Kushiel's Avatar (Page 16)

“I saw.” He paused as we drew nigh to the Marquis d'Arguil and his lady wife, a handsome couple in their forties, very much a la mode. Attending them a pace and a half to the rear was a Cassiline Brother, a young man in ash grey with a cultivated look of stern hauteur. “Well met, my lord,” Joscelin said politely, “my lady.”

“Comtesse!” The Marquise d'Arguil took my hands in her own, offering the kiss of greeting. “We invited you to our cherry-blossom fête , you and your gorgeous consort, and you were gone from the City, heartless creatures. You must promise to come to our next.”

“I will try, my lady, but I make no promises.” From the corner of my eye, I saw their Cassiline attendant make an ostentatious greeting to Joscelin, inlaid vambraces glittering as he swept his arms crossed before him and bowed. “Betimes my business requires travel.”

Ten years ago, after Joscelin's duel in the Temple of Asherat, an unprecedented influx of noble-born families sought to revive the ancient tradition of sending their middle sons to the Cassiline Brotherhood. Even as the Queen had eliminated her own Cassiline Guard, it had become fashionable for minor royalty to hire them. I think the old Prefect, under whom Joscelin had trained, would have dismissed the majority of applicants on both sides out of hand. The new Prefect did not. Most of the would-be Cassilines never completed training, but a few stuck it out, and were now assigned to wealthy wards, sworn to protect and serve.

And all of them regarded Joscelin with a desperate mix of hero- worship and contempt. His defeat of the traitorous Cassiline who sought Ysandre's life was the stuff of enduring legend; but he had left the Brotherhood for my sake, and been declared anathema for it. Those who remain, honoring their vows of celibacy, resent him for it.

“Your business.” The Marquis d'Arguil smiled knowingly. “Naamah's business, you mean!”

“As my lord says.” I smiled in reply, laying two fingers over my lips in the gesture betokening discretion. Joscelin, unseen, rolled his eyes. “I will do my best.”

We parted ways with cordial farewells, the d'Arguils' Cassiline guard making another ceremonial display, bowing low enough to reveal his hair clubbed at the back of his neck. He bore no sword, though, only daggers. Ysandre had forbidden it in the Palace. This time, Joscelin acknowledged him with a dour nod. The hilt of his sword, wrapped in well-worn leather, was visible over his shoulder, token of the Queen's trust.

“Elua preserve me,” Joscelin said when they had left. “Was I ever such a prig?”

I took his arm. “Worse.”

He laughed. “Well, mayhap. Remind me to have plans when next the d'Arguils invite us to a fête. Phèdre.” There was a change in his voice, and I glanced up at him. “Had you planned on questioning L'Envers yourself?”

“I had.” I gauged his thoughtful frown. “You think Ysandre will send for him?”

“Mm-hmm.” He looked down at me. “He's her nearest kin. I think she'd confront him privately before accusing him for the world to see. How badly do you wish to ask him first?”

I thought about it. If Ysandre had a flaw, it was in her willingness to believe the best of people she loved. “Badly enough. Where is he?”

“Champs-de-Guerre.” Joscelin raised his brows, offering an unspo ken comment on Barquiel L'Envers' continued appointment to the role of Royal Commander. It had been a temporary thing, born out of necessity after Percy de Somerville's betrayal. But Ysandre had never revoked her uncle's appointment or named another commander. “It's less than a day's ride. We could arrive before she decides to send a courier if we left this afternoon.”

“Well.” I squeezed his arm gratefully. “It seems our business does require travel.”

If I thought we would get away clean, I was mistaken. Ti-Philippe was awaiting our return, bursting with news. He could scarce wait for me to finish giving instructions to Eugenie to prepare an overnight travel bag for our journey to the training-grounds and barracks of the Royal Army.

“My lady!” he said, grinning fit to split his face. “You were wrong. There is a scholar at the City Academy who's studied Jebean lore, only she's a musician, not a linguist. Her father was a master drummer at Eglantine House fifty years ago; he travelled the world by sea after he made his marque, and studied in Jebe-Barkal many years. She made a fair-copy of the scroll, and thought she could have it translated on the morrow. And the Tsingano, Emile, he promised to call upon you in the morning.”

“Tomorrow?” I pulled a face. “I've made plans to go to Champs- de-Guerre. Tell the Jebean scholar . . . what's her name?”

“Audine Davul.”

“Tell my lady Davul that I will call on her on my return, and tell Emile . . . tell Emile I'll do the same.”

“In Night's Doorstep?” Ti-Philippe sounded skeptical. I laughed.

“Why not? It's been too long since I had a drink at the Cockerel. It was my haven, once upon a time. Do you remember, we went there when first I brought you to the City. Mayhap I've been too long in rarified circles.”

“I'll tell him.” Ti-Philippe paused. “My lady, he said to tell you that Manoj is dead, and the kumpanias of the Tsingani speak the name of Hyacinthe, son of Anasztaizia, at the crossroads.”

I went still, remembering. Manoj was Hyacinthe's grandfather; the Tsingan kralis, King of the Tsingani. Anasztaizia was his daughter, Hyacinthe's mother, betrayed and reviled by her own people. It would mean more than words could say to Hyacinthe that the Tsingani had not forgotten him, the Prince of Travellers, that he was remembered as his mother's son. “Tell him …” I said softly. “Tell him I am grateful for the knowledge.”

“As you wish,” Ti-Philippe said, keeping his reservations to himself.

With our affairs thus in order and Eugenie's admonitions ringing in our ears, Joscelin and I took our leave once more, and the white walls of the City of Elua fell behind us as we headed northward toward the Champs-de-Guerre. I told him as we rode what Ti-Philippe had related to me. Unlike my chevalier, Joscelin understood. He had been there, when Hyacinthe made his choice, turning his back on the inheritance that awaited him to lay the gift of the dromonde before me and assuage my terrors.

“The Prince of Travellers,” Joscelin said, shaking his head. “Do you know, I truly never believed him before that? Until we met the Tsingan kralis himself, I thought it was just another damned Tsingano lie.”

“So did I,” I murmured. “Elua forgive me.”

“Well, I'm not sure even Hyacinthe knew the truth of it until then.” He jogged his mount alongside mine, eventually glancing sidelong at me. “Master of the Straits. It's hard to think of him thus. You do know she's in love with him?”

I gazed at the road before me betwixt my mount's forward-pricked ears. “Sibeal?”

“Mm-hmm.”

I thought of the hope that had shone in her face, in her soft-spoken words. You will find a way to free him. I wondered if Hyacinthe knew, and what he felt about it. I wondered what I felt about it. But all I said aloud was, “I know.”

THIRTEEN

WE PASSED the night in a pleasant inn, enjoying our evening meal in an open-air courtyard and conversing with other travellers. In the morning we found our mounts well rested, coats curried to a high sheen, led out to the roadside mounting-block by a country lad, his hands and feet too large for his gangling frame. He blushed and bowed when Joscelin gave him a silver centime, stealing glances at me beneath lashes as long as a girl's. One day he would break hearts, I thought, but not yet.And then we were on our way again, riding down tree-lined roads through the fertile heart of D'Angeline farmland.

The sun was not yet high overhead when we reached Champs-de- Guerre, those broad green fields where the standing army of Terre d'Ange trained and was barracked. Inquiring at the officer's quarters, we were told that Duc Barquiel L'Envers was reviewing a corps of infantrymen on the main field.

“Shall we wait?” Joscelin asked. “They'll break soon enough for the midday meal.”

“No,” I said decisively. “Let's meet Lord Barquiel on the field.”

An obliging lieutenant directed us to the place, though I reckon we'd have found it by the noise alone. It was a vast field, green turf churned to muddy collops by a thousand booted feet, with the grunting of men at strife and the clash of armor against armor and sword on shield resounding in the sunlit air.

'Twas easy enough to pick out Barquiel L'Envers, striding alongside the skirmish, a surcoat of L'Envers' purple over his steel-plated armor, shouting exhortations at subcommanders and infantrymen alike. I drew rein on my mount and Joscelin followed suit.

Presently Barquiel noticed, and gave orders to his standard-bearer to signal the practice ended. He himself came striding over with a grin.

“Well, well, well.” Planting his feet, Barquiel L'Envers cocked his head at me. “Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

“Your grace.” I inclined my head, still seated in my saddle. Sunlight flashed on the Companion's Star pinned at my breast, an unsubtle reminder that I had leave to address him as an equal. “There is a matter I wish to discuss with you.”

Beneath his turbaned helmet, an affectation from his days as the ambassador to Khebbel-im-Akkad, Barquiel L'Envers raised his brows. “Is there, indeed? And what does my lady Comtesse offer in exchange for free range to my thoughts?”

I sat back, nonplussed. “What does my lord Duc desire?”

If it was an assignation, I had no intention of granting it; but Barquiel L'Envers was too clever for aught so obvious. His violet gaze, so like his niece Ysandre's, moved off me and onto Joscelin. “There is a myth,” he said casually, “popular among my men, that a bare-headed Cassiline with a sword and vambraces can defeat a soldier in field armor bearing sword and shield in open battle. I say it is romantic folly. What do you say, Messire Verreuil? Shall we put it to the test?”