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

"I'll go," he said briefly.

"We'll both go," I said.

We dragged on breeches, drew our swords in haste, and ran shirtless into the street. Our resident philosopher-beggar was there, wide-eyed with fear, hugging himself.

"Are you all right?" I asked him. "What happened."

He pointed toward a dim figure lying slumped in a spreading pool of blood. By moonlight, it looked black. "T-Two men," he said, his teeth chattering. "I heard them quarreling."

I turned the figure over. The man was dead, his throat slit. He was no one I recognized, but the sight reminded me of Daršanga, and I had to swallow against a wave of nausea. "Did you kill him?"

"No!" The beggar's eyes showed the whites all around. He shook his head violently. "I woke and shouted. The other man stabbed him and ran away."

Members of the city cohort arrived in short order, drawn by the shouting. We told our stories and the beggar told his. They examined pry-marks on the door of the shop, shrugged, and told us to go back to bed. Two of them carried away the corpse, slung between them like fresh-killed game, and one went to wake the incense-maker.

Gilot sighed. "We've got to get a bar for our door, Imri."

"All right," I said. "Ask Anna to recommend a carpenter." I eyed the shivering beggar. The night was cool after the day's heat, but I reckoned it was the shock of seeing a man murdered that made him tremble. "Fetch my spare cloak, will you, Gilot?" He did, grumbling, and I draped it over the beggar's shoulders. "Here."

He wrapped it tight around himself, burrowing gratefully into the fine-combed wool. Almost immediately, I could see his shivering ease. He peered over its folds, smiling at me. In the dim light, he looked younger and less filthy. "Surely kindness is a form of wisdom. Thank you, young sir."

I smiled in return. " 'Tis the incense-maker owes you his thanks for saving his wares. What's your name, my friend?"

"I am called Canis," he said.

"Dog?" Gilot asked incredulously. "Your name is Dog?"

"He's a Cynic, Gilot," I said. "A philosopher. They believe…" I paused. "What exactly do you believe, Canis?"

"I believe I would like to lie down," he said, casting a longing glance at his barrel. "And forget that this unpleasantness happened."

"Some philosopher," Gilot muttered.

We let him go and returned to the insula. Gilot propped one of the rickety chairs against the door and examined the latchless shutters on the apartment's pair of windows, cursing under his breath. I thought about the elaborate precautions with security we took at Montrève and the townhouse, laughing softly at the irony.

"Stop smirking," Gilot said irritably. "You're mad, you know that?"

I shrugged. "They were thieves. They meant us no harm."

"Oh, and if they had?" He raised his brows.

"They didn't," I said in a peaceable tone.

He shook his head at me. "You are mad."

If nothing else, the incident served to put Claudia Fulvia out of my head. On the morrow, I resolved to dedicate myself to my studies. I was attentive during Master Piero's lecture and in the conversation afterward. He was pleased and called me over after dismissing us.

"I have been thinking about your question, Imriel," he said. "About the arts of covertcy. Master Strozzi has been teaching at the University for over fifty years. If there is anyone who would know if such a thing existed, it is he."

I bowed. "My thanks, Master Piero. I will ask him."

He gave me one of his hawkeyed looks. "You know how to thank me."

I went that afternoon to seek an audience with Master Strozzi, accompanied by Eamonn. He was curious, and still chagrined that he had forgotten his promise to Phèdre.

Unlike Master Piero's tiny study, Master Strozzi's quarters were quite fine. We were met in an antechamber by a soft-voiced servant. He laid a finger to his lips, hushing us. "My master is resting his thoughts," he murmured. "He is not to be disturbed."

Eamonn grinned. "He's sleeping?"

The servant permitted himself a slight smile. "Return in an hour, my lords."

We spent an hour idling. There was a stationer's shop near the University, and I purchased supplies there; a pot of ink, a handful of quills, sealing wax, and a dozen sheets of pressed paper. I had been in Tiberium for over a week, and I had not yet written a letter home to assure Phèdre and Joscelin that Gilot and I had arrived safely. I felt guilty at it, for it might take weeks for a missive to arrive, and I knew they worried.

Afterward, Master Strozzi received us.

The soft-voiced servant ushered us into his presence. Master Strozzi was awake, sitting upright and erect on one of those infernal Tiberian stools. He was a formidable old man, well into his eighties, with a crisp white beard and the bald pate that seems strange to a D'Angeline eye. We may not be a hirsute folk in some ways, but what we grow, we keep in abundance.

"Imriel nó Montrève," he said, rolling the syllables of my name over his tongue with relish. "Prince Eamonn of the Dalriada. What seek you?"

It was not for nothing, I thought, that Master Strozzi had taught rhetoric for over fifty years. He had the portentious voice of a trained orator. I bowed. "Knowledge, Master."

"Aye," Eamonn echoed. "Knowledge."

"Knowledge!" Master Strozzi laid his wrinkled hands on his knees. "I could teach you to sway men's souls with the edge of your tongue, to move their hearts and minds, to leave them panting like dogs after your every word. But no." He shook his head. "You would sooner moon over that fool Piero, chasing pigeons in the Forum, gabbling over nonsense." His spine straightened further. "So be it. Speak."

We told him about Anafiel Delaunay—Anafiel de Montrève—and the arts of covertcy.

"Covertcy!" Master Strozzi's wrinkled eyelids creased. He drew his bearded chin against his breast, regarding us with distaste. "I assure you, young scholars, such a thing has never been taught at the University of Tiberium. It is the virtues we pursue in these hallowed halls, not the seditious craft of sneaking and spying."

"Yes, my lord," I said apologetically. "But he learned it somewhere, and I thought mayhap you would—"

"Not here!" Master Strozzi thundered. "Not in my University!"

Eamonn and I beat a hasty retreat.

"Dagda Mor!" he said outside the University. "He's a right old bastard, isn't he?"

"He is that," I said. "And he's lying, too."

"What?" Eamonn stared at me. "You think he taught Delaunay? Why?"

"I don't know." I shook my head. "A tell-tale around the eyes, and too much bluster. Mayhap he didn't teach Delaunay himself, but he knows more than he's saying."

Since our inquiry had come to naught, I spent the balance of the day composing a letter to Phèdre and Joscelin. I touched briefly on my futile search to uncover Delaunay's history, and wrote mostly about Master Piero and his students, and the sights and sounds and smells of Tiberium. I mentioned Lucius Tadius and his ghosts, omitting any mention of his sister.

I told them about Gilot and his budding romance. I wrote about our philosopher-beggar, too, living in his barrel in the street outside our insula, although I neglected to mention that a man had been stabbed to death there.

On the following day, I rose early and went to the wharf to hire a courier. I left Gilot sleeping and went alone, which would irritate him, but there was something pleasant about being awake while much of the city yet slept. A light mist hovered above the Tiber, its waters burnished and bronze in the dawn light. Through the mist, I could make out the small island that jutted from the waters and the Temple of Asclepius on it, dedicated to healing. I wondered if Drucilla, the Tiberian chirurgeon who had died in Daršanga, had made an offering there.

I watched the courier's barge draw away, bound for Ostia, and thought how it would cheer them at home to hear from me. I could picture Phèdre in her salon, cracking the wax seal, smiling as she scanned my words, while Joscelin read over her shoulder and others in the household—Ti-Philippe, Hugues, Eugenie—waited impatiently for news.

It made me at once glad and lonely.

I missed them. I missed them a great deal. I would have given a lot to spend a single hour in Phèdre's company, pouring out my worries and petty concerns, listening to her counsel. I would have gladly endured any awkwardness or discomfort it entailed. But this was the path I had chosen, and I would have to find my way on it alone.

Squaring my shoulders, I went to attend Master Piero's class.

We were planning to meet that day in the Old Forum outside the University, but for once, the rostra was occupied. Two men stood upon it, speaking in turns. A throng of students milled in the square, some listening and a good many others gossiping excitedly.

I caught sight of Eamonn's bright head above the rest and made my way to him. "What passes?"

It was Lucius who answered. "That's the pontifex maximus," he said, indicating the taller of the two men. "He's denouncing Deccus' pantomime on the grounds that it diminishes the imperium of our noble city. The aedile who sanctioned its performance is defending it."

"What imperium?" one of the other students muttered.

Lucius shrugged. "The princeps of Tiberium doesn't care for the play. He suspects it is a Restorationist ploy to feed the fires of disrespect."

"Is it?" I asked, remembering how Deccus Fulvius had queried me.

"Who knows?" Lucius gave me a tight smile. "But my sister's husband has departed for his country villa. I understand he plans to entertain a select handful of senators this evening. Oh," he added, "and that old stick-in-the-arse Strozzi has announced his retirement from the University." He nodded at a handful of merry students. "That's his lot. They plan to go out and get vilely drunk in celebration. Do you want to join them? I plan to."

A cold finger of suspicion made me shiver. "Next time, mayhap."

Since we could not meet in the Forum, Master Piero herded us into the lecture hall. We held a distracted conversation on tyranny versus democracy and the rights of hereditary rule. From time to time, the word sedition floated up from the rostra below. Almost everyone was nervous at the conversation, even Master Piero. Only Brigitta and Eamonn held forth with assurance, unperturbed by the shadow of Tiberian politics. Both of them argued in favor of leadership by strength of arms and surety of purpose.

"Oh, what would you know about it?" Aulus sneered. "Barbarians!"

Color flared in Brigitta's cheeks. "What would you know?" she retorted. "Your Tiberian princeps cowers in his castle and wrings his hands over a pantomime! What else have they done in living memory? At least Skaldia produced a leader that made the world tremble!"

The hall grew quiet in the wake of her words. A few people glanced at me, wondering how I would react. I wasn't sure myself. Mercifully, Eamonn saved me the trouble.

"Yes," he said in a thoughtful tone. "Waldemar Selig was a powerful leader and sure in his purpose. But perhaps we should consider the nature of a ruler's purpose, and whether or not it is virtuous." He gazed at Brigitta. "I am named for my uncle, who died on the battlefield facing Waldemar Selig. He died bravely. I do not believe he trembled."

She looked away, biting her lip. "I did not mean to give offense."

"Enough," Master Piero said mildly. He favored all of us with a long, grave look. "We have all agreed to lay our personal quarrels and our national politics aside in the pursuit of truth. It seems we find it difficult today. Let us adjourn, and make a new attempt on the morrow. We will meet at the Fountain of the Chariot, and hope its rushing waters lead to cooler heads."

He dismissed us without lingering, retreating to his study. I followed, hovering in the doorway until he looked up.

"Yes, Imriel?"

"I heard that Master Strozzi announced his retirement today," I said. "Is he… is he well?"

"He's fine." Master Piero looked puzzled. "I spoke to him myself early this morning. It's not wholly a surprise; the man is over eighty years old, and he's been talking about it for some years. Why, did he seem ill when you saw him yesterday?"

"No, no." I backed away. "I'm sorry to trouble you, my lord."

In the lecture hall, Eamonn and Brigitta were immersed in conversation. Her arms were folded and she wore a stubborn look, but she was listening to him. I waited a moment, and Eamonn made a familiar gesture, one he used to give me during the summer we spent in Montrève when he was courting girls; a half-smile and a slight cock of the head, warning me to keep my brooding self at a distance. Brigitta noticed, following his gaze with a scowl.

I put up my hands and left him to it. I suspected Eamonn mac Grainne had met his match in that one, but I had underestimated his charms before.

The rostra was empty and the crowds in the Old Forum had dispersed, only a few knots of students standing around debating. By this time, the day's heat was at its zenith. I thought of the baths with longing, and decided to return to the insula to apologize to Gilot for vanishing this morning and see if he wished to accompany me.

Outside the insula, a powerful fragrance hung in the air, amplified by the midday heat. The incense-maker must be working hard at his trade. Canis the beggar poked his head out of his barrel as I drew near.