If light can penetrate, so can air, I told myself. It didn't help. I felt my chest heave, gulping involuntarily for breath, and forced myself to calm, thinking, you are breathing, Phèdre; not dying, not suffocating.
A simple thing, this confinement, and yet horrifying. I daresay I would have withstood it better when I was younger-before La Dolorosa, and before my near-drowning. As it was, it was all I could do to keep from pounding on the walls of the trunk and begging for release. Instead I shivered and gulped and prayed it went smoothly with the harbor guard-smoothly, and oh, Elua, swiftly!
The sounds that I heard with my ear pressed to the floor of the trunk were strange and stifled, coming through the wood itself. The lapping of water against the hull of the ship, the muffled tread of feet and the deep scrape of oars. And from far away, very far, an occasional shout. On and on it went, until at last I felt the change when we neared the harbor; our progress slowing, the creak of topsails being lowered, and then the back-stroke of oars, bringing us to a halt.
A measure of stillness, then, until the tread of footsteps increased manyfold.
I know, because Kazan told me, that the Serenissiman harbor guard searched the ship with the utmost of thoroughness. The Illyrians were made to drop anchor, and every man on board assembled on deck, relinquishing their swords and standing at attention while the captain of harbor directed the search. Kazan and his men stood among them, unblinking and unwavering, not knowing if they would be recognized as pirates. All of them had daggers concealed somewhere on their persons; if the worst came, they would die fighting.
Every hammock and every bunk was overturned, every cabin tossed, every soldier's kit opened and searched; a stash of silver denari stamped with the likeness of the Ban of Illyria was seized from the best of the dice players. Pjètri Kolcei lodged a furious protest, claiming that they had not sought to use the coin in trade. The captain of harbor ignored him, and gave orders to search the trunk which held the Ban of Illyria's tribute-gift.
All of this I learned later; then, I only heard them enter the cabin, holding myself still as the dead in my cramped hiding-space, scarce daring to breathe. It seemed the very hammering of my heart would give me away. Pjètri Kolcei unlocked the lid of the trunk and lifted it; the squeak of the hinges penetrated the marrow of my bones. And while I lay tight-curled and terrified beneath the false bottom, the Serenissiman harbor guard emptied the trunk one item at a time, making a tally of the Ban's tribute.
How long it lasted, I cannot say; an eternity, it seemed to me. When a Serenissiman guard reached into the trunk to remove the last of the marten-skins, his knuckles rapped the wood directly above my ear. It felt as immediate as a blow and I could not imagine that he was insensible Of my presence, so acutely aware was I of his.
They will see, I thought; they will look inside the trunk, and they will look outside of it, and they will see there is a foot of space missing.
This thought ran through my head, over and over, while a methodical voice counted out the goods of the tribute-gift in Caerdicci and a quill scratched against parchment. It took on a rhythm of its own, beating in my mind; they-will-see, they-will-see, they-will-see. I fought to keep from saying it aloud, fought to keep my limbs from shivering, fought to keep my breathing quiet and steady.
I was still concentrating on it when I heard the captain of harbor's muffled voice. "This gift is tallied to the last coin and pelt, Illyrian. If it's short in the Treasury's reckoning, it comes out of your hide."
"It will arrive as you have counted it," Pjètri Kolcei said coldly, his Caerdicci precise and fluent. "If your Treasurer is a thief, I will not be held accountable."
The captain made some reply, lost to me in the thump of marten-skins being tossed carelessly back into the trunk. This time, I could have wept with joy at the sense of stifling weight returning. Piece by piece, the Ban's gift was replaced. Someone slammed the lid of the trunk, and the crash of it fair split my skull. I didn't care; it was music to my ears. Footsteps retreated, the cabin door closed. Within the trunk, I let out a long-held breath and gave thanks to Blessed Elua.
If my terror was lessened by a measure, my discomfort only increased. We had reckoned it wisest if I were to stay in concealment until the trunk could be safely unloaded and brought into the Ambassador's residence, and so I remained, cramped and stifling in darkness, while the Ban's ship made its way across the harbor and proceeded up the Great Canal.
I daresay they went as swiftly as they might, but unlike Kazan's vessels, the tribute ship was not built for speed in close quarters and there was a good deal of sea traffic in the harbor and canals. I lay quiet, ignoring the twinges of pain in my contorted limbs, counting my own breaths to time the journey and imagining in memory the sights we passed: the Arsenal; the Palace of the Doge alongside the Campo Grande, where the statue of Asherat-of-the-Sea looked out on the harbor; the Temple of Baal-Jupiter; and, oh, yes, the Little Court, proudly flying the standard of House Courcel. Other houses of the Hundred Worthy Families lined the Great Canal, and then the mighty Rive Alto bridge, and beyond, the warehouses and banking institutions and residences of foreign ambassadors....
And we were there. I heard the oars jostle and splash as the rowers maneuvered the ship into position, the thump of padded bolsters thrown over the side to cushion her against the dock, and the deep plunge of the anchor dropped into murky green waters. The myriad sounds of sailors striking the sails and making fast the ship followed, and then, mercifully, the opening of the cabin door and Illyrian voices, soldiers moving swiftly under Pjèíri Kolcei's command.
It took four of them to carry the trunk, heavy on its own and heavier still with my weight added to the tribute-gift. A terrifying feeling, to be thus trapped, lifted and swaying in midair. My panic returned, sweat trickling between my shoulder blades as the trunk rose, jolted awkwardly and began to move. Every time it tilted, my stomach lurched in fear; out of the hold, down the landing plank and, worst of all, up a steep stairway and into the ambassador's residence.
There, at last, they lowered the trunk with a bone-jarring thud. I heard voices, familiar and unfamiliar, exchanging formalities and hurried explanations, and then Kazan's voice cutting through it all. "Pjètri, the key. Get her out now.'"
A key fidgeted in the lock and the lid was thrown open. For the third time that day the Ban's tribute-gift was unloaded, gold coinage and chunks of raw amber dumped in an unceremonious pile as Kazan's men scooped it out by the armload, hauling the pelts after. I coiled my body tighter, shivering as someone wedged a dagger-blade into the seam very near my unprotected head, prying up the false bottom. It was Kazan; I heard him curse as his fingernails scrabbled futilely for purchase, seeking the tiny groove.
"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 Kazan, 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 manservant 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 Benedicte 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 understand, 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 ambassador 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."