Kushiel's Justice (5 page)

The night was cold, but it was warmer in Mavros’ carriage. Julien and Colette Trente were there, huddled under fur blankets. As the carriage lurched into motion, Colette squealed and threw herself in my arms.

“Imriel!” She kissed me effusively. “I’m sorry I couldn’t attend the fête.”

“No matter.” Her soft warmth was dizzying. I hugged her, forgetting I’d ever been wroth with the Trentes. “ ’Tis good to see you.”

“And you.” She ran her hands appreciatively over my shoulders.

“Oh, it’s
Imriel
, now, is it?” Julien inquired. “What will Raul say?”

Colette looked sidelong at him. They were cut of a piece, the children of Lord Amaury Trente, who was one of Queen Ysandre’s most trusted nobles: eager, friendly faces, topped by curling brown hair. “He knows who he’s wedding. He’s half-D’Angeline himself, you know.”

“Now, now, my loves.” Mavros wagged a lazy finger. “Tonight’s for honoring Naamah’s pleasures.”

“So it is.” I set Colette from me, gently but firmly. “You’re wedding Raul?”

“I am.” She looked defiant. “But he’s in Aragonia now. And anyway, it needn’t mean—”

I raised my hands. “I know,” I said. “Believe me, I do.”

Mavros chuckled.

Outside the confines of the carriage, the horses’ hooves clopped steadily along the frosted flagstones. I drew back the curtains and peered out. One of the outriders saluted me. We crossed the Aviline River, the hoofbeats sounding hollow over the bridge, and passed soon through the district of Night’s Doorstep. All the taverns were alight and lively, and a part of me yearned to tarry there. But we passed onward and began to ascend Mont Nuit.

“So what passed between Raul and Maslin of Lombelon?” I asked Colette. “I heard Maslin gave you insult and Raul challenged him.”

“Maslin!” Julien nudged his sister. “Tell him.”

“He was rude.” She crossed her arms. “Very rude. I merely expressed the thought that I found him appealing in a certain brooding fashion. His response was quite ungracious. Raul took offense on my behalf when I told him. It was all very foolish.”

“Mayhap Maslin’s interests lay elsewere,” Mavros said smoothly. “Mayhap he had an
itch
in need of scratching.”

As much as I liked my cousin, betimes I hated him.

“The Dauphine,” Julien affirmed. He withdrew a flask of brandy from the inner pocket of his doublet and drank deep before offering it to the rest of us. “Dear Sidonie. That’s where Maslin’s aspirations lie.”

“Oh, Sidonie!” Colette said scornfully. “She wouldn’t.”

“No?” Mavros tipped the flask and drank. “I heard she did.”

“No, no,” Julien said drunkenly. “She’s got the priestess’ daughter. And
she
took her to the Night Court, just as we’re going. All very discreet, but that’s the rumor
I
heard.”

“What?”
My voice rose.

“Well, what would you have her do?” Mavros’ tone was logical, but his eyes gleamed in the dim light of the carriage. “Grant her favors to one of the dueling cocks of the walk that hang about the Court and watch the feuds ensue?” He wagged his finger at me. “Ah no, dear cousin! Our young Dauphine is far too cool-headed to be carried away by passion. If she was of a mind to take a man into her bed—and why shouldn’t she?—she’d sooner trust to the discretion of Naamah’s Servants.”

I glared and snatched the flask from him, swigging brandy.

“Was it Alyssum House?” Colette asked her brother, who opened his mouth to reply.

“No, wait.” Mavros forestalled him. “Let me guess.” He tilted his head back and pursed his lips in thought. “Not Dahlia,” he said. “It’s too obvious, isn’t it? She’s haughty enough as it is, she’d not seek more of the same. No. Camellia, mayhap? Nothing less than perfection should suit a princess. But no, she might not care to be reminded that her lineage renders her less than perfect in the eyes of Camellia House. And I think we’ve already seen that our Dauphine favors unwavering devotion. So.” He narrowed his eyes. “Heliotrope.”

Julien shook his head. “Jasmine.”

“Jasmine!” Mavros’ brows shot upward. “Well, well!”

I laughed softly in the darkness. Among the Thirteen Houses, Jasmine catered to sensuality, pure and simple. Phèdre’s mother had been an adept of Jasmine House. Ti-Philippe had once said there were adepts there would leave you limp as a dishrag, half drowned in the sweat of desire.

“Well, well,” Mavros repeated.

“It’s just a rumor,” Julien said. “It may not be true.”

I believed it. I had caught a glimpse of what lay beneath Sidonie’s surface. It wasn’t brittle and it wasn’t cool. And I half wished we were headed for Jasmine House. It was a mortifying thought, but I wanted to study the adepts and guess which one she’d chosen, which one bore the memory of her naked skin against his. But then came the sound of one of the outriders answering the gatekeeper’s query, and we passed through the gates and arrived at our destination.

Alyssum House had a deep courtyard lined by tall cypress trees. It had twin entrances with high pointed arches, both deeply recessed.

“Which one—” I began to ask. No sooner had the words left my lips than a pair of adepts emerged; a woman, robed and veiled, and a man, clad in a long surcoat with a high collar. He bowed to Colette without meeting her eyes and beckoned her toward the left-hand entrance. She giggled and went with him.

The veiled woman ushered us into the right-hand entrance. I felt at once uneasy and aroused. She led us into a private salon. With a shy gesture, she drew back her veil to bare a lovely face, though her gaze remained averted.

“Be welcome, my lords,” she murmured. “I am Agnés Ramel, the Second of Alyssum House.” A light flush touched her cheek. “We have all manner of adepts to serve you. You may whisper your desires to me.”

I felt a fool when my turn came, bending to whisper into her delicate ear.
I seek a woman
. Surely there was naught out of the ordinary in it, and yet her flush deepened and her eyelids trembled.

Amid hushed apologies, her steward brought the contracts. We all signed them and paid our patron-fees, and one would have thought there was somewhat unnatural in the transaction for all the embarrassment it caused.

“This way,” she whispered.

I had been to only two Houses of the Night Court, and they were very different. Here, there was no easy commingling. What Mavros and Julien had chosen, I couldn’t say, but I had to await my turn before I was ushered into a room filled with female adepts, standing in a line. All of them were robed and veiled, but the robes they wore were of sheer linen, almost transparent in the lamplight. I could make out the shapes of their bodies; tall, slender, plump, short, firm. At a word from Agnés, they unveiled and stood with eyes downcast.

The remembered odor of stagnant water haunted me. It was too much like the Mahrkagir’s zenana, the women awaiting his summons in dread. I did not like the way it stirred me. “I’m sorry,” I said thickly. “I fear this is not for me.”

Agnés Ramel twisted her hands together in an agony of embarrassment. “My lord, please! Do not be cruel.”

Near the end of the line, one of the adepts glanced up at me. A quick glance, swift and darting, and then her gaze was lowered once more.

“All right,” I said recklessly, pointing. “Her.”

Her name was Mignon, and once I had chosen, she led me to a private chamber. There, I gazed at her. Her limbs beneath the sheer linen were soft and rounded, and she made me think of a dove. She looked away.

“Will you put out the lamps, my lord?” she whispered.

“No,” I said. “Mignon, this is a game, is it not?”

“Would you have it be so?” She did look at me then, her eyes full of soft wonder. “No, my lord. There are those among us who believe that Naamah trembled at what she did when first she lay with a mortal man—at the audacity of it, at the shame of it, at the glory of it.”

“Shame,” I murmured, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Shame is a spice, my lord,” Mignon said softly. “Why have you come here if you do not understand this?”

“Because,” I said, “Alyssum starts with an ‘A.’ ”

“Then I will have to show you.”

It was not, I think, the way assignations usually went in Alyssum House; or mayhap it was common. I do not know. Mignon sat on my lap and stroked my face, her fingers quivering. She rained soft kisses on me, her breath quickening, and pressed herself against me. Her body trembled in truth, and yet she radiated heat and the tips of her rounded breasts were taut with desire as they rubbed against my chest. She whispered in my ear, telling me in a broken voice all the things she wished me to do to her, until I groaned aloud.

I understood.

There was pleasure in it, and it was a pleasure akin to the violent ones I had known in Valerian House, though it was different, too. I did all that she wished, and all that I wished, too. And yet I could not relish the shame. For her, it was purging. For me, it was not.

When we were finished, she wrapped herself once more in her linen robes. “I’m sorry, my lord. I wish I could have pleased you better.”

“Don’t be.” I leaned down to kiss her, but she turned her head away. “Mignon!” I said her name sharply and she glanced up involuntarily. I smiled at her. “I have learned somewhat about myself this night, and that is a valuable gift. Thank you.”

She gave me a shy smile in return. “You are welcome.”

Afterward, in the carriage, the other three compared their experiences. Mavros, as usual, was pleased with himself, and the Trentes had found it a great lark.

“Oh, the way he
blushed
!” Colette laughed. “I bade him take off his shirt, and he went red all over. It was sweet. Did yours blush, Julien?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “She begged me to blow out the lamps, and I did.”

“Silly boy,” Mavros said. “That’s part of the fun.” He studied me. “And you, Imri? You didn’t care for it?”

I shrugged. “Not as much as you did.”

My Shahrizai cousin grinned. “That’s true of a great many things.”

That night I lay awake for a long time, thinking about Alyssum House, wondering what manner of patron went there as a matter of course, whether they went to purge their own shame or to revel in that of the adepts. Whether Naamah appreciated the reverence done to her there. I supposed she must. Desire, like love, takes many forms.

And I thought about Sidonie, too.

Jasmine House. I wondered if it were true. Somehow I didn’t doubt it.

Well, well.

F
IVE

D
IOGENES,”
I
SAID FIRMLY
.

Favrielle nó Eglantine clamped her jaw so hard the crooked little scar on her upper lip turned white. “Can you not talk
sense
into him?” she spat at Phèdre.

“Why not Diogenes?” Phèdre replied. “Can we not do a Hellene theme?”

Due to the distraction of Lucca’s siege and my uncertain return, we were late in commissioning costumes for the Longest Night; truly late, and not just in terms of Favrielle’s reckoning. That wasn’t why she was angry, though.

“Rags!” She loaded the word with contempt. “You want me to adorn a Prince of the Blood in
rags
.”

“And a lamp,” I added.

“Why?” Favrielle demanded of Phèdre.

“I’ve no idea,” she said tranquilly. “ ’Tis Imriel’s fancy. And after what he’s been through in the past year, I’m minded to let him have his way.” She paused. “If you’re unwilling, we can always go elsewhere . . .”

Favrielle merely glared at her. It was a bluff, but it was one she wouldn’t call. It was ever thus between them. In the end, Favrielle conceived of a notion that pleased her well enough. I would portray asceticism in the persona of the Cynic philosopher Diogenes, and Phèdre would portray opulence in the persona of the D’Angeline philosopher Sarielle d’Aubert, who was renowned in her lifetime for travelling with a retinue of attendants prepared to cater to her every whim.

“I reckon that would be me,” Ti-Philippe observed.

There was a reason for my choice. The Cynic’s lamp was a symbol of the Unseen Guild, and I was minded to serve notice that I knew it. I’d been caught up in my Alban studies and personal affairs, but I hadn’t put the Guild altogether out of mind. It would be interesting to see if anyone reacted to the sign of the lamp. There was a risk, but not a great one. The Guild knew I was aware of its existence; they had sought to recruit me in Tiberium through Claudia Fulvia. In the end, I had refused. Still, I was curious to know if it operated within Terre d’Ange.

We hadn’t learned much since my return. Ti-Philippe had paid a visit to the Academy of Medicine in Marsilikos and brought back a copy of the system of notation devised by a long-ago priest of Asclepius who lost his vision; a complicated series of notches and strokes intended to be read by touch. Members of the Guild used it for secret communication. My mysterious protector Canis had given me a clay medallion in Tiberium that bore the Cynic’s lamp on its face and a hidden message etched on its edges. It was mere chance—and Gilot’s ill luck—that had led me to the temple of Asclepius, where a priest told me its meaning.

Do no harm
.

The chirurgeon’s credo, the Guild’s warning. It was Claudia who confessed that it meant a member of the Guild had placed me under his or her protection. The medallion was gone—I’d crushed it to bits in a fit of anger—but I had made a sketch of it, and I intended to have a silversmith craft its likeness.

Exactly why, I couldn’t say, except that it was an unresolved mystery. I wanted to
know
. The Guild had done a good job of shrouding itself in secrecy. Like the folk of Alba, they left no written trail. Still, there was a human trail, and one never knew what inadvertent reaction one might provoke.

The same held true for Alba.

I hadn’t forgotten about Alais’ Maghuin Dhonn. I didn’t broach the subject again with Firdha—her withering glare stilled my tongue—but there were other Cruithne in the City of Elua. Not many, truth be told; the Albans preferred their green isle to our white-walled city. Still, there was the honor guard.

Drustan had left half a dozen of his men to serve as Firdha’s honor guard while the esteemed
ollamh
tutored his daughter. They were all proven warriors among the Cullach Gorrym, and they made for a striking sight when one came upon them in the Palace, their faces etched with woad tattoos.

I made it a point to seek out their company. At first they were reticent in my presence, until I had the very good idea of convincing them to accompany me to Night’s Doorstep. There was a tavern called the Cockerel there, and it had a long history. It was a Tsingani place, mostly, although young D’Angeline nobles still went there to fancy they were living dangerously. There was no danger for me. It was the place where Hyacinthe had told fortunes when he was still the merry young Tsingano half-breed I knew only from stories, and not the fearsome figure I had met. I had told the story of freeing the Master of the Straits from his curse there more times than I could remember. The owner Emile had been his friend, and he would defend to the death any member of Phèdre’s household for what she had done.

“My prince!” he roared when we entered. “Our
gadjo
pearl!”

I suffered his embrace, which rivaled Eamonn’s for bone-cracking strength. The Cruithne grinned. “Emile,” I wheezed. “These are the Cruarch’s men.”

“Ah!” He let me go and clapped his meaty hands. “Ale! Ale for the Cruarch’s men!”

There was ale, then, and a great deal of it. Emile and I toasted to Drustan and then to Hyacinthe, and the Cruithne drank, too. Other toasts followed, and I made a point of offering a toast to Dorelei, my bride-to-be.

“You are a lucky man, you know.” Kinadius, the youngest of them, studied me. “You
do
know this, yes?”

“Yes,” I said honestly. It was true, in its own way. “I do.”

They exchanged glances among themselves. “Few of your countrymen would feel the same,” murmured their leader, Urist. He was old enough to have fought at Drustan’s side in the war of the Skaldi invasion, and I understood the Cruarch regarded him highly.

I shrugged. “There are always those who fear change. Is it not the same in Alba?”

“A great deal of change has come swiftly to Alba.” Urist took a deep draught of ale. “Some think too swiftly, yes.”

“The Maghuin Dhonn?” I asked.

Kinadius, startled, dropped his tankard. Several of the Cruithne cursed and leapt up to avoid the spreading pool of ale, and a barkeep hurried over with a rag. Urist folded his arms and stared at me. His features were hard to discern in the intricate patterns of blue woad that made a mask of his face, but his eyes were as black as stones. “What do you know of them?”

“Only the name.”

“It’s ill luck to speak it.” Kinadius shivered.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because they did a very bad thing long ago, and brought shame upon themselves and upon Alba.” Urist’s unblinking eyes held mine. “We do not speak of it. We do not speak of them.”

“The
ollamh
refused to, but the Cruarch spoke of them,” I said. “To Talorcan.”

They exchanged another round of glances. “The Cruarch has a country to rule,” Urist said firmly, “and Talorcan is his heir. There are matters that must be addressed. But among ourselves, we do not speak of them.”

“The bear-witches still have the power to curse,” Kinadius muttered. “At least the women do. Shrivel your loins, they will.”

“Or make ’em burn,” another offered. Someone laughed.

“Aye, and change shape in the middle of the act and devour you whole!” Deordivus poked a finger at me. “Starting with your manhood. You stay away from ’em, Prince.”

Another jug of ale arrived, and with it came Emile to ply me to tell him about the siege of Lucca. So the conversation turned, and I was obliged to tell the tale. The Cruithne had not heard it—I had not spoken overmuch of it in public—and they listened with interest as I told of arriving in the city of Lucca to celebrate the wedding of my friend Lucius Tadius, only to find the bride kidnapped and, within a day, the city besieged by her captor.

They nodded when I described how Lucius came to be inhabited by the spirit of his dead great-grandfather, the warlord Gallus Tadius, who organized the defense of the city. Such tales were not strange in Alba, where a woman might eat of a salmon and give birth to a bard.

When it came to the battle, I made much of Eamonn’s role. In truth, it needed no exaggeration—Gallus Tadius had appointed him the captain of our squadron, and Eamonn had acquitted himself with honor. But he was a prince of the Dalriada, of the folk of the Fhalair Bàn, and it pleased the Cruithne to hear it. The Dalriada were a sovereign folk unto themselves, immigrants from the island of Eire who maintained a foothold on the far western shores of Alba, but there was a long history of alliance between the Cruithne and the Dalriada.

They were pleased by my deeds, too. “You’re not so green as I reckoned!” Deordivus slapped my shoulder. “You’re owed your first warrior’s markings, Prince. Or at least once you’re wed and dedicated as one of us.”

“Oh?” I said.

“Right here.” Kinadius touched the center of his brow, which bore an elaborate design of an inverted crescent containing trefoil circles, pierced from below by a V-shaped symbol. “The warrior’s shield and spear.”

“Ah, no!” I gazed at him in dismay.

“Do you not wish to declare kinship with the Cullach Gorrym?” He grinned. “They’ll look a treat with your big blue eyes.”

“You
are
jesting?” I asked.

They laughed. “Not really,” Urist added.

“I’ll think on it,” I muttered, and beckoned for more ale.

At any rate, the evening ended amicably and they seemed to like me better for it by the time it was over. We rode back toward the Palace together, and Deordivus began teaching me the rudiments of a Cruithne drinking-song. When I made to part company with them and head for the townhouse, Kinadius insisted on escorting me.

“Drustan would expect us to do it for Talorcan,” he said to Urist. “If Imriel is to be a Prince of Alba, should we not treat him as one?”

The older man’s face was unreadable in the starlight. “As you will.”

“Come, then.” Kinadius blew out his breath in a plume of frost and gave me a sidelong look. “Let’s race. Unless you’re scared?”

“Care to wager?” I asked.

It wasn’t a wild race. I’d done that once with Gilot and nearly run down a party of merry-makers, and it was early enough that folk were still abroad, torch-escorted carriages clopping along the streets. We rode vigorously, though, weaving in and out among them. I kept the Bastard well in hand. He was quick and surefooted and fearless, and I’d ridden him almost blind in the darkest nights of Lucca. I could have won handily, but I was mindful of what Phèdre had taught me of diplomacy, and I let Kinadius draw abreast of us at the end.

“Well run!” he said cheerfully. “At least Dorelei’s wedding a man knows how to sit a horse.”

“You’re fond of her,” I said.

Kinadius nodded. “We grew up in the same household. I’d thought to court her myself one day.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “I’m sorry.”

“Ah, no!” He shook his head. “ ’Tis for the best, and those of us who are the Cruarch’s men know it. I bear you no ill will.”

“My thanks.” I put out my hand.

He clasped it firmly. “You’ll be mindful of what we said tonight?”

“About the warrior’s markings?” I grimaced. “Oh, yes.”

“Not that.” Kinadius smiled, but only faintly. “I was jesting, you know. Urist holds to the old ways more than some of us. No, I meant the other thing.” He squeezed my hand, cutting me off when I opened my mouth, then leaned over in the saddle, speaking in a low tone. “They sacrificed their
diadh-anam
. That’s why the
ollamh
will not speak of them.”

“Their
what
?” I asked, bewildered.

He let go my hand and placed two fingers over his lips, shaking his head once more. “I’ve said too much. Ill luck. Good night, Prince!”

I watched him take his leave, then shouted for Benoit to open the gate. He came out grumbling and sleepy-eyed to admit me, then led the Bastard into the stables. I went inside the townhouse and found Phèdre still awake in her study.

“Hello, love.” She set a paperweight on the scroll she was studying and lifted her chin when I leaned down to kiss her cheek. “You smell like the bottom of an ale-barrel. Did you learn aught tonight?”

“Mayhap.” I sat cross-legged at her feet. “What’s a
diadh-anam
?”

Phèdre’s beautiful lips moved soundlessly, shaping the word. I gazed up at her face and watched her search her memory. She had studied Cruithne as a child, long before it was commonplace in Terre d’Ange. Anafiel Delaunay, who had been her lord and master, had taught her. As it transpired, he’d been a man much ahead of his time. “God-soul?” she hazarded at length. “I don’t know, love; it’s not a word I’ve heard before. Why?”

“Because whatever it is, the Maghuin Dhonn sacrificed theirs,” I said. “Phèdre . . . I’m not so sure what I’ve gotten myself into with Alba.”

“Nor am I,” she said softly. “But we will find out.”

I leaned my head on her knee, as I had done since I was a child. She stroked my hair with gentle fingers. It wasn’t the same; it never would be. But it was enough, and I could endure it.

“I don’t want to leave you,” I whispered.

“I know.” Her voice broke. “Imri—”

I bowed my head, resting my brow on one upbent knee. Unwanted desires racked me; my own, the echo of my mother’s words. “You know I have to?”

“Yes.”

It was implicit; there was a compact between us. I could not stay in this place. I had debts of honor to fulfill and desires that would never be sated. The kind of love with which the gods had blessed Phèdre and Joscelin wasn’t destined to be mine. But if I couldn’t be happy, truly happy, I could at least try to be
good
. I sighed, straightened, and stood. “Tell me what you learn?”

“Always.” Phèdre’s dark eyes were grave. “And you?”

“Yes,” I promised. “Always.”