Kushiel's Scion (Imriel's Trilogy #1)

And that year, for the first time, my loyalty was assailed.

It happened in Night's Doorstep, a few weeks after Midwinter. A party of us had ventured forth, defying the bitter cold. It was my usual group of friends—Bertran de Trevalion, the Trentes, Raul L'Envers y Aragon, Marguerite Grosmaine. Gilot was there, and a handful of men-at-arms attending the others. All in all, we made a considerable crowd.

I had scarce been to the Cockerel since Eamonn had left, and I reveled in the reception I received. There were always Tsingani there, and as Phèdre's foster-son, I was always welcome among them. Whether or not I knew them, they knew me. They knew the story. And in some ways, I felt more at home among them than I ever did at Court.

"The gadjo pearl!" a Tsingano man cried, grinning. He flung his arm around my shoulders. "We Tsingani saved your life, didn't we, chavo?"

"You did," I agreed, ignoring the shocked stares of my Court companions. I beckoned to the barkeep. "I'll stand a round for the Tsingani!"

They cheered and I laughed.

"Are you mad, Imriel?" Bertran asked quietly.

"Not at all," I said cheerfully. "It's true, they did. If not for the Tsingani, I'd still be a slave in Drujan. A dead slave."

He gave me a troubled look. "You shouldn't speak of such things in public."

"Why not?" I asked. "It's true."

"Oh, yes!" My Tsingano comrade gave my shoulders a friendly shake. "And if not for your gadjo foster-mother, Anasztaisia's son would be a prisoner!" He let me go and extended his hand, dark and sinewy. "I am Viktor."

I clasped it firmly. "Imriel."

For a moment, I thought it would go badly with my Court friends; then Julien Trente let out a whoop of enthusiasm. "All right, then! I'll stand a round for the Tsingani!"

After that, all was well. A pair of fiddlers began to play, and everyone mingled and drank together. As if summoned by magic—or more likely, a well-organized system of messengers—others came, including several of Naamah's Servants. There was one I knew, a pretty girl named Hélène. I whispered in her ear, pointing her toward Gilot. He had a dazed look on his face as she led him away toward a back room. I hid my smile in a tankard of ale, reckoning it well worth the patron-fee.

By the time we left, it was late and the moon was high overhead, small and distant. We milled around in the crisp air, laughing and talking over the night's adventure, waiting for the stable-lads to fetch our mounts from the livery. The Trentes had come by carriage, and there was some fuss over a fraying harness strap. I paid it scant heed. Viktor and two of the other Tsingani were admiring the Bastard, discussing his lineage in Tsingani dialect. I was listening to them, trying to make out their comments, when a figure stepped from the shadows.

"Prince Imriel."

"Yes?" I frowned. It was a man, and no one I knew. His lower face was swathed in a heavy scarf, muffling his voice, and he wore a rustic woolen cap pulled low over his brow.

"You have friends in Parliament." His eyes glinted in his shadowed face. "True of heart and pure of blood."

Every ounce of camaraderie and warmth left me. "Who are you?"

"No one." He began backing away. "No one."

"Wait, stop." I moved to detain him. "Stop!" Bertran's mount swung around abruptly, blocking me. Bertran stared down at me, incredulous.

"What did that fellow just say to you?" he asked.

The mysterious messenger was disappearing around the corner of the Cockerel into a dark alley. "Stop!" I shouted, shoving at solid horseflesh. "Damn it, Bertran, help me catch him or get out of the way!"

He tried to do both at once. I slipped past him and was nearly run down. Bowled over by his charge, I ducked my head, trying to scramble out of the way of his mount's churning hooves. I heard Bertran swearing, Gilot shouting at him, and the ring of a sword being drawn.

"Gilot!" I pointed toward the alley. "That way!"

Montrève's men-at-arms don't need to be told twice. Gilot took off at a dead run, boots skidding on the icy cobblestones, and plunged into the alley. I got to my feet and felt Bertran's hand descend on my shoulder.

"What did he say to you?" he repeated.

"Later." I shook him off, racing after Gilot.

Once I passed beyond the faint illumination from the street, it was pitch-black in the alley. Within twenty paces, I slowed to a walk, then halted. Closing my eyes, I listened. I could hear footsteps and someone's breathing. "Gilot?"

"Aye." He sounded disgrunted. "He's gone, Imri."

Bertran appeared at the mouth of the alley with a lit torch. "Any luck?"

"No," I said. "Bring that here, will you?"

By torchlight, it was obvious the alley grew too narrow to admit him on horseback. Bertran dismounted and came on foot. With the torch casting wavering shadows on the crowded buildings of Night's Doorstep, we searched to no avail. The back alleys branched and branched again. There were too many paths my unwelcome messenger could have taken, and all of them were silent and empty.

"Come on." Gilot clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Let's go back; the others must be freezing."

A dozen yards from the mouth of the alley, Bertran pointed. "What's that?"

I stooped and picked up the object. "His cap. He was wearing this."

"Let me see." Bertran held out his free hand. I gave it to him. He examined it, frowning, then peered inside it. I saw his mouth tighten.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Hold this." He thrust the torch at Gilot, who took it without comment. I watched as Bertran worked at a scrap of parchment sewn into the interior of the cap. There was a message written on it. He read it silently to himself, and I felt my blood run cold.

"Bertran," I said. "Please."

He met my eyes and his were dark with distrust. "Read it."

I took it from him, squinting at the blurred ink. " 'Dolphin fountain, sunset, two days hence,'" I read aloud. "Bertran, I have no idea what that means. I swear to you, I have no idea who that man was or what he was talking about."

"Friends," he said softly. "'True of heart and pure of blood. Don't play me for a fool, Imriel. Prince Imriel."

It was like a nightmare. I shook my head. "No," I said. "You know me. Name of Elua, Bertran! I don't want the throne. I don't want the holdings I have! Have I ever given you any reason to doubt me?" I asked fiercely. "Any reason?"

"No." The torchlight made a mask of his face, strange and unfamiliar. "But your mother played a long game, didn't she? So my own mother always said, and she's cause to know." A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Melisande Shahrizai destroyed my grandfather, too, and he was a hero, once. Percy de Somerville. My father gave up his name to be free of the taint of her treachery." He laughed bitterly. "Imagine that! Baudoin de Trevalion was executed for treason, and the stench of the Trevalion name still reeked less than Somerville's after your mother was done with it."

"I know," I said quietly. "And I am sorry for it. But I am not my mother's son."

"Pray you're not." Bertran looked hard at me. "Pray you're not, Imri! Because I will see you dead before I let you follow in her footsteps."

"My lord de Trevalion!" Gilot interceded, cool and crisp. "Do you question the honor of House Montrève?" He shifted the torch into his left hand, placing the right on the hilt of his sword. "If you do, I will be pleased to answer for it."

"Enough!" I moved between them. "Gilot, stand down. This is absurd. Bertran…" I spread my hands. "Whatever is going on, I have no part in it. The first thing in the morning, I'll take the matter to the Queen."

Nothing in his expression changed. "Give me the note. I'll do it myself."

"Fine." I shoved it at him. "Take it."

He took it without comment and we returned to the Cockerel. Our companions were waiting, shivering with cold and excitement, stamping and hugging their cloaks around them as they speculated on what had transpired.

"Was it a cutpurse?" Julien called. "Did you catch him?"

Bertran eyed me.

"No, and no." I took a deep breath. "It's nothing. I've no idea who he was. He tried to imply that I'm involved in some manner of intrigue, that's all."

"Oh, good!" Julien said happily. "Are you?"

"No!" The word burst from me. I sighed, taking the Bastard's reins from a wide-eyed stable-lad. "Come on," I said. "It's late. You'll hear all about it on the morrow."

We made our respective ways home. Gilot and I rode the last few blocks alone. I kept silent for as long as I could stand it, and then finally spoke.

"I am telling the truth, you know," I said.

"Of course!" He looked surprised. "Imri, I've known you since you were thirteen years old. I never doubted it."

A wave of gratitude overtook me. "My thanks."

Gilot shook his head. "No thanks needed." He grinned at me. "Well, except mayhap mine to you, young highness. Hélène is a peach."

I smiled. "I'd forgotten. It seems like days ago, doesn't it?"

"Aye." His face turned sober as we entered the townhouse courtyard. "Whatever this business is, it's no good. I think you'd best wake her ladyship and tell her."

"I mean to," I said.

We woke the household and held a conference in the salon. Everyone sat or stood around, blinking and stifling yawns. Phèdre listened without interrupting, the vague softness of sleep giving way to a fierce clarity.

"What of the man?" she asked when I had finished.

I shrugged, feeling stupid and helpless. "I couldn't see well enough! I know, you trained me better than that, but it's just like the assassin in Nineveh. I wasn't expecting it, I didn't think."

"That's all right," she said gently. "Go slowly, and tell me what you remember."

I closed my eyes, hearing his muffled voice in my memory. "He was youngish," I said. "Older than me, but still young. And he knew Night's Doorstep, but he's not City-born. He had a provincial accent; Namarrese, mayhap." I thought about it. "Yes, Namarrese. He sounded a little like the master cheese-maker at Heuzé."

"Good," Phèdre said. "How tall was he?"

Opening my eyes, I held my hand out a few inches above chin level. "Not tall. He stood about so high to me. Slight, and quick."

"He knew what he was about," Gilot agreed. "He vanished like a rabbit."

"Lucky for him," Joscelin said darkly. He looked absolutely thunderous. For the first time in years, I shivered a little at the sight of him.

"Not lucky," Phèdre said. "This was carefully planned. But why?" She paced the salon, frowning in thought. "Imri, is there anything you might have said or done to give someone reason to believe you might welcome such an overture? Anything?"

Her words were an unexpected blow. "How can you ask?" I said bitterly. "I wouldn't, not in a thousand years! How can you think it? How can you possibly?"

"Imriel." She touched my hand. "I don't. But people hear what they wish to hear, and a careless jest may be taken in earnest."

It calmed me enough to think. "No," I said. "It's not somewhat I'd jest about. Only…" I paused. "Last year, at the Midwinter Masque, when I came as Baldur… because he was a god of light, Sidonie asked if I thought I might be asked to play the Sun Prince."

"Like Baudoin de Trevalion," Phèdre said softly.

I nodded. "Someone might have taken it for a sign."

She looked a little sick. "I never thought of that."

"Nor did I." I squared my shoulders. "But that's all. There's nothing else."

"So why this?" Phèdre mused. "Why now?"

"Because Imriel turns eighteen and gains his majority in the spring," Joscelin said in a blunt tone. "And there are members of Parliament unhappy about a half-Cruithne heir to the D'Angeline throne while Drustan's damned nephew appears to be laying claim to the succession in Alba without a D'Angeline in sight."

They exchanged a glance.

"Mayhap," Phèdre said slowly. "Or it may be somewhat else altogether."

Joscelin raised his brows. "What are you thinking?"

She shook her head. "Nothing, yet." Her dark eyes focused on me, clear and impossibly deep, save for the scarlet mote. "Go to bed, love. There's naught to be done about it tonight. We'll speak with the Queen in the morning."

Chapter Twenty-Four

My status at Court was altered overnight.

It wasn't Ysandre's doing. To her credit, the Queen heard me out with aplomb. By all appearances, she was unwavering in her support. But Bertran was there, a shadow of suspicion in his eyes, the damning note in his hand.

He told her it was he, and not I, who found the cap.

He told her I fouled his pursuit of the messenger.

"Oh, please!" I said in disgust. "You're the one who blocked my path. And for all I know, you're the one planted that note. You were awfully quick to assume the worst of me, Bertran."

He bristled. "I would never stoop—"