Kushiel's Chosen (Phedre's Trilogy #2)

Kushiel's Chosen (Phedre's Trilogy #2) Page 77

There were grumbled echoes of the query all around, and Kazan raised his brows at me; although he had forborne asking, he was surely wondering.

"I don't know," I answered honestly. "In truth ... mayhap naught. If nothing else, he will make our count eight men rather than seven; nine, if Elua's mercy is with me, and my chevalier Philippe yet lives."

"Nine will die a little slower than seven," Kazan said. "Not much."

"It may be." I took a breath. "From the age of ten, Joscelin Verreuil was raised a member of the Cassiline Brotherhood, taught fighting skills to ward the scions of Elua and his Companions from harm. My lord Kazan, you and your men are doughty warriors, that much I have seen, but to thwart the assassination of a regent at close quarters ... this is what Joscelin has trained all of his life to do. If there is a way it may be done, he will find it."

The other Illyrians made disparaging remarks and jests- they had never faced a D'Angeline in battle, let alone a Cassiline-but Kazan's face was thoughtful. "Your Queen," he said. "Does she not already have such guards in her service?"

"Yes," I admitted. "At least two, mayhap more, for the progressus. But if aught happens, they will not look to Prince Benedicte's quarter for betrayal." I gave a hollow laugh, remembering Joscelin's once-fierce loyalty to his vow. "Indeed, they are Cassilines; they will protect House Courcel to the death."

"And death it will be," Kazan mused. The wine-jug went around again, and his men tossed dice to see who would bear the cost of a refill; it fell to Epafras, who went with a grimace. Kazan ignored them and reached out to brush his fingers down a lock of my hair. "You are not afraid of death, you, I think," he said softly in Caerdicci. "But I think, I, you are afraid of dying without seeing this, this Joscelin Verreuil once more."

"What I have said is true," I said to him.

He gave a crooked smile. "This much I believe, eh? I would like to meet the man, I, who assailed the black isle single-handed. I stood with you on the ship, yes, and I saw the tower empty, the bridge dangling. Others did not dare to look, but I did, I. And yet... your voice goes soft when you speak his name. I think that you love him, you."

"Yes." I owed him the truth. "I do."

Kazan nodded. "So we will see, eh? If he comes, it is to the good. And if he does not?"

I turned the earthenware wine cup in my hands. "If he does not, we go to Lord Ricciardo Stregazza, and beg his aid. It will alert the Dogal Guard, and likely we will be hunted for it, but mayhap Ricciardo can rouse the other Scholae to counter Marco's attack."

"Good," Kazan said briskly. "It is something, and Ser-enissimans will die. It is better to try than to surrender."

To that, I made no answer; I could not but help thinking that most of the Serenissimans were merely following orders, knowing no more of Marco's machinations than a babe. It did not please me, to think on their deaths. In the cavern of the thetalos, I would be accountable.

Time passed, and another wine-jug was drained; Stajeo and Ushak went to relieve Oltukh and Volos of their guard duty on the gondola. They came in reporting that the sun stood a few degrees shy of noon. Out came the dice, with good-natured quarrels. I began to despair, when the Yeshuite entered the tavern.

He was alone, which marked him, and his eyes scanned the crowd, seeking and discarding. I did not know him for a Yeshuite at first; he did not wear the yellow cap, and his sidelocks were cut. We took no chances. When his gaze fell upon our table, Kazan pulled me onto his lap with a hearty laugh, making pretend indeed that I was a rented doxie for his pleasure.

It would have fooled a casual observer; it did not fool the young man with the dark, intent eyes. He made his way to the table and asked in Habiru, "Be you the Apostate's oath-sworn?"

Volos sprang to his feet and drew his dagger, setting its point at the Yeshuite's throat

"Let him be," I said in Illyrian, and then added in Caerdicci, that Kazan might understand, "I am Kushiel's Chosen and Servant of Naamah, and Joscelin Verreuil has sworn Cassiel's Oath to protect me. Do you doubt it?" I drew back my hood, and the Yeshuite inhaled sharply.

"No," he said simply and bowed, crossing his forearms in the Cassiline manner. Beneath rough-spun garb, leather vambraces protected his arms. "Do you doubt who has sent me?”

"No." My heart hammered within my breast; Kazan's hands rested lightly on my waist. "Is he here?"

"Not here." The young Yeshuite shook his head. His Caerdicci was faintly accented, and he ignored Volos' hovering blade as if it didn't exist. "I am Micah ben Ximon, and he has sent me to bring you where he is."

I stood up; Kazan's hands fell away. "Then take us."

SEVENTY

A quarrel broke out as we left the Inn of Seven Strangers; I saw Tormos deliberately jostle the elbow of a tall Umaiyyatì holding a pot of ale, and suspected it was staged. Insults were traded, with accompanying gestures; a few blows were exchanged. Kazan hurried me past unnoticed, following Micah ben Ximon, and Tormos caught up with us outside, grinning.

The patrons of the inn might recall a handful of quarrelsome Illyrians leaving, but they would not remember a D'Angeline woman with them, nor a lone Yeshuite.

Micah had a skiff, more disreputable than our hastily purchased gondola. He boarded it and leaned on the oars, waiting. Kazan decided that he and I would travel with the Yeshuite, as well as Oltukh; the rest would follow in the gondola, under Tormos' command. It sat ill with Stajeo, to obey his brother's orders. I saw the Yeshuite go wide-eyed, watching while the Illyrians argued. He was younger than I had thought in the tavern, no more than seventeen or eighteen.

"Go," I said, leaning forward. "They will settle it, and follow."

He glanced once at Kazan, who nodded; Oltukh settled himself on the bench next to Micah and took an oar, and the skiff moved speedily into the center of the canal as they rowed in unison. Before long, the gondola followed, the sound of Illyrian voices raised in quarrel still audible.

Kazan spared a grin.

La Serenissima is built on islands; some large, some small, some reclaimed from the sea and linked by bridges and waterways .. . and some not. It was to one of the latter that Micah ben Ximon guided us, a small hummock of land with a dense pine forest, interlocking roots at the water's edge making landing difficult. It was obvious that some preliminary clearing had been done at the shoreline, but work had been abandoned.

The boats were dragged ashore and concealed under clumps of browning autumn ferns, and we picked our way across the burned swathe of land, roots poking out of the cinders, tripping up my skirts. Although no path was visible, Micah strode boldly into the scrub pines on the verge of the forest as if he knew where he went. I followed doggedly, and Kazan made hand signals to his men, who fanned out to flank us. It was familiar enough terrain to them, Dobrek's hills being much the same, although they glanced warily over their shoulders, looking for Leskii.

This time, I was not looking for forest spirits. I was looking for Joscelin.

The pine forest closed in on us, dark-green and forbidding. Here, no workmen's boots had trod. Micah led us unfaltering, pine mast giving way softly beneath his steps. Itching and hot with exertion, I pulled off the hood of my woolen cloak and let the breeze cool me. There was no one to see. I looked at Kazan, who loosened his sword within its sheath, teeth bared in a battle-smile. By the time the forest gave way to an open glade, I was uneasy with misgivings. I had given the Rebbe my name. If the Yeshuites chose to betray me, 'twould be easy enough, and doubtless well rewarded.

Micah halted, Kazan and I beside him. To the right and the left of us, the other Illyrians emerged from the forest, several with short swords already drawn. In the center of the glade, some ten men stood ranged in a loose line, all of them armed and two with crossbows.

My heart was beating like a drum.

I took a step forward. Their leader took a step forward.

He wore rough-spun garb like the rest and his tangled mane of hair was an odd, ashen hue, but steel flashed at his wrists and the hilt of a broadsword rose over his left shoulder and I would have known him anywhere.

"Phèdre?"

His voice, Joscelin's voice, cracked on my name and tears blurred my eyes at the disbelief in it, the wondering hope against hope. I took one step and then another and tried to say his name, only my voice broke and caught in my throat, and then he was moving, running, until he was there and his hands came hard around me, solid and living, and I was lifted clean off my feet, gazing down at his incredulous face. Laughing and weeping at once, I cupping his face in both hands and kissed him all over it.

"Oh, Joscelin, Joscelin!" My own voice, breathless with joy. He let me slide through his grip and set me down, burying both hands in my hair and drawing me to him.

"Never again, never, never, never, Phèdre, I swear it," he murmured, muffled words punctuated with frantic kisses, "in the name of Blessed Elua, I swear it, I will never leave you again, take a thousand patrons if you want, take ten thousand, wed Severio Stregazza, I don't care, but I will never leave you!"

I raised my face and he kissed me, long and hard, until desire and love, like a dagger in the heart, sent the world reeling around me and I had to cling to the front of his jerkin when he released me, struggling to remain on my feet.

We regarded one another.

"You're alive," Joscelin whispered, astonishment in his summer-blue eyes.

"You're ... your hair!" I said idiotically to him, reaching up to touch it, ragged dun streaked with ash-grey. "What did you do to your hair?"

"It's walnut dye." It was another voice that spoke, a D'Angeline voice, thready but familiar. "It washes out, in time." I whirled in Joscelin's arms, seeking the speaker; Ti-Philippe grinned at me, thin, worn face beaming under a similarly ragged crop of hair, dyed a flat, dark brown.

"Philippe!" I flung both arms about his neck, kissing his cheek. He held me hard, and I saw tears in his eyes when he let me go.

"We thought you were dead, my lady," he said softly. "Joscelin saw you fall from the cliff."

"No." I smiled through my tears. "Not quite, not yet." I swallowed hard, adding, "Fortun and Remy ... Fortun and Remy are dead."

"We guessed." Joscelin's voice was quiet. "Phèdre, who are these people?"

He had taken a step back, crossed hands hovering over the hilts of his daggers. Wiping my eyes and gathering myself, I saw that Kazan and his men had come up to surround me, while the others, Joscelin's folk-Yeshuites, I saw, young men and one woman-had done the same on their side. I realized then that we had been speaking D'Angeline, and none of them knew what had transpired.

"Friends, all of them," I said firmly in Caerdicci, and repeated it in Illyrian for the benefit of Kazan's men. "Friends." I looked at Joscelin, my heart breaking at the sight of his beloved face. "Joscelin Verreuil, this is Kazan Atrabiades. I owe him my life."

They regarded each other; two men, much of a height, some ten years difference between them. What transpired in that silent exchange, I will never know. It was Kazan who broke it, grinning broadly.

"As I owe her mine, I," he said. "I have heard of you, D'Angeline! You have a reputation to live up to, you."

Joscelin bowed, his crossed vambraces flashing in the autumn sun. He smiled as he straightened, a wry, familiar smile, and my heart sang to see it. "Does Phèdre nó Delaunay owe you her life, my lord," he said, "then I owe you my reason for living. Let us be friends."

Thus were we met, Illyrians and Yeshuites and D'Angeline alike, and the bond among us forged. From our meeting-place in the glade, we went to Joscelin's hidden encampment, a rough establishment of tents and shanties where we sat to confer.

To recount all that was told at that conference would take nigh as long as it took to live it, although we spoke swiftly in turns, starting in the middle of the tale, voices tumbling over one another in a myriad of tongues. I told the bare bones of what had befallen me since I had plunged from the cliffs of La Dolorosa, leaving most of the details of our Kritian sojourn for another day, and Joscelin and Ti-Philippe told their end of it.

With many interruptions, I pieced the story together bit by bit. When Benedicte's guardsmen broke into our rented home on the canal, Ti-Philippe had recognized two of them as the veterans of Troyes-le-Mont we had met only days earlier in the barracks of the Little Court. After Phanuel Buonard's murder, he didn't hesitate, plunging over the balcony into the canal below, making his way afterward, sodden and reeking and already shivering with ague, to the Yeshuite quarter, where he knew Joscelin had been training Yeshuites to arms. 'Twas a lucky thing after all that they had been concerned enough to spy him out at it. Marco Stregazza had nearly been right about the pestilence; he'd been sick for two weeks, although he hadn't died of it.

"And I was nearly as sick at heart," Joscelin said grimly, "to think on what had happened. We didn't dare get near the Little Court, or the Palace either-there were guards searching everywhere-but Elua be thanked, they never thought to search the Yeshuite quarter."

"How in the world did you find me?" I asked, bewildered.

"We did," Micah offered in a quiet voice. "We scoured the city, serving as eyes and ears. It took a long time, because we dared not arouse suspicion. One or two of us followed the guardsmen who were looking for D'Angelines. Where they passed, people spoke of it, even to Yeshuites. It was a simple matter to invent a rumor that a D'Angeline noblewoman had been abducted by two of her countrymen, that people might speak of what they had seen.”