Kushiel's Chosen

For once, her voice held no censure, just a certain wry sympathy. I drew a long, shuddering breath. "Yes." I released my pent breath. "An anguissette is not exactly a convenient thing to be." Through long discipline, I made my tone match hers. "It doesn't mean I like you any better."

Against her will, Favrielle no Eglantine laughed.

When I returned home, I found Joscelin agitated and the Rebbe's solemn pupil awaiting me. He rose as I entered the room. "It is suitable for the Rebbe to see you now, Comtesse," he said. "Will you come?"

I sighed. "He really means when he summons me, doesn't he? All right." I brushed the front of my gown; it was a finespun blue wool, less drab than what I'd worn before. "Give me a moment to change into something the Rebbe would find suitable. Fortun, tell Benoit not to unhitch the team."

The Rebbe's pupil gave a slight smile. "Your attire is fine, Comtesse. You mustn't take everything he says to heart. He may disapprove of Servants of Naamah, but I believe he was having a jest."

I made a face, which was probably not an appropriate response for a peer of the realm. "The Rebbe's humor leaves somewhat to be desired."

"Perhaps." The Yeshuite ducked his head, hiding another smile. "But he is a very great man, and he has earned the right to his small jests, I think. Shall we go?"

He had spoken truly; Nahum ben Isaac made no comment on my clothing, but merely sat me down at a desk and brought forth a scroll from the cabinet in his study. Joscelin sat quiet on a stool. "Now," the Rebbe said decisively. "We will see." Unfurling the top of the scroll, he revealed the opening words of the Be'resheith. With a pointer, he indicated the first sentence. "You will read until I tell you to stop. And then you will tell it to me again, in your own tongue. And we will see."

Following the pointer-it was a holy scroll, one used for services, which may not be touched by human hands-I read aloud in Habiru, smoothly at times, faltering at others. Each time I stumbled, the Rebbe corrected me; impatiently, I thought, but then he would gesture for me to continue. When at last he motioned for me to stop, I took a deep breath, and recited the entire tale in D'Angeline, all the way through the covering of the earth with the great flood.

The Rebbe leaned back and listened, chewing thoughtfully on his beard. Periodically, he nodded with something resembling approval; periodically, he winced.

When I was done, he looked grudgingly at me. "You studied a translation, I suppose."

"No." I shook my head. "I've read it in translation before, father, in the past. But you told me to study it in Habiru, and I did."

He gave me a suspicious glare. From the corner, Joscelin spoke up. "Phèdre is a gifted linguist, father. The Queen sent her to Alba because of it."

"Hah. I have heard that story." The Rebbe plucked a few strands of beard from his bottom lip, and gave me his cunning look. "Well, then. You will read it again, child, line by line. First in Habiru, then in D'Angeline. And perhaps- perhaps-if you make it through without too many mistakes, I will tell you a tale my own master told me, about the Sefer Raziel and the disobedience of Rahab."

On this stool, Joscelin settled and prepared for a long wait. I sighed, and began again.

Nahum ben Isaac was an exhausting teacher. If I thought young Seth had taught me well, I was disillusioned that day. A great many of the mistakes I made in pronunciation and translation, he had allowed me, slight as they were. No surprise, I suppose; for the first weeks, he could not even look at me without blushing. But slight mistakes accumulate, and grow to gross errors if unchecked. The Rebbe allowed me no mistakes, and halted me repeatedly during this last reading to correct some minor point until both of us were irritable with it.

"Blame!" he said crossly, correcting me a third time; it was a mistake in translation I'd got lodged in my memory. "Not sin, blame! Blame! Only Yeshua was without sin!" Emphasizing the point, he rapped my knuckles smartly with the pointer.

With a faint scraping sound, Joscelin surged to his feet, daggers half-drawn before he realized what he was doing. When he did, he looked mortified. "Forgive me, father! I..."

"Are still more Cassiline than anything else." Looking up at Joscelin, the Rebbe chuckled into his beard. "Well, apostate, we will see." Fingering his khai pendant, he nodded at me. "You did not embarrass the Tanakh. Master these verses, and next time I will tell you of Rahab and the Lost Book. Maybe there is somewhat in these children's tales you may use."

"Thank you," I said gratefully, standing. My muscles had grown cramped from sitting so long, and my mind felt taxed. Oddly enough, it was not a bad feeling. So it had been when I was a child in Delaunay's household, and he used to push Alcuin and me to cram our minds full of history and politics and language. I had fretted at it, then, though I learned. Now I knew the value of it. "I will come at your summons, father, whenever I am able."

Joscelin, still red-faced, made his Cassiline bow. "Ya'er Adonai panav elekha, father, please accept my apology. I was half-drowsing, and did not think."

"So like a child, you rest safely in the presence of Yeshua, hah!" The Rebbe gave his cunning smile, and poked a finger at Joscelin. "There is something to think about." He made a wave of dismissal, "Now go."

Outside, Joscelin moved like a man in a dream, hitching the team and making ready to drive. I longed to say a word to draw him back, but what that word might be, I did not know.

Arriving at home at dusk, all three of my chevaliers were clustered in the reception salon, with Gemma hovering over Ti-Philippe and pressing a cool, moist cloth over his right eye.

"Don't tell me," I sighed. It had been a long day.

"It's not what you think, my lady." Ti-Philippe pushed Gemma's hand away and grinned at me, revealing a bruised and swollen visage. "We didn't get caught, or any such thing. We were dicing in quarters with the Palace Guard, like you said."

"One of 'em accused Ti-Philippe of cheating," Remy said helpfully, "and we quarrelled. Then he said somewhat about you that we didn't take kindly. So we showed him the error of his ways."

I flung myself into a chair. "And how much trouble are you in?"

Remy coughed. "Not much. The Captain of the Guard agreed we had the right of it and put the fellow under reprimand. We're allowed back, all right. But there's, um, a small fine for causing a disturbance in their quarters."

"How small?"

"Twenty silver regals." He squirmed. "We promised you'd send it around."

"Fortun?" I looked imploringly at him.

"I'll take it tomorrow," he said calmly. "And you can dock our retainers for it, if need be. But my lady, there's somewhat else you should know. The lads learned a few things that might explain how Melisande Shahrizai escaped."

TEN

At Fortun's words, a sharp excitement seized me, and my weariness fell away. I'd as soon have heard their news right there and then, but for the habit of discretion. Delaunay's servants had been hand-picked and trusted; though I liked them, mine were not. "Gemma." I turned to the day-maid. "Would you see if Eugenie has aught prepared for dinner? Tis early, but I'm fair famished. If you would be good enough to serve whatever is ready, that will be all."

Gemma pouted, but did as I bid. Happily, there was a lamb stew with fennel ready to serve, and loaves of warm crusty bread. I thanked the kitchen-mistress and dismissed her for the evening, over her grumbles; Eugenie did not trust that a D'Angeline noblewoman could get along without at least one trained servant. I would have laughed at that, another time. In the Skaldi wilderness, I boiled pottage with melted snow and survived. I'd not have thought I could either, before I had to. Of course, I'd not been a peer of the realm, then, but highly prized courtesans are not exactly known for woodcraft. I learned to build a fire in a blizzard with naught but a flint and damp tinder on that dreadful flight with Joscelin. No adepts of the Night Court can claim as much, I daresay.

At any rate, we were soon enough seated at the dining table, and Remy and Ti-Philippe told their story over bites of rich stew and warm bread, washed down with plenty of wine.

"So," I asked directly, "you found the men who were on guard the night Melisande escaped?"

Ti-Philippe, his mouth full of stew, shook his head vigorously. "No, my lady," Remy answered for them both, pulling a rueful expression. "That, no one seems to know, exactly; we have a couple of names, but no one knows where they're posted, and we dare not ask too closely if you don't want us to arouse suspicion. It may be that they're not attached to the Palace Guard. If they were among the men the Royal Commander sent to Camlach, they've been ordered to stand down, and it will be a hard job finding them. But we found somewhat almost as good."

"Go on," I said, intrigued.

"House Shahrizai is at war with itself." Ti-Philippe grinned lopsidedly. "The two that betrayed Melisande? Marmion and Persia? Well, Persia's dead.”

"What?"

"Oh, yes." Remy took a long drink of wine, eyes sparkling. "It was an accident, in Kusheth, my lady; a fire in her manor-house. Only a few of the Lady Persia's men-at-arms, they did not think it an accident. And neither did two of her kin. So they have sponsored them, three men-at-arms, to the Palace Guard, where they could keep an eye on Lord Marmion."

"They think Marmion did it? Her own brother, and an ally at that?" My mind began to tick over the possibilities. A dreadful thing, yes, but dreadful things have been known to happen even in the Great Houses of Terre d'Ange.

"This fellow," Ti-Philippe said, "Branion, his name was, he said it was the Lady Persia that the Duc de Morhban approached first. She was the one persuaded Lord Marmion to join her in giving over their cousin. This Branion, he thinks Lord Marmion only went along with it so he could set her free. Now Melisande holds him in high regard, all the while he holds the Queen's trust. Only Persia must have known something, or guessed. And now the House is split over it, but they don't dare accuse him without proof."

"Marmion might have got past the guards at Melisande's chamber," I said thoughtfully. "They knew he was her cousin; they'd have let him in to speak with her on the eve of her death. They did me. Joscelin." I turned to him. "Ysandre questioned the Shahrizai. There was talk about that, at least; they were under a lot of suspicion. Didn't one visit Melisande that night? After... after I did?"

He tore off a hunk of bread, frowning. "Yes. But it was Persia, not Marmion. She needed to beg Melisande's forgiveness, she said." He shrugged. "I don't know if it's true. But she did leave, and well before daybreak. The guard at the stairs backed her story, or Ysandre would never have let it go. He saw her coming and going." Joscelin paused, then added, "Ghislain de Somerville said he saw her leave the audience hall in tears, after Ysandre was done questioning her. He said it was the only time he'd ever seen one of House Shahrizai cry.”

"But not Marmion." Deep in thought, I rapped my spoon against my empty stew bowl. "Well. Even if he did visit Melisande, the guard at the postern gate would have challenged him. So if he was involved ..."

"There still had to be someone else," Fortun said, finishing my thought. "Someone the guard would have trusted."

"Yes." I set down my spoon. "Which gives us a new question: Who is in league with Lord Marmion Shahrizai, and why? And the answer to those questions ..." I smiled, "... lies in my purview."

"Phèdre," Joscelin murmured, gazing into his wineglass. "Have a care with the Shahrizai."

"He's not Melisande." I did not need to add that Marmion Shahrizai was as the pale moon beside the blazing sun next to his cousin. Joscelin knew it. Poets wrote odes to Melisande Shahrizai, although I never heard one that did her justice. They still sing them; they just change the names. Even inadequate verses were too beautiful to sacrifice to politics.

"No." He gave me a hard look. "But a viper is no less dangerous for being small. And if Marmion Shahrizai arranged the death of his own sister, he'll scruple at naught."

"I'll be careful."

"Ysandre favors him," Ti-Philippe announced. "So the guards say. He makes her laugh."

Well he might; from time out of mind, House Shahrizai has produced deadly skillful courtiers. None of them have ever held the throne-nor even the sovereign duchy of Kusheth-but they have amassed tremendous amounts of wealth, and a network of influence rivaled by none. If Marmion was in league with Melisande, then he had sacrificed some of his allies in gaining Ysandre's trust. If any survived, they must be nervous.

"Well," I mused aloud. "If the Captain of the Guard allows it, maintain contact with these disgruntled Shahrizai retainers, and learn what you may. More than ever, it's important that we find the men on guard that night at Troyes-le-Mont.”

"Yes, my lady!" Grinning, Remy gave me a crisp salute. "We didn't do too badly, though, did we?"

"No," I said. "Not badly at all. Except for the fighting part."

"My lady!" Ti-Philippe protested. "He said we were lackeys to a-"

"Stop," I said mildly, cutting him off. The words died in his mouth. "Philippe, you have pledged your service to an anguissette and a Servant of Naamah. If the jests you hear are no worse than the ones you have made yourself, then you will be quiet and swallow them."