The night held no answers, only a prolonged period of fear and uncertainty. After a time, I hobbled out to spell Eamonn at watch. He and Brigitta went to catch a few well-deserved hours of sleep while Lucius kept me company. The street outside our insula was quiet. We could still hear noise elsewhere in the quarter, but here, the worst of it had passed. For the most part we stood and spoke of inconsequential matters. I wasn't ready to confide in him. Not yet. There was too much to tell. First, I needed to tend to Gilot. After that, I wanted answers from Claudia Fulvia.
The rising sun caught us yawning.
"By the Triad!" Lucius rubbed at his bleary eyes. "I'm off, Montrève. I need to catch a few hours of sleep before Deccus Fulvius summons me to give him a student's viewpoint on the rioting. Say what you will, but I don't think he anticipated this."
"No," I said, thinking about Claudia's warning. "I daresay he didn't."
Lucius left, and I went out into the city on my own, barefoot and limping, to hire a litter to transport Gilot to the isle of Asclepius. My skin prickled with wariness and I kept my hand hovering over my sword-hilt. Gilot would have had a fit had he known, but he was in no state to protest. In any case, there was no sign of would-be assassins or rioters, only the wreckage left in their wake. The city cohort was on patrol, and wary shopkeepers were assessing the damage and looting done to their businesses. In the Great Forum, I begged an uneasy cobbler to sell me a pair of crudely made rope sandals. He agreed at length, eyeing me with distrust. A subdued pall hung over the city, like the aftermath of a fete that had turned poisonous. I had to go all the way to the wharf, but there I found bearers who agreed to my terms, and I returned to the insula to await them, ignoring the steady, piercing throb in my ankle.
There, everyone slept.
There were only the two pallets, meager and mean. I stood and looked. Gilot lay half on his side, his splinted hand outthrust. I could hear his labored breathing. Anna was curled against his back, Belinda's head tucked beneath her chin. And there on the other pallet was Eamonn, sprawled on his back in snoring splendor. Brigitta's head lay on one brawny shoulder, her limbs thrown carelessly over his.
I envied them. All of them.
"Gilot!" I raised my voice. "Your litter awaits."
By litter and barge, we made the journey.
The isle of Asclepius was a peaceful place; a place of healing. I felt calm descend upon me as we approached. The oarsmen dipped their oars with care, as though not to disturb their passenger. Everything was hushed; quiet. Even the barge docked in near-silence, somber attendants catching the ropes, mooring it noiselessly.
One of the priests of Asclepius glided from the temple on sandaled feet, clad in robes of fine-combed white wool. He had a short black beard and austere features; and dark eyes, as dark as those of the Cruithne, filled with wisdom and the knowledge of pain.
I stood at his approach, rocking the barge. "Please," I said humbly. "Help him."
His dark gaze rested on me. "What would you have me heal?"
I gestured to Gilot. "Him."
The priest bowed his head. "As you wish."
A strange question, I thought; Gilot's injuries were obvious. But then again, he was a priest. Mayhap he saw other wounds; deeper wounds. Of a surety, I had those. The attendants eased Gilot onto a narrow litter, and I followed as they bore him into the temple.
Inside, the priest examined Gilot, peering at his swollen face, gently probing his hand, laying his head on Gilot's chest and listening to his breathing. I stood by anxiously. At last, the priest turned to an acolyte; a grave, sweet-faced young woman. "Comfrey to bathe his eyes," he said to her. "And a tincture of opium and henbane for the pain. Once it takes effect, I will attempt to set his hand."
"Will I be able to use it?" Gilot asked through gritted teeth.
"Perhaps," said the priest. He beckoned to me. "Come."
I followed him through the temple. It was a light, airy space, unadorned save for a tile mosaic on the floor. The rear opened onto a grotto where a spring burbled, forming a natural fountain. I could see gold coins gleaming beneath the water. Behind the spring stood a statue of Asclepius, depicted as a hale, bearded figure. In one hand he bore a tall staff, with a serpent twining its length.
All around the grotto, hanging from every protrusion, were clay votive offerings; arms and legs, hands and feet, hearts, heads, eyes and ears—every portion of the human body. There was somewhat unnerving about the sight.
"Tell me," I said.
The priest faced me squarely. "I can make no promises. Many small bones are broken. He makes his living as a swordsman?"
"Yes." It seemed wrong to lie in this place. "He is sworn to the service of my foster-mother, Phèdre nó Delaunay, the Comtesse de Montrève."
Whether or not that meant somewhat to him, I could not say. "You would be well-advised to make an offering to Asclepius, D'Angeline," he said. "And pray to whomever you pray." The priest paused. "There are ribs broken, and something presses upon his lungs, yet he breathes. For that, there is nothing we can do, save wait. Do you understand?"
I nodded. "Pray."
The priest inclined his head. "Even so."
I sat with Gilot while the priest set his hand, though by that time Gilot was mostly unconscious. A good thing, too. It was a delicate business. By the priest's reckoning, three fingers were broken, and a myriad of the small bones in the back of his hand. Even if it healed without complication, he'd have a hard time gripping a sword. I watched distant flickers of pain cross Gilot's battered face and thought about what a good friend and protector he'd always been to me, despite my best efforts to thwart him. Like me, he was no hero; not like Joscelin, driven by the tireless discipline of his Cassiline vow, capable of impossible feats. He was just a good man, handy with a blade, loyal to a fault. And I… I wasn't even that.
I didn't deserve him.
He didn't deserve this.
Anger stirred in me, dark and full of loathing. I thought about my unseen assailant and the men who had done this to Gilot, and the one in particular; the one I'd marked with my daggers. I wished, now, that I'd done worse. I wanted to hurt him like he'd hurt Gilot.
Once it was done, the young acolyte gave him another draught of opium. With a sigh, Gilot settled into a deeper sleep.
"You'll watch over him?" I asked her.
"Yes, my lord." There was a trace of shyness in her voice.
"Good." I made myself smile. "What's your name?"
"Filomena," she whispered.
"Filomena." I touched her cheek. "My name is Imriel, and this is Gilot. If he wakes before I return, I pray you, tell him I'm fine and all is well, everyone is safe. He'll worry, otherwise. Will you help me in this?"
She swallowed. "Yes, of course."
I left the Temple of Asclepius, taking my anger with me. I didn't know what to do with it or where to go. Pray, the priest had said, but I couldn't. The anger was too big, like a boulder in my heart. I couldn't get around it. There was a dull ache radiating from the middle of my spine where my attacker had struck me. Told to tell you, that's for Baudoin.
Baudoin de Trevalion, long dead. He had aspired to the throne. My mother had been his lover, his co-conspirator. Ultimately, his betrayer. She had determined that he wouldn't serve her purposes well enough to suit her, and she'd brought him tumbling down.
I remembered the bitterness in Bertran's voice the night L'Envers had tried to frame me. Baudoin de Trevalion was executed for treason, and the stench of the Trevalion name still reeked less than Somerville's after your mother was done with it.
Elua, but I was sick of these coils of intrigue! And I was sick unto death at the thought that it was Gilot paying the price for all of it.
I walked swiftly through the city, heedless of my own safety. I'd gone beyond caring. I almost relished the stab of pain each stride provoked. Nonna had said the ankle wasn't broken; well and good, it would heal. It seemed a fitting punishment. For the first time, I understood why people visited Kushiel's temple to purge their hearts and souls.
Pain might not scourge away guilt, but it helped.
Outside the insula, Canis' barrel lay in the street, abandoned and half-staved. Master Ambrosius was supervising the repair of his shutters. He gave me a sour look as I drew near. "I hope you're pleased with this night's doings, young scholar," he muttered. "Ought to have you thrown out, you and your manservant."
My temper flared. "Oh, indeed?" I accorded him a cynical bow, laying my right hand on the hilt of my dagger. "Well, the next time some drunkard thinks to hurl a torch into your shop and send up a lifetime's worth of tribute to the gods, I'll not bother to stop him."
The incense-maker sucked his teeth. "You did that?"
"For all the good it's worth." I jerked my chin at the barrel. "Where's Canis?"
"The beggar?" He shrugged. "How should I know?"
"He kept your shop from being robbed, once," I said in disgust. "You might be bothered to give a damn."
Master Ambrosius repeated his shrug. "He stinks. It's bad for business. The other one was here, though," he added grudgingly. "The one who brought a message. Didn't leave one, just asked after you."
"My thanks," I said curtly.
I found Anna and told her what the priest had said. She bore the news bravely, but I could see her knuckles whiten as her hands clutched one another. She'd buried one husband young, and it had taken courage to risk caring for another man; her unlikely D'Angeline, nursing his own broken heart. It hurt to see the fear in her eyes.
"May I see him?" she asked in a low tone.
"Later, yes. He'll not wake for a time." I hesitated. "Is there someone who can care for Belinda?" She nodded. "All right, then. I'll come back for you, the city's not terribly safe yet. We can buy a votive-offering for Asclepius together and take it there. Does that suit?"
"Thank you, my lord!" The gratitude in her eyes was worse than the fear. Bobbing an awkward curtsy, she caught my hand and kissed it. I knew then that Gilot had told her who I was, and I repressed a sigh.
"Imriel," I said gently. "Just Imriel."
I left her then and went back into the city. I didn't trust myself to confront Claudia. Not yet. I went first to the Old Forum. It was teeming with a volatile mix of irate citizens and disgruntled students, held in check by a cohort of the princeps' own guard, recognizable by the purple stripe that bordered their white cloaks. I lost myself in the crowd and listened for a time while a group of senators stood upon the rostra and spoke in turn, denouncing both the night's violence and the plans of the Restorationists and the citizen assembly to diminish Tiberium's claim to academic glory.
Neither faction seemed pleased, but there was little to be said in anyone's defense. After the senators spoke, the lord chancellor of the University took the rostra and gave voice to his profound shame at the conduct of the students. He was a venerable figure, and I'd only ever seen him at a distance, but spoke he well, and a number of my fellow students looked abashed. I listened to the crowd, hoping to hear a familiar mutter.
There was no sign of my attacker, nor even the sharp-featured scholar whose neck I had marked. I guessed there wouldn't be; not him, nor a few others whose voices had been loudest in inciting the riots. Scholars' robes or no, I didn't think they were students.
When the lord chancellor had finished, Deccus Fulvius took the rostra and began to denounce his fellow Restorationists for acting in precipitous haste. I didn't stay to listen, slipping away instead to make my way to his domus, taking my coiled anger where it belonged.
Once there, I pushed my way past the servant who admitted me. The atrium was empty, save for the impluvium in the center and the shimmering reflection of sunlight dancing on the walls. When I raised my voice, it echoed.
"Claudia!" I shouted. "Claudia!"
She came.
Her face was anxious, brows knit into creases. They eased at the sight of me. "Imriel! I was worried. I sent Nestor to ask after you, but he could learn nothing."
I crossed the atrium in swift strides, grasping her face in my hands. A knot of fury twisted in my belly. "House Trevalion," I hissed. "That's it, isn't it?"
Claudia turned pale. "Are you hurt?"
"No," I said grimly. "But Gilot is."
Her lids flickered. "I begged you to stay off the street!"
"And you bade me to warn my friends." My thumbs itched, yearning to dig into her flesh. "Did you think I wouldn't listen? Did you know someone would try to kill me?"
She tried in vain to pull away. "No! I only knew it would be dangerous out there."
"Oh, it was," I agreed. "Lucius was caught in the middle of it."
"He wasn't supposed to be. Nestor was supposed to find him." There was a trace of fear in her voice. "Is he all right?"