Kushiel's Avatar (Phedre's Trilogy #3)

"So?" I raised my brows. "Would you rather we were in Montrève, smelling of sheep?"

"Not exactly." Joscelin eyed me. "I may favor the countryside to the City, but seeing you thus . . ." He shrugged. "It makes me wish I'd a large fish to throw at your feet."

I laughed, and shifted in the tub, making room for him. "Come here," I said as he shed his clothes and climbed in, the light of myriad candles casting into shadow the scars that pitted his body; scars he'd earned on my behalf. I circled dripping arms about his neck as he fit himself beneath me. "Yes, there."

"Imriel," Joscelin murmured, shifting under my parted thighs and gripping my buttocks, "is of the opinion that I should wear the lion's mane given me by Ras Lijasu."

"Is he?" I bit my lower lip as the tip of Joscelin's phallus parted my nether lips.

"Yes."

"Well." Water slopped over the sides of the tub as I impaled myself upon him, inch by delicious inch. "Mayhap he's right."

"Didn't you say I looked foolish in it?"

"Did I?" I locked my legs behind his back, feeling wanton and replete, filled to the core. "I don't remember."

"Yes." Joscelin moved slightly, his fingertips digging into my but tocks. I gasped, and more water slopped over the edge. "You did."

"I must have been out of my mind," I whispered, and lifted my head to kiss him.

It was as well I'd started my preparations early.

It began at sundown, when lamp-lighters moved about the City in teams, kindling torches and the innumerable glass oil lamps strung in dangling lines from tree to tree along the streets and in the squares. At every corner, in every square, musicians assembled, tuning their instru ments. Workers hired by Namarrese wine-merchants followed in wagons, grunting as they hoisted casks of wine over the edge, stockpiling them in the squares.

People trickled into the streets, wondering if it were true.

It was.

I had planned a fête for the entire City of Elua; the City of Hyacinthe's birth, the City that had raised him. I had gotten Ysandre's permission, of course. She granted it, though she thought I was mad.

Drustan understood. The City Guard was tripled that night—in part to prevent riots, and in part to allow the guardsmen to work in shifts, giving each time to celebrate. Although the planning had been weeks in the process and a number of people were in on the secret, the broad sides had only been posted that day. I wanted to take the City by surprise—and Hyacinthe.

Night's Doorstep would be the heart of it.

So many memories! I had been seven years old when I'd climbed a pear tree and scaled the garden wall of Cereus House, finding my way to Night's Doorstep where a grinning Tsingano boy taught me to steal tarts in the marketplace. It was the first act of defiance I'd ever undertaken in my young life. And no matter who carted me back home, whether it be the Dowayne's guardsmen or my lord Delaunay's man Guy, I kept returning. It was there that Hyacinthe had grown from a half-breed street urchin to a young man with a thriving trade in infor mation, a livery stable and a boarding-house, the self-styled Prince of Travellers who wielded the gift of the dromonde in earnest, my one true friend.

All that he had given up.

They remembered him, there. They had never forgotten him. Not the figure out of legend—for indeed, his legend had begun to spread already, and the tales they told along the coast of Azzalle had reached the City—but Hyacinthe himself, sharp with a jest, shrewd with a bar gain, generous with coin, a caring son who had seen to his mother's comfort in her final years. They deserved a chance to bid him farewell.

We all did.

"You're fair glowing, you know," Joscelin murmured as we traversed the already-thronging streets in an open carriage, bending his head so his lips brushed my ear. A group of early revelers raised brim ming cups in salute, shouting toasts.

I leaned against him and smiled. "You might have somewhat to do with it."

He'd worn the lion's mane after all; and overmore, he'd conspired with Favrielle nó Eglantine behind my back, planning on it. Ras Lijasu's gift had been sewn onto the collar of a splendid cloak, a hue of red one degree lighter than sangoire, that it might complement mine own attire. Pale as wheat, Joscelin's hair spilled over the tawny fur and deep-red velvet alike. Between that and his familiar Cassiline arms, polished to a high gleam, he looked, for once, utterly magnificent.

For my part, I too was clad in Jebean attire—the style of Meroë, as interpreted by Favrielle. It spoke to our journey; the best parts of our long journey. And so I wore a Jebean gown in the blood-at- midnight color of sangoire, which only I, as the sole anguissette in living memory, was entitled to wear. It left my shoulders bare and wrapped tight about my body, fastened with gold pins shaped like cunning darts. I wore my hair in a coronet of braids, the finial of my marque vivid at the nape of my neck, and ivory and gold bangles—another gift of Ras Lijasu—adorned my wrists.

And if I wore a single ivory hairpin thrust through my braids, who was to ask why?

Oh yes, I had kept it. Kaneka's hairpin, one of a pair. I'd left its mate in Daršanga, piercing the Mahrkagir's heart. Never forget; even here, even now. I kept it, as I kept the jade statue of the dog with staring eyes, that I might always remember. He had trusted me, the Mahrkagir. Even as he'd drawn the cord taut about my throat, gazing at me with love for the gift he thought I'd given him, he had trusted me. And I had murdered him for it.

I remembered.

And I reckoned it worth the price.

Imriel, mercifully, had begun to forget; at least a little bit. Although he had them still, his nightmares came fewer and farther between. Elua knows, I was grateful for it. He wore his Jebean finery, too; had insisted upon it. I let him. The snow-white chamma and breeches, the short, embroidered cloak—let him wear them. In six months' time, they wouldn't fit. He wore his rhinoceros-hide belt, too, the one Ras Lijasu had given him. There was room to grow in that gift. His face was bright with excitement, and it made my heart ache to see him so happy.

A cordon of young Siovalese guardsmen in the livery of Montrève surrounded our carriage, chattering among themselves, remembering to maintain vigilance under Ti-Philippe's watchful eye. Our arrival was greeted with cheers, for casks had been breached and the streets of Night's Doorstep were already lively with mirth. Although it is one of the tawdriest quarters of the City, it looked beautiful that night, ablaze with light and merriment. Emile greeted us in the street in front of the Cockerel, sweating in an ostentatious velvet doublet as he bowed.

"Comtesse!" he cried, spreading his arms wide as he straightened. "Kushiel's Chosen, Delaunay's anguissette! Welcome to your fête."

It was a glorious thing. I may say so, even if I instigated it, for the sum of its parts was greater than aught I had conceived. A good many noble peers were there already, D'Angeline lords and ladies, clad in fine silks and damasks, glittering with jewels as they mingled with tavern-keepers, merchants and workers of all ilk, delighted at the novelty of it. Some of the more adventurous had been to Night's Doorstep before, titillated by its seedy charms, amusing themselves en route to and from the Houses of the Night Court; many had never been. None would have thought to hold a fête there.

They thought it clever and daring of me, telling me so as I circu lated among them, exchanging greetings. Let them. I had done it be cause it was Hyacinthe's home, and my sanctuary. It didn't matter what they believed, only that they celebrated. And that they did, with a will. The wine was heady and rich on the tongue; I had spared no expense in importing it from Namarre, not trusting to Emile's rot-gut. Musicians played set after set, trading places, and a group of Tsingani fiddlers drew the loudest applause. Squares were cleared for dancing, and nobles and commonfolk elbowed one another to make room, silk gowns brushing breeches of rough fustian. Hired servants flushed and merry from sampling the wine made their way through the crowds, bearing trays of offerings from a half-dozen countries: spicy Aragonian shrimp, Menekhetan kabobs, rice rolled in Hellene grape-leaves, honeyed Akkadian pastries, dollops of Jebean stew on spongy flatbread; too many things to count.

It was a good hour before the guest of honor arrived, and when he did, all of Night's Doorstep fell silent, for Hyacinthe didn't come alone. We heard them coming nearly half the way from the Palace, by the cheering that followed in their wake. I don't think the ruling monarch of Terre d'Ange has ever deigned to visit Night's Doorstep. I know for a surety the Cruarch of Alba has not.

They arrived in a ceremonial Alban chariot, and Drustan mab Necthana himself drove it, the muscles in his forearms working as he held the reins in check, gold torque gleaming at his throat. At his side, Ysandre shone like a flame, tall and bright, a rare awe in her face at the outpouring of love that greeted them. There was no need for the armed escort that surrounded them; the populace of the City adored them.

"They came," Imriel whispered. "I didn't think they would."

"Neither did I," I whispered in reply.

Behind them in the chariot stood Sibeal and Hyacinthe. She was wide-eyed at the scope of their welcome, startled and grave, holding his hand.

And Hyacinthe . . .

"You did this," he said softly as I came alongside the chariot, Imri beside me and Joscelin a protective step behind us. Somewhere, they had begun chanting his name again. Hy-a-cinthe! Hy-a-cinthe! His name; my signale. I had only spoken it once. "Why?"

I gripped the edges of the chariot and gazed up at him. "I wanted to say good-bye."

Someone—a daring bit-player from a disreputable theatre troupe— made his way to the chariot, offering a tankard of wine with a bow and a toast to Drustan, who accepted it with a laugh and drank deep before passing it to his Queen. It might have been poisoned, for all they knew. Ysandre poured a propitiatory drop before drinking and the revelers shouted approval, a dozen other hands thrusting forth cups and tankards.