Kushiel's Chosen (46 page)

"Why would they do it?" Her dark, stricken eyes pleaded for an answer. "His own brethren among the guard! Why? He was afraid, he would never tell me."

She gave a despairing laugh that was part gulping sob. "My father! He thinks because Phanuel has a pretty face, he is girlish and weak. But he was a soldier, my lady. Ruffians could not have defeated him so easily, nor the bully-boys of the Vicenti. It was soldiers killed him, with steel." Serena Buonard pointed to her heart. "Right here, a blade." A fierceness lit her eyes. "I will ask along the harbor, and see if someone was not bribed to let D'Angeline guardsmen ashore!"

I turned to Remy, who nodded before I even spoke. "Remy. Take Fiorello, and go. If they demand payment to speak, do it. I'll reimburse the cost."

"Thank you, my lady, thank you!" Serena clutched my hands gratefully. I felt sick. "My father thinks I am mad, but I know I am not. Why? Why would they do this?"

She nodded, looking into the distance. "Yes." Her voice was a faint thread of sound. "He told me, once. He thought ... he thought the man was sleeping and jested with him, as guards will do. And then he saw blood on his tunic, and his eyes open and unmoving." Serena Buonard shook her head. "No more than that. Only dawn breaking grey in the east, and the scent of apples ripening on the morning breeze."

"Apples." I breathed the word, my heart cold in my breast. Troyes-le-Mont stood on a plain near the foothills of Camlach, scourged by the Skaldi for ten leagues in every direction.

There were no apples ripening in Troyes-le-Mont, that summer or ever.

What happened after that blurs in my memory, between the horror and guilt. I promised, extravagantly, to see justice brought to the killers of Phanuel Buonard. Pale and shocked, Fortun and Ti-Philippe seconded me. I daresay none of us believed it, before. I fumbled for my purse, untying it from my girdle and giving it whole into Serena's hands. It was heavy with gold solidi, and even through her grief, her eyes widened at it. I made promises to return at a better time regarding my Queen's commission.

"They should have hidden their tracks better," I said qui etly. "Fiorello, take us back."

An apology from Severio, mayhap; I glanced at it dismissively, and saw the seal. It was the swan of House Courcel. I cracked the seal and opened the thick vellum, reading.

Better and better; Madame d'Arbos had been as good as her word. It was an invitation to an audience with Prince Benedicte and his wife, for that very afternoon. I murmured a prayer of thanks to Blessed Elua for making my way eas ier.

They glanced at each other, all three. I saw Fortun, steady as ever, willing to assume the burden; Remy, ridden with guilt for having sent him to me, opened his mouth. But it was Ti-Philippe who stepped forward first.

"I'll stay, my lady," he said solidly, meeting my eyes. "I'm no good for this business, after all. Better lying and gambling than telling hard truths, and better for drinking and brawling than making a leg to royalty. I'll stay, and dun Sir Cassiline's hide for abandoning you if he comes back." "Thank you," I whispered, taking his face in both hands and planting a kiss on him. "Thank you, Philippe!"

I drew a deep breath, and we set out for the Little Court to denounce a peer of the realm.

Few things I have done in my life—climbing the rafters in Waldemar Selig's steading to spy on his war plans, facing the Master of the Straits, crossing the Skaldi camp by night—have filled me with as much fear. I clung to Serena Buonard's grief as we journeyed by gondola along the Great Canal, to my faith in Fortun's analysis of the guardsmen's testimony, to the memory of a dream, of Percy de Somerville's smiling face and the cloying smell of apples. If I am wrong, I thought, Blessed Elua forgive me, but if I do not speak now, others may die.

If, if, if.

"Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève," a steward announced, opening the doors onto the throne room.

His D'Angeline bride stood with her back to us, handing off their infant son to a nursemaid; a charming touch, I thought. She turned to take her seat on the lesser throne, and the silver netting of Asherat's Veil flashed, clear glass beads refracting the light.

"Yes," Benedicte said gravely, looking down at me. "I know."

I had opened my mouth to continue; I had not expected his reply and was left on an indrawn breath. With one graceful gesture, his bride drew back the Veil of Asherat, baring her face to smile at me.

What you seek you will find in the last place you look...

On his throne, Prince Benedicte shifted, nodding toward the back of the room. Only then did I hear the sound of the door being barred, the footsteps of guards and the sliding rasp of weapons drawn; only then did I hear the soft, shocked breathing of my chevaliers behind me.

They fought well, my chevaliers. What would have happened if they had gained the door, I cannot say. They might have escaped the Little Court alive. I like to think so. They had surprise on their side, and quick-thinking agility. But I had signed their death warrants when I brought them with me into the presence of Prince Benedicte's new bride, and I had seen it writ in her expression, his nod.

I made myself watch it. I was responsible.

My steady Fortun, who had learned my lessons all too well. He went straight for the door, using the strength of his broad shoulders to push his way through, wounded thrice over before he got close. Remy wrested a sword from one of the guards and held them off for a moment, cursing like the sailor he was. Remy, who had first raised the standard of Phèdre's Boys, that dart-crossed circle of scarlet, on the road to Dobria.

I watched him die, born down by sheer numbers. He had sung marching-chants on the road, the ones I despaired of quelling. He had sung along the canals of La Serenissima in my service. The treacherous steel of Prince Benedicte's guardsmen silenced him for good.

He had a good-luck name, Fortun did.

Now I knew the emptiness of perfect and utter despair.

All sounds of fighting had ceased, replaced by the mun dane clatter of the guards assessing their wounds and laying out the bodies for disposal, muttering of arrangements and cover stories. No joy in it; at least they did not relish their work. One straightened,
gazing
in my direction, nudging his fellow and fumbling for a pair of manacles hanging at his belt. I turned back to my sovereign lords, the Prince of the Blood and his deadly bride, seated side by side like a pair of Menekhetan effigies on their thrones.

I didn't bother with him; only her.

"Why not just kill me?" I asked simply.

Melisande shook her head slowly, a look of gentle sorrow on her immaculately lovely face. "I can't," she said, almost kindly. "It isn't just the waste, my dear, of something irre placeable. The punishment for causing the death of Kushiel's chosen is a thousand years of torment." She paused, reflective. "So they say in Kusheth, for the other scions of Elua and his Companions. For one of Kushiel's line, ten thousand years."

With a murmured apology, the guard with the manacles approached me. I put out my arms unasked, feeling cuffs of cold steel lock about my wrists. "And for treason?"