"Here." Pjètri's voice, quick and impatient. "Move over. Move over, I say! I know how to do it. No, there—pry up on the hilt."
Of a sudden, the pressure atop me was gone and there was light and air, fresh, clean air. I breathed in a great, gulping draught of it, filling my lungs, and drew myself up to kneel in the trunk. A wave of dizziness overcame me, and I had to brace my hands on the sides to remain upright.
"Phèdre?" Kazan's face swam in my vision. "Are you well?"
I nodded, which made the dizziness worse. Beyond Ka zan, I saw an older Illyrian nobleman, elegantly attired, his brows arched in astonished surmise. Pjètri moved between us, bowing and extending a letter to the man.
"Ambassador Rossatos," he said politely. "My father will explain in full."
So he did, I trust; I never knew for a surety what the Ban had written. Janàri Rossatos called for an Illyrian manser vant he trusted to bring us wine while he read the letter through twice, taking his time about it. We were in his parlor, which was pleasantly appointed, although the furniture was simple by Serenissiman standards. I sat on a couch and sipped my wine, feeling steadier and wondering at the strangeness of seeing reflected canal-light wavering once more on walls and ceiling. Pjètri sat too, and Kazan; four of their men remained standing.
When he had done, Rossatos
gazed
at me. He had a diplomat's face, smooth and canny despite the lines of age, and one could not read his thoughts in it. "The Contessa de Montrève, I presume," he said in flawless Caerdicci.
I rose and made him a curtsy. "My lord Ambassador, I am Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève. Please accept my thanks for your hospitality."
His eyelids flickered. "I but do the will of the Zim Sokali, my lady. You are welcome here." He tapped the letter. "I am commanded herein to give you such aid as I may, providing it places our position here in no jeopardy. If I understand aright, you seek to prevent the assassination of your Queen, yes? Ysandre de la Courcel of Terre d'Ange?"
"Yes, my lord."
"You have proof of this conspiracy?"
I hesitated. "My lord ... yes. The woman Prince Bene dicte has taken to wife is a condemned traitor, sentenced to execution in Terre d'Ange. He knows this, has deliberately deceived the Queen in this matter. It is all the proof that is needful."
"Ah." Janàri Rossatos imparted great precision to a single syllable. "And are you prepared to make this accusation to the Doge-elect, his own son-in-law?"
"No." I shook my head. "Marco Stregazza is his ally."
"Is he really?" Rossatos leaned back in his chair, looking intrigued. "You know, a month ago, I'd have laughed to hear it, so long had Prince Benedicte and the Stregazza been feuding. Twas a strange and wondrous thing, how their feud was resolved nearly on the eve of the election. It is widely agreed that Benedicte's endorsement—and the promise of D'Angeline funds to support fresh dredging and construction—gave Marco the election."
"It was planned thusly," I said.
"Perhaps."
"No. Of a surety." I sighed. "Let me guess, my lord Ambassador. Prince Benedicte repented of his haste in naming his newborn son Imriel heir to his D'Angeline properties, and has restored them to the inheritance of his daughter Marie-Celeste. Do I have the right of it?"
The Ambassador's brows rose. "Near enough. What of it? The boy may inherit the Little Court; the daughter, no. Not in Serenissima."
"The boy will inherit Terre d'Ange," I said softly. "That is their plan. But I cannot prove it to you, my lord, without getting myself killed."
"She speaks the truth," Kazan rumbled impatiently. "I stood on a Serenissiman ship, I, while her captain ordered Phèdre nó Delaunay slain on the Stregazza's orders, eh, Marco
Stregazza. I
did not let that happen, I. So what is your aid worth, diplomat?"
Rossatos spread his hands helplessly and glanced at Pjètri, his Ban's son. "Little enough, I'm afraid. My word carries little sway with the Doge at the best of times. Now Cesare sees no audiences—due to his health, it is claimed—and as for the Doge-elect.. . Marco claims piety prevents him from receiving foreign embassies until he is rightfully invested as Doge."
"What of Ysandre?" I asked. "Has the D'Angeline
pro-gressus regalis
arrived?"
He shook his elegant head, silver-grey hair neatly bar-bered. "Tomorrow, it is said; a day before the investiture. Her emissaries arrived today, from Pavento."
"Where are they housed?"
"The Little Court," Rossatos said. "Where else? Prince Benedicte has been making ready for weeks. It is," he added thoughtfully, "a pity that his wife is said to be unwell, and perhaps unable to attend the festivities."
I'd wondered whether or not Melisande would risk recognition, veiled or no. "I suspect it is an illness of convenience, my lord, in much the same way that I suspect the Doge's ill health has no natural provenance." I wouldn't put it past Marie-Celeste Stregazza to have dosed poor old Cesare with something that gave him a flux. "Can you gain access to the Little Court?"
"No." Rossatos' voice was curt; no diplomat likes to admit to such failure. "Last week, yes; next week, perhaps. Today, tomorrow, the day after ... no. You must under stand, Contessa, that La Serenissima is in turmoil. A Doge stepping down before his time, a new Doge elected, the visit of the D'Angeline Queen ... all of this, and the city in arms over the riots. Security in the Palace and the Court is as tight as a drum, and it will remain so until Marco Stregazza has the Dogal Seal on his finger. He is taking no risks; nor is Prince Benedicte. It is not only an Illyrian embassy that would be turned away, for once. There is an Akkadian am bassador I know, who sought invitation to the festivities in the Little Court—even his suit was denied, and he ambassador to the Khalif, whose own son is wed to the Queen's cousin!"
I blinked, thinking over his words. "Riots?"
"Riots, yes." Janàri Rossatos gave a dismissive shrug. "Do you know La Serenissima, Contessa? The Scholae, the craft-guilds? Half of them are on strike, trade ships sit empty in the harbor, and there is violence in the streets. Even the market in the Campo Grande has been closed, since five days past. The salt-panners wrought havoc there, overturning the stalls of all who dared sell goods. There was a brawl, and two young men whose names are writ in the Golden Book were killed. At night, the Chandlers' Schola sets fires, throwing lighted tapers into the homes of the Hundred Worthy Families."
"Riots," I said again, touching my fingers to my lips in thought. "What does Ricciardo Stregazza say about this?"
"Ricciardo?" Rossatos looked at me in surprise. "It is all his fault, Marco says. His brother has roused the Scholae to strike, in petty revenge for his defeat. Until his investiture, when Marco may hear out the grievances of the leaders of the Scholae, Ricciardo has been confined to house arrest."
"Ricciardo wouldn't rouse the craft-guilds out of vengeance," I said absently. "He had a true care for their con cerns. How many of the Scholae are involved?"
"Rumor says a dozen or more," Rossatos said. "Proven?" He shrugged. "At least seven are striking. As for the vio lence, the Serenissiman Guard has caught members of the salt-panners, the chandlers and the saddlers guilds engaged in acts of civil disturbance. And those young fools from the nobleman's clubs, willing to brawl at the flicker of an eye lash, do but add fuel to the fire."
"Phèdre," Kazan said curiously. "What are you thinking, you?"
He and Pjètri had sat patiently throughout our exchange, listening and offering little or no comment. I glanced at him. "If I were going to stage a public assassination," I said slowly, "I would ensure there was a measure of confusion, that my agent might strike undetected therein. A riot would be the very thing. My lord Ambassador, where does the ceremony of investiture take place?"
"In the Great Temple of Asherat," Janàri Rossatos replied. "With a progression across the Campo Grande, where the newly invested Doge plights his troth to Asherat-of-the- Sea."
I sat unmoving, hearing the surge pressing on my ear drums, the deep, steady thrumming of the current around La Dolorosa that had born me aloft on the waters and saved my life. I had a promise to keep, and I knew, in the marrow of my bones, where I must keep it. "It will be there," I said, hearing my own voice come hollow and echoing, as if from a great distance. "With Ysandre de la Courcel in attendance and a thousand people pressing into the Square, too many to keep at bay. It will be there."
SIXTY-NINE
It was a frustrating thing, to be so near and so far at once, so sure and so unable to prove it; and even if I could have, there was no merit in it. The Illyrian Ambassador had stated the truth. He had no means of gaining access to Ysandre, nor any of her people.
Pjètri Kolcei quarreled bitterly with him that evening, for he had it in mind to try his hand as the son of the Ban of Illyria, writing to the Little Court to request an audience with Prince Benedicte, thereby enabling him to deliver a message to Ysandre's entourage. Eventually Rossatos de spaired of him, and the letter was sent; a reply came swiftly, arriving by morning. Prince Benedicte would be honored to grant his request... after the investiture of the Doge.
I had no illusions about the source of these precautions. Marco Stregazza might well believe me dead, slain by the terrible storm that had driven our ship southward before watching Serenissiman eyes. Melisande would take no such chances, and she would ensure that the Stregazza didn't ei ther. No Illyrian suit would be entertained until Ysandre was dead.
I had reached La Serenissima, and the Ban of Illyria's aid had reached its limits.
I needed the impossible.
I needed Joscelin.
"You are mad," Janàri Rossatos said irritably. "You are very beautiful, Contessa, and very easily recognized. If half of what you surmise is true, you place my position in grave danger, very grave indeed. No," he added, shaking his head. "I cannot countenance it, cannot countenance it at all. You must stay here, until the investiture is complete. Do you wish a message sent, I will lend my aid, but if you were to be discovered in the company of Illyrians ... I cannot be responsible for this."
"I am sorry, my lord Ambassador," I said to him. "But I must go."
"You must certainly
not!"
It was unwise, I daresay, for Rossatos to take such a forceful tone in Kazan Atrabiades' presence. Lounging in the doorway, Kazan grinned and fingered the 'hilt of his sword. "I almost think you gave an order, you," he said cheerfully. "It is a good thing I am a pirate, eh, and do not heed such things, I."
Rossatos flushed with helpless anger, casting a glance at Pjètri Kolcei. "You're the Zim Sokalí's son, my lord—
do
something! We will all answer to Serenissima's wrath, if these lunatics are caught!"
"Very well," Pjètri said casually, sauntering onto the bal cony. Outside, he leaned over the balustrade and whistled sharply; an answering call came from below, and he returned, his grey-blue eyes light and thoughtful. "Pardon, my lord Rossatos, but I do not believe my father intended your discretion to encompass governing our guests' actions, and I judge this aid worth giving. Your gondola is ready," he added to Kazan. "It has a three-sided awning, ought to do the trick. If not..." He shrugged, and they clasped wrists in a warrior's grip. "Yarovit's grace on your blade, pirate."
"And yours," Kazan replied. "Phèdre? Are we going to this, this temple of Yosua?"
"Yeshua," I said. "Yes." I turned to the Ambassador. "I am sorry, my lord. Please know that I will deny your role if we are captured." He made no answer, and I crossed the room, pausing to address the Ban's middle son. To him, I said softly, "Thank you, my lord."
Pjètri Kolcei smiled wryly. "I'd go with you, if I dared. I'm glad we got you here safely, at any rate. Rossatos is right, this is the most I can do, and a risk at that, letting you and the pirate roam at will. Good luck to you, my lady."
Leaving the Ambassador's residence was the worst of it. Despite the deep-shadowed hood of my Illyrian cloak and the escort of Kazan and his men blocking me from view, I felt terribly exposed as I ventured into the chill light of dawn. The gondola was a humble affair, weathered but sound, with faded paint and a much-patched awning. Keep ing my head low, I stepped onto it with care and settled myself on the burlap sacking laid beneath the awning, surrounded by tented walls. Kazan sat directly in front of me, hiding me further. Like his men, he had exchanged his mail and livery for rude pirate's garb.
If anyone were to inquire, they were mercenary sailors out of work due to the strikes; 'twas plausible enough, for a number of Illyrians had hired on to Serenissiman merchanters, valued for their skill at sea and unable to find employ with trade strangled in Illyria. It would not hold up to close inspection, of course—Rossatos was right, I was hard to disguise—but there was no way around it.
The Great Canal was crowded with ships despite the ear- liness of the hour; already patrols of the Serenissiman Guard roamed the streets. And beyond the arch of the Rive Alto, a tumult of activity was beginning on the waterways, gilded bissone belonging to Stregazzan supporters vying for posi tion with ships of the Serenissiman navy.
"They are coming this way, Phèdre," Kazan reported to me in whispered Illyrian, poking his head beneath the awn ing. "I think that they are blockading the main canals, to secure them for your Queen's entrance. We may yet leave safely, but returning is another matter. Are you sure you want to go?"
