Kushiel's Scion (61 page)
I looked at them for a long moment, the blood beating hard in my veins. "What is this room, my lady?"
Claudia Fulvia smiled at me. "My husband's private salon."
"I see," I said.
"Good," she said, and blew out the taper.
In the darkness, it was she who found me; her hands lifting to cup my face. Her lips on mine, her tongue slipping between them to probe my mouth. I held her against me, sliding my hands down her waist, pulling her hips hard against mine to let her feel my stiffness. She groaned into my mouth. I could smell her musk.
The last remnants of my resolve crumbled. There was no good or bad, only unadorned carnal desire, banishing everything else. It sparked a deep craving in me, a yearning for escape. I wanted to take her, then and there, hard and ungentle. I wanted to sink both hands into her elaborate coif and turn it into disarray. I wanted to tear away the bodice of her gown and bare her abundant breasts, shove up her skirts, and lose myself in her.
Claudia tore herself away. "Not here."
Her voice was breathless with urgency, but there was a thread of amusement there, too. The senator's wife liked to play dangerous games. I was eighteen, but I was D'Angeline, and descended from a long line of Kushiel's scions. I could be patient. I waited in the darkness for my blood to ebb and my pulse to slow.
"Where?" I said. "When?"
"I'll send word." Her fingers touched my cheek. "Where do you live?"
"In the students' quarter," I said. "Behind the incense-maker's shop."
"Beside the philosopher-beggar." I could hear her smile. Her fingertips trailed over my lips, down my throat, catching briefly on the thong of my medallion before they brushed lower, making me grit my teeth. "I'll find it."
In the corridor outside her husband's salon, Claudia drew a silk kerchief from her sleeve and reached up to wipe my lips. Her pupils were wide with darkness and desire. I wondered if she was haunted like her brother. If so, they were ghosts of a different nature.
"Carmine," she murmured.
I nodded. "My thanks."
We returned to the dining room. I felt horribly conspicuous and sure it must show; her mark, her scent upon me. But Deccus and Lucius were deep in conversation and neither noticed aught amiss. The remainder of the evening could not pass swiftly enough for me. I was grateful when Claudia excused herself. And after another polite cup of wine, I did the same, begging fatigue.
A generous host to the end, Deccus Fulvius sent a servant with me to light my way. He led me through the streets of Tiberium. It was late enough that the city had grown quiet, though a few taverns were still doing business. I thanked him outside the insula gate, giving him a coin for his trouble.
The incense-maker's shop was dark, but by the light of the servant's torch as he departed, I could make out the beggar's barrel, situated in the same place. The sound of snoring emanated from it and a pair of legs protruded into the street, grimy feet shod in worn, mended sandals.
I fingered the medallion around my neck and shook my head. Wisdom.
"You're better suited to the quest than I, my friend," I said softly.
In response, the barrel gave a hearty snore.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Days passed without word from Claudia Fulvia.
On the first day, I was tense and fretful. Master Piero noticed it in the Temple of All Gods, though he said nothing. Although it was a misnomer, for it honored only the gods of Tiberium, it was an impressive structure, reminding me of the great Temple of Naamah in the City of Elua; perfectly round, with an oculus at the top. It was divided in quadrants in accordance with the four seasons. Listening to Master Piero speak about whether the pantheon of the gods represent a true multiplicity or a multitude of aspects, I found myself pacing its interior, thinking about the Cassiline spheres of defense and offense.
Without thinking, I traced the steps of the first hours, my empty hands moving as though I held the sword that hung untouched at my belt.
The Skaldic woman, Brigitta, wrinkled her nose at me. "Stop that," she said irritably. "I'm trying to listen."
I made myself halt. "My apologies, lady."
"Do you even know how to use that blade?" It was Aulus who drawled the question, one of Lucius' comrades. There had been a falling-out between them, and I sensed he held me to blame.
"Oh, he does!" Eamonn came behind me, resting his hands on my shoulders. "We fought a mighty duel once, didn't we, Imri?" He looked at Brigitta with interest. "Would you like to see us try it again?"
She sniffed with disdain and turned away.
Master Piero dismissed us early that day. I apologized to him, knowing I had behaved badly. He gave me a long, level look.
"Do not give me cause to regret my choice, Imriel nó Montrève," he said.
I tried not to. Sensing my mood, if not its cause, Eamonn suggested we go to a brothel as we used to do back in Night's Doorstep. Having already abandoned my resolution, I agreed, but the contrast was dispiriting. They were not Servants of Naamah, and there was nothing sacred in their calling. The girl I chose wept, turning over her hand-mirror in private, averting her face from me. She had never been with a D'Angeline before. I had chosen her for the way her face glowed when she looked at me, but once we were alone, she grew shy and timid.
"No," she whispered. "Don't look at me."
When I offered to choose another, she wept all the harder and begged me not to. So I stayed, though it was in my heart to go. I thought about what I had learned at Balm House, and I was gentle with her; unwontedly gentle. I aroused her as Emmeline had taught me, coaxing her with soft words and touches. She cried out at the end, hiding her face against my shoulder.
My own pleasure felt furtive and fleeting. It eased my body and troubled my soul. I reclined on my pallet, watching her perform her ablutions, feeling the black wings of melancholy descend upon me. I wished I hadn't come. In another room, I could hear Eamonn's laugh booming, echoed by feminine giggles. I still envied him.
I wished Claudia Fulvia would send word to me.
I hoped she wouldn't.
At the insula, Gilot had flung himself headlong into a romance with Anna Marzoni. She was a young widow with a two-year-old daughter, and she blossomed under Gilot's attention. They made a pretty picture, the three of them. Remembering his grief at the loss of Katherine and their stillborn child, I was happy for him. Envious, but happy.
Days passed, and no message came. Indeed, the nearest thing to a messenger to visit the vicinity was a pair of thieves bent on robbing the incense-maker's shop. I woke from a sound sleep to hear shouting and the slap of sandaled feet running over the cobbled street. Gilot and I both rolled from our pallets, alarmed.
"I'll go," he said briefly.
"We'll both go," I said.
We dragged on breeches, drew our swords in haste, and ran shirtless into the street. Our resident philosopher-beggar was there, wide-eyed with fear, hugging himself.
"Are you all right?" I asked him. "What happened."
He pointed toward a dim figure lying slumped in a spreading pool of blood. By moonlight, it looked black. "T-Two men," he said, his teeth chattering. "I heard them quarreling."
I turned the figure over. The man was dead, his throat slit. He was no one I recognized, but the sight reminded me of Daršanga, and I had to swallow against a wave of nausea. "Did you kill him?"
"No!" The beggar's eyes showed the whites all around. He shook his head violently. "I woke and shouted. The other man stabbed him and ran away."
Members of the city cohort arrived in short order, drawn by the shouting. We told our stories and the beggar told his. They examined pry-marks on the door of the shop, shrugged, and told us to go back to bed. Two of them carried away the corpse, slung between them like fresh-killed game, and one went to wake the incense-maker.
Gilot sighed. "We've got to get a bar for our door, Imri."
"All right," I said. "Ask Anna to recommend a carpenter." I eyed the shivering beggar. The night was cool after the day's heat, but I reckoned it was the shock of seeing a man murdered that made him tremble. "Fetch my spare cloak, will you, Gilot?" He did, grumbling, and I draped it over the beggar's shoulders. "Here."
He wrapped it tight around himself, burrowing gratefully into the fine-combed wool. Almost immediately, I could see his shivering ease. He peered over its folds, smiling at me. In the dim light, he looked younger and less filthy. "Surely kindness is a form of wisdom. Thank you, young sir."
I smiled in return. " 'Tis the incense-maker owes you his thanks for saving his wares. What's your name, my friend?"
"I am called Canis," he said.
"Dog?" Gilot asked incredulously. "Your name is Dog?"
"He's a Cynic, Gilot," I said. "A philosopher. They believe…" I paused. "What exactly do you believe, Canis?"
"I believe I would like to lie down," he said, casting a longing glance at his barrel. "And forget that this unpleasantness happened."
"Some philosopher," Gilot muttered.
We let him go and returned to the insula. Gilot propped one of the rickety chairs against the door and examined the latchless shutters on the apartment's pair of windows, cursing under his breath. I thought about the elaborate precautions with security we took at Montrève and the townhouse, laughing softly at the irony.
"Stop smirking," Gilot said irritably. "You're mad, you know that?"
I shrugged. "They were thieves. They meant us no harm."
"Oh, and if they had?" He raised his brows.
"They didn't," I said in a peaceable tone.
He shook his head at me. "You are mad."
If nothing else, the incident served to put Claudia Fulvia out of my head. On the morrow, I resolved to dedicate myself to my studies. I was attentive during Master Piero's lecture and in the conversation afterward. He was pleased and called me over after dismissing us.
"I have been thinking about your question, Imriel," he said. "About the arts of covertcy. Master Strozzi has been teaching at the University for over fifty years. If there is anyone who would know if such a thing existed, it is he."
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