first time since our arrival, he looked glad, his handsome features alight. "This is the widow Anna Marzoni, who lives on the second floor of the insula. She has agreed to assist us with some small chores. We're going to the marketplace tomorrow," he added smugly. "To buy a few things so we don't have to live in squalor. Anna's promised to show me the best places."
"Oh, indeed?" I gave her a courtly bow. "Well met, Anna Marzoni."
She blushed more furiously and essayed an awkward curtsy. "Thank you, my lord!"
I smiled at her. "Imriel," I said. "Call me Imriel."
Whatever bargain Gilot had negotiated with Anna, it proved its worth within the hour. Upon seeing state of the clothing we unpacked, she clucked her tongue in despair. I held up the sleeveless doublet of blue-and-silver brocade, eyeing its multitude of wrinkles and creases.
"It's not that bad," I said.
"Do you have a flatiron, my lord? And charcoal for the brazier?" Anna asked. When I shook my head, she snatched the doublet. "Give me the linen shirt, too," she said, holding out her hand. "Yes, and the breeches." I obeyed, and she nodded approval. "I'll be back in a trice." Arms laden, she paused in the doorway. "Polish his boots," she said to Gilot. "They're a disgrace."
Gilot rolled his eyes.
"I'll do it," I said hastily to him.
"Men!" Anna said in disgust, marching away.
By the time she returned, with my clothing neatly pressed, Gilot and I had concurred that whether or not it was a failing of our gender, we were woefully inadequate housekeepers. From a goatherd and a slave, I had vaulted into the D'Angeline peerage. I had given little thought, in this venture, to how those in between the two lived.
I dressed inside while Anna Marzoni waited outside the apartment. On the stoop, she fussed with the collar of my shirt, straightening it until the lace points lay just so. Disdain for our inadequacy had given her the ease of familiarity.
"Very nice, my lord," she said, stepping back.
On impulse, I kissed her cheek. "Thank you, Anna."
She blushed. "Go on, then! You've a meeting to keep." Her gaze slid sideways toward Gilot, shy and hopeful. "Will you be back?" she asked.
"He will," I said firmly. "There is no need for him to dance attendance on me while I'm in the company of a prominent senator's family. And I do not believe the invitation was extended to the both of us."
Gilot and I exchanged glances and a test of wills. He sighed. "I'll be back."
"Good," said the widow Anna, still blushing. "I mean… well, good."
Chapter Thirty-Four
Outside the Marcellan Theatre, I met Up With Lucius Tadius, his sister, and her husband, the senator Deccus Fulvius. The theatre was easy to find, being the largest structure alongside the TiberRiver in the vicinity of the butchers' market. It was a vast marble circle, rising in tiers, glowing amber in the late-afternoon sunlight. Lucius' company was easy to spot, too. They were surrounded by servants carrying cushions and baskets of foodstuffs, keeping the crowds at bay. I wondered if they were slaves. Although the practice was not so prevalent as it had been during the height of Tiberium's empire, it persisted. I didn't like to think about it, having been one myself. "Montrève!" Lucius lifted one arm, hailing me. "Join us."
"Go on," I murmured to Gilot. "I'll be fine, and Anna's waiting." He scowled at me. "You don't make this easy, Imri." I gave him a little shove. "Who asked you to come? Go, the widow awaits!
He went, grumbling. I joined my new companions. Lucius looked better than he had earlier, his eyes clear. "I'm glad you came," he said. "Imriel nó Montrève, this is my sister's husband, Deccus Fulvius. I believe you've met."
Deccus Fulvius chuckled, thrusting out one hand. He was a solid figure of a man, silver-haired and affable. I recognized him from before, although he looked more substantial in formal attire. "In the baths, wasn't it? Well indeed, well met once more, young Montrève. I'm pleased you found yourself a Master to study with. We need more D'Angelines in Tiberium."
I clasped his hand. "My thanks, messire."
"And my sister," Lucius said. "Claudia Fulvia."
"Well met, Imriel nó Montrève," she said. Her voice was low and vibrant, the kind of voice made for uttering words of passion.
I took one look at her and felt the pit of desire open beneath my feet.
It was in the way she carried herself and the way she met my eyes, at once intimate and challenging. Claudia Fulvia had a look of her brother, but on her, his sharp satyr's features were softened to an earthy, feminine sensuality. Her dark auburn hair was arranged in an elaborate coif, curls descending to spill artfully over her shoulders. They had the same mouth, wide and mobile. Even in Terre d'Ange, she would have been reckoned striking, if not exactly beautiful.
I bowed, kissing her hand. "The honor is mine, my lady."
She laughed as I straightened. It made her breasts move beneath the bronze silk of her gown. She was tall for a woman and abundantly curved. I found myself trying hard not to gaze at the deep cleft of her cleavage. There was a faint sheen of sweat on her skin, and I wondered what it would taste like. I didn't want to, but I couldn't help it.
"Come, my friends," Deccus Fulvius said in a good-natured tone. "Let us take our seats and enjoy the pantomime."
Surrounded by a coterie of servants, we traipsed into the theatre. A box large enough to seat a dozen spectators was reserved for Deccus Fulvius and his family. The servants bustled efficiently, setting cushions on the stone seats and plumping them, bringing out tidbits of food and flasks of wine. All around us, the theatre filled with less fortunate folk, noisy and chattering.
Seated at her husband's right hand, Claudia Fulvia patted the marble bench beside her. "Sit next to me, won't you, Imriel?" She paused. "Do you mind if I call you Imriel?"
Other books
Falling Stars (Starstruck Series Book 2) by Krys Janae
Soft Target by Mia Kay
Rise of the Blood by Lucienne Diver
Apples by Milward, Richard
The Troutbeck Testimony by Rebecca Tope
Dream Smashers by Angela Carlie
A Real Disaster by Molly Ryan
Silver Wedding by Maeve Binchy
Questing Sucks! Book II by Kevin Weinberg
Breeding with My Daddy (m/f Family Sex/Taboo Sex) by Jillian Cumming