Naamah's Blessing (13 page)

To hear the weapons cough and boom, to feel the acrid wind pass overhead…

To see the smoking crater where Tortoise had been…

What Lianne saw in my face, I could not say. “I don’t—” She broke off her thought, clearing her throat. “You should go, Moirin. We’ve work to do, you and I. Best we get to it. I’ve poems to write—better poems, gods willing. And you’ve much to do in a month’s time.”

I bowed in the Ch’in manner, hand over fist. “Aye, my lady. I’m sorry.”

She scowled at me. “For what?”

I didn’t answer.

“Oh, go!” Lianne’s scowl deepened. “Go! Don’t stand there being all polite and obsequious and… and gods-sodding
understanding
.
I can’t bear it. Go!” She flapped one hand at me. “Go, go! Take my counsel and put it to use. We’ll meet again later as matters progress.”

I bowed again, and made to take my leave.

“Moirin?” Her voice called me back. I paused and turned, seeing a rare vulnerability in her expression. “Thank you.”

I inclined my head. “And you.”

FOURTEEN

T
hat afternoon, I met alone with Rogier Courcel, the Duc de Barthelme and Royal Minister of the realm.

I had requested an audience thinking it might be some days before he had time to grant it; but to my surprise, the royal steward ushered me into his presence in his study straightaway.

My father was not there. I wished he was.

“Moirin.” The Duc tapped his pen on his desk. “I’m pleased you’ve come. As I said, I wanted to speak to you regarding the Vralian matter. Please, sit.”

I sat, sinking into one of the padded leather chairs opposite his desk, tracing the rivets in the armrests with my fingertips.

“So?” He arched his strongly etched Courcel brows. “Do I understand that you contend that Vralia has committed an act of aggression against Terre d’Ange?”

I shook my head. “Not exactly, my lord.”

He looked curious. “What, then? I am unclear on the details.”

I told the tale in brief. How I had been betrayed by the Great Khan Naram, whose daughter Bao had wed, and been delivered in chains to Pyotr Rostov, the Patriarch of Riva. How the Patriarch represented an extreme faction of a schism within the Church of Yeshua in Vralia, and how he fervently believed that a holy war against the licentious D’Angelines and all they represented, as well as rooting out the blasphemous bear-witches of the Maghuin Dhonn, would lead to
the return of Yeshua ben Yosef. How I had escaped with the aid of Rostov’s sister and nephew.

The Royal Minister listened, sketching occasional notes. It reminded me uncomfortably of being forced to confess my sins to the Patriarch, and I tried not to squirm in my seat. “You’re right,” he said when I had finished. “We cannot exactly hold Vralia to account for one man’s actions. Still, it is troubling.”

I nodded. “Pyotr Rostov was acting in his capacity as the spiritual leader of Riva. But he had the support of the Duke of Vralsturm, who was acting in a political capacity. When the Patriarch ordered me stoned to death, I begged him to aid me as a descendant of House Courcel. He refused.”

He tapped his pen again. “I will inquire into the matter.”

“Oh… well, you should probably know that I tried to kill the Patriarch,” I said reluctantly.

“What?”
Rogier Courcel’s face froze in shock.

“He and the Duke of Vralsturm and his men caught up with Aleksei and me in the city of Udinsk, my lord,” I said. “If I hadn’t resisted, they
would
have stoned us to death.” Remembering the future of endless war and bloodshed that would have ensued, I shuddered. “And believe me, it would have stoked the fires of their cause.”

“I… how? The two of you, alone?”

I spread my hands. “Yes and no, my lord. Aleksei and I were alone at the time. The Patriarch gave the order to take us, and I… well, I had my bow drawn and an arrow trained on him. I warned him,” I added. “It was a fair warning. I did not shoot until he gave the order.”

He stared at me. “But you
didn’t
kill him.”

“No.” I shook my head. “Aleksei threw himself at me, knocked me from my horse and spoiled my aim. As a result, I only wounded his uncle. But make no mistake, I meant to kill him. And then that is when Vachir’s tribe rode into the city center and intervened.”

A soundless breath escaped the Royal Minister. “Vachir’s tribe?”

“Tatars,” I said. “They were in Udinsk to trade. They felt strongly
that the Great Khan had violated the laws of hospitality in betraying me, so they came to my aid to set matters right.”

Rogier Courcel was silent for a time. “My thanks, Moirin,” he said at length. “I think mayhap… mayhap I’ll let discretion prevail, and not inquire into the specifics of the matter. It’s over and done with, and there’s no need to provoke a diplomatic crisis. But this business of a schism and anti-D’Angeline fanaticism concerns me.”

I noted that he expressed no concern for the Maghuin Dhonn, but I held my tongue on the thought. “So it should, my lord.”

His pen tapped. “How was it called again? The church of faith your Patriarch espoused?”

“The Church of Yeshua Ascendant.” I watched him write down the words, his pen scratching over the paper, adding further notes to those he had already taken. “My lord?”

“Hmm?” He glanced up as though surprised to see me there. “Oh, my pardon. You may go.”

“Thank you, my lord,” I said politely. “But I had another purpose in requesting an audience. Begging your kindness, I would accept your offer of a suite of rooms at the Palace.”

“Ah.” A look of dismay settled over his features. “Elua, forgive me, Moirin! The Comte de Rochambeau decided at the last minute to winter in the City instead of the country. He is an old friend, and I offered him lodging at the Palace.” The Duc de Barthelme gave a helpless shrug. “Messire Lambert has advised me it was the last unoccupied suite in the Palace.”

I eyed him without speaking.

“I did not think you would have a change of heart so soon,” Rogier Courcel apologized—but I detected a note of smoothness beneath the seeming sincerity of his tone. He had practiced this exchange in his thoughts. “Of course, I can order the Comte and his family evicted.”

“I do not think that gesture would be well received,” I said slowly. “Do you?”

He frowned with regret. “Likely not.”

My skin prickled, and I thought to myself, I have made an enemy of this man all unwitting. The Royal Minister, his majesty’s chosen appointee; my father’s lover, the companion of his youth. Unlike the former King’s Poet, he harbors ambitions he is only just beginning to realize.

I met his dark blue gaze.

He held mine steadily, blinking only a little bit. “I
am
so very sorry, Lady Moirin.”

I rose. “Think nothing of it, my lord.”

It wasn’t until evening that I had a chance to discuss the day’s events with Bao, who had spent the afternoon at Eglantine House, coaching their tumblers on Ch’in techniques and meeting with the mistress of wardrobe and the master of props to advise them. He was in good spirits, filled with excitement over planning for the coming spectacle.

“Tomorrow I will meet with the master of percussion,” he informed me. “Antoine does not think he has such drums as I described, but he agrees that it would be a very fine effect.”

I smiled, glad to see Bao in such a cheerful mood. “Oh, he does, does he?”

“Oh, yes. It is only a question of getting them made in time.” He folded his arms behind his head. “Also, there have been a dozen applicants for the post of Desirée’s nurse. It will take time to speak with all of them and find the right one. We have a lot to do, huh?”

“That we do, my magpie.” I leaned over to kiss him. “Lianne Tremaine has advised me that we had best find ourselves a more permanent residence within the City, so that we do not appear a pair of romantic vagabonds.”

Bao yawned. “Well, that minister fellow offered us rooms at the Palace.”

“So he did,” I agreed. “But it seems that within a day’s time, he’s given them to someone else, and there are no other quarters available.”

“That seems… sudden,” Bao said slowly.

“I thought so, too.” Sitting cross-legged on the bed, I ran a boar-bristle brush through my hair. “I fear we may have made ourselves an enemy.”

Frowning in thought, Bao sat up and took the brush from me. “Here, I’ll do it.” He knelt behind me and I let him take over, luxuriating in the sensation. “Maybe you are reading too much import into it.”

I shook my head without thinking. “I could be, but I don’t think so.”

Bao untangled the brush without comment, resuming his long, steady strokes. “How dangerous an enemy?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

“It’s a petty gesture,” he said. “Maybe he will be satisfied with it.”

“I hope so,” I said. “But at any rate, we’ll need to find suitable quarters to rent. Oh, and to visit a couturiere. It seems our clothing is too foreign.”

His hands slid beneath the silk folds of my sari to find the bare skin of my waist, the brush forgotten. “I
like
your Bhodistani clothing,” he whispered in my ear. “I do not want you wearing D’Angeline gowns that prick your skin.”

I leaned against Bao’s chest, feeling the strange yet familiar intimacy of our
diadh-anams
entwining at the contact. “Well, then, we will have to commission clothing that does not prick.”

Bao’s hands slid higher, over the fine linen undershirt I wore beneath the sari, callused palms gliding over my breasts. The combination of gentleness and coarseness was tantalizing and exquisite, my nipples growing tight and aching under his touch. “I like you best in no clothing at all.”

I laughed breathlessly. “I do not think that would go over well at Court!”

“Why ever not?” One hand dipped beneath the silk folds pinned around my waist, stroking my thigh. He kissed the side of my throat, and I let my head fall back on his shoulder. “You are very, very beautiful,
Moirin.” His hand slid between my thighs, one finger parting my nether-lips and slipping inside me, the heel of his palm rubbing against Naamah’s Pearl. “And very, very wet.”

Holding me effortlessly in place with one arm, Bao kissed my throat, teased and fingered me to a gasping climax.

Afterward, he unpinned my sari, unwinding the complicated folds with care. “I will miss these, after all.”

“So it seems.” I regarded him languorously, hooking my fingers in the drawstring waist of his loose Bhodistani breeches. I could feel his taut phallus straining beneath the fabric and blew softly on it, then looked up beneath my lashes at him, and licked my lips. “Shall I bid farewell to your attire?”

He grinned. “You need to ask?”

FIFTEEN

G
ods, there was so much to be done!

In the days that followed, Bao and I had a series of unsatisfying interviews with applicants for the post of royal nursemaid. All of them came with excellent credentials, having served in similar posts in one or more of the Great Houses of Terre d’Ange. Most of them struck me as competent; none of them struck me as possessing the combination of steady patience, discipline, and compassion necessary for coping with a willful, neglected child. Far too many of them seemed to possess a sense of entitlement based on the patronage of the families they had served in the past.

With reluctance, I declined them all and continued the search, praying that the harried junior nursemaid Paulette wouldn’t reach her wits’ end.

Bao continued his studies with Desirée and her tutor in the mornings, spending his afternoons at Eglantine House.

I paid a visit to Bryony Associates, the banking-house where I had deposited a letter of credit over four years ago. I was pleased to find that Caroline nó Bryony, who had issued the original letter at their establishment in Bryn Gorrydum in Alba, had been transferred to the City of Elua, and was happy to serve as my personal factor.

Unfortunately, she informed me that while a substantial balance remained, it was insufficient to purchase a suitable house in the City.

“You’ve plenty of funds to see you through the winter,” Caroline
assured me. “You can rent quarters at one of the finest inns in the City. Come spring, if you’re still looking to establish a household, we’ll send to Bryn Gorrydum to issue a new letter of credit.”