Kushiel's Scion (119 page)
"I don't know!" Wet voice broke. "Imriel, please."
"Where?" I shouted.
"I don't know." Closing her eyes, Claudia swallowed. "I swear to you by the Triad, on the lives of my family, I don't know. Only what I've told you."
"But you know who does," I said grimly. "Erytheia, perhaps? Artists travel. Or perhaps the princeps' wife. Or Lady Denise, Terre d'Ange's own ambassadress?" Drawing back, I fished the scrap of parchment out of my purse and thrust it below her nose. "Tell me, is there a hidden message on this!"
Opening her eyes, Claudia took it from me. "No." Her voice was taut as she felt at the edges. "If there was, it's been torn away. I don't… I don't believe Lady Fleurais is involved. I don't know. Not for sure."
I believed her. Abruptly, my anger drained away, leaving me tired. I took the scrap back from Claudia and sat down heavily on the stool, putting my face in my hands.
"Imriel." A softer tone. I lifted my head. "Go home," Claudia said gently. "Go home and wed your Alban princess, and forget about this. You can't win this game. Above all else, the Guild protects itself. You'll lose if you try, and whatever power your mother wields, it won't be enough to save you. Or me. Or the people you love."
"Are you so sure?" I asked bitterly. "Elua! What if she's… what is it? A Heptarch?"
"She's not." Her gaze was steady. "Trust me, if she had that kind of power, her dog Canis would have had a vast Caerdicci army marching on Lucca at a day's notice. As it was, it took all the influence Deccus, Lady Fleurais, and I could muster to get seven hundred Tiberian soldiers under way in less than a week's time." A hint of smile curved her generous mouth. "And you're welcome, by the way."
A reluctant smile tugged at my lips in response. "Thank you."
Claudia inclined her head. "You're welcome." She paused. "Why are you so angry?" she asked curiously. "Your mother did no harm. She sought only to protect you."
I opened my mouth and found I had no answer; or at least none that wouldn't sound childish. My mother was a villainous traitor. She had borne me out of sheer ambition and bequeathed me a heritage of treason and mistrust. And when I had gone missing, she had swallowed her pride and sent the one person in the world capable of finding me to do so.
I would be dead if she hadn't.
And I would be dead, spitted through by Domenico Martelli's first javelin, if she hadn't sent Canis to protect me. For once, she'd given me no cause to hate her.
"I don't know," I said honestly.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Since there was nothing left to say, Claudia Fulvia and I said our farewells in Erytheia's atelier. It was fitting. I'd bid her good-bye once before in this place.
There were no recriminations this time, no cruel words. When all was said and done, we had been through too much together. I had seen much to admire in her and much to despise. A great deal to desire. I had learned from her, as surely as I'd learned from Master Piero.
The bright mirror and the dark.
I bowed over her hand and kissed it, remembering our first meeting. Her hand, bold and sure, reaching for me beneath the blanket. Her husband's salon in the darkness, her mouth on mine and her urgent, probing tongue.
"Good-bye, my lady," I said. "Elua's blessing on you."
Her mouth, smiling. "So it has been."
And so I left her to carry out my last errand, carrying a painting wrapped in burlap. I navigated the narrow streets of the students' quarter. The sun was sinking beneath the hills of Tiberium, filling the streets with blue shadows. It was growing cold, cold enough to turn my breath to frost.
I went to the insula.
A fit of cowardice overcame me and I nearly turned back. It would have been easy to have the painting and the cruel news delivered. I'd already spoken to Lady Denise about my intentions, and she had agreed freely to lend her aid. No doubt she would see it done with every courtesy and kindness.
But she hadn't known Gilot.
The courtyard was empty. No one was drawing water from the well, emptying chamberpots into the sluice. Drawing a deep breath, I tucked the painting beneath my arm, mounted the rickety stairs, and knocked on the door of the widow Anna's apartment.
"Yes?" It opened a wary crack. "Your highness! Forgive me."
She opened the door.
"Anna…" I said raggedly.
She knew. I saw the knowledge break over her like a wave, and she turned her face away. A pleasant face, ordinary and pretty. She closed her eyes as she turned, not quickly enough to hide the tears. Her shoulders shook.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm so sorry."
"Mama?" Her daughter's voice, high and frightened. "Mama?"
Anna Marzoni dashed away her tears and faced me. "Come in. Please."
I entered quietly. It was a quiet place, neat and tidy. A table, two chairs. A single oil lamp, an unlit brazier. A dish of olives. A pallet with clean linens, the child Belinda huddled in it, her eyes wide and scared. She had known me, once. All that mattered now was that I had made her mother weep. I set down the painting, leaning it against the wall.
"What is this?" Anna asked me. A quiet voice.
I swallowed. "For remembrance."
She unwrapped it with steady hands, then knelt before it, her palms resting on her knees.
"Gilot!" Belinda crowed.
Gilot as Endymion, sleeping. His face half-averted, lashes curling on his cheek. Brown hair curling over his brow. One arm outflung, moonlight silvering his flesh like a lover's caress. The other hand, the splinted hand, hidden from view.
He's so beautiful, Anna had said.
"Yes, darling," she said now; softly, so softly. "That's Gilot."
"He died…" I paused, hearing the rawness of my voice. "He died a hero—"
"Stop." A quiet fierceness. Anna covered her eyes with her hands, then lowered them. "I don't want to hear it," she said to me. "Not here. Not now. I don't care."
I nodded and withdrew the banking house's letter of credit from inside my doublet, setting it on the table. "A beginning," I said quietly. "For you and Belinda. It was his wish. There will be more soon. If you have need of aught, you need only ask. There is a standing order at the embassy."
"Need!" Anna drew a long, shuddering breath, then loosed it, her shoulders slumping briefly. "Thank you, Prince Imriel," she said formally, rising to her feet. "It was good of you to come."
"Anna…"
"Please go." There were tears in her voice. "Please go, now."
I went.
I heard a single sharp, choked sob as the door closed behind me, and then the low murmur of Anna's voice attempting to explain to her daughter that Gilot was gone, that Gilot, like her father, was never coming back. I leaned my brow against the door and wept.
So it was done, my last errand and the hardest one. I gathered myself and walked away from the insula. Away from a young widow's grief and a child's incomprehension. Away from the self that had lived in this place. Only a lingering scent of myrrh from Master Ambrosius' shop followed me, and within a block, that, too, was gone.
At the stable, I reclaimed the Bastard, tipping the stable-lad a silver denarius. He gaped so widely he nearly forgot to thank me. I didn't care. Anna was right, money meant nothing. Tomorrow, after the worst of grief's blow had been absorbed, it might. Tonight it didn't.
I rode slowly through the streets of Tiberium, alone with my thoughts. Gilot would have scolded me for it. If he hadn't been so damnably worried about my safety, he'd never have gotten hurt in the rioting, never had sustained the injury that killed him. He was always trying to protect me.
I carry a lot of guilt, I'd said to Valpetra.
And when all was said and done, the worst danger I'd faced had come from a man I barely knew. A stranger, bound to me by ties as narrow as the edge of my sword. A woman's terror, a missing hand. I'd created an enemy for myself far more determined than those I'd inherited from my mother's legacy.
And Canis had saved me from them all.
At the base of the Esquiline Hill, I drew rein and gazed back at the city. There had been the riot, of course; and the footpad in the alley the night I'd wandered the streets of Tiberium alone. The dead man outside the insula, his throat slit. Canis, trembling with fear, telling a tale of quarreling thieves. I'd taken pity on him, given him my cloak.
"I'm an idiot," I said aloud.
The Bastard snorted in agreement, pricking his ears toward the embassy.
The Guild had known about Bernadette de Trevalion. Surely, my mother must have known, too. But she had withheld her hand from seeking vengeance, content merely to protect me. Or was it the only thing it lay in her power to do?
I didn't know.
I might never know.
And yet, if I had other enemies I couldn't put a name to, enemies known to her, I didn't doubt she would seek to protect me. It was a strange thought. I stared out at the darkened city, sprawling across Tiberium's hills. Light spilled from the wealthier homes; the poor quarters were dim. I wondered if my mother was out there somewhere, or if she was elsewhere, far, far away. I never had succeeded in identifying Canis' accent.
I raised one hand. "Kushiel's mercy on you, Mother."
A shudder ran through me, a memory of bronze wings. There was a taste of blood in my mouth. The Bastard shifted restlessly beneath me, pebbles rattling under his hooves. I turned his head back toward the embassy and we began to climb.
It was quiet when we arrived.
Since it suited my mood, I was glad. After the visit to Anna's, I craved it. Lady Denise was entertaining Eamonn and a noted Master of Skaldic studies in the dining hall. I begged off on the invitation to join them and retired to my chambers.
All my things were there; mine and Gilot's. It didn't amount to much. We'd travelled light, he and I. I went through his things. Two shirts, one neatly mended. A pair of breeches. Nothing anyone would want to keep for remembrance. There was only his sword, and that lay in his casket with him.
I thought, briefly, of retrieving the blade for Anna; and then I thought better of it.
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