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

"Good day, young sir!" he called cheerfully. "Do you smell the myrrh?"

"I'd be hard put to miss it," I observed. "And my name is Imriel, by the way."

"Im-ri-el." He said my name slowly in his strangely accented Caerdicci, committing it to memory. "What does it mean, this name you bear?"

I shrugged. "Not much, I fear. 'Tis an old D'Angeline name." It was true, or almost. In Habiru, my name meant "eloquence of God," or so Phèdre had told me. Why my mother chose it, I have no idea. "Canis, where are you from?"

"From?" He looked surprised. "Why, I was squeezed out of my mother's loins, bloody and squalling. Where are you from?"

"Never mind." I shook my head at him, amused, and made for the gate.

"Wait!" He scrambled out of his barrel, his wooden begging bowl in one hand. I fumbled for my purse. "No, listen," Canis said. "Smell." He inhaled deeply. "There was a man once born of a tree," he said craftily. "Myrrha, the daughter of Kinryas, bore him. Her mother boasted of her beauty, and Aphrodite grew envious. She put a curse upon Myrrha and made her desire her own father, tricking him to her bed. When she got with child and he learned it was his, he tried to kill her."

My skin prickled. "That sounds like a Hellene myth," I said, striving to keep my tone light. "Are you from Hellas, Canis?"

He pointed at me. "The gods took pity on her," he intoned. "And they turned her into a myrrh tree. Ten months later, the bark was peeled away, and the boy-babe Adonis emerged." He gave me a gap-toothed smile. "And you know what happened to him!"

"Yes," I said. Memories descended on me; the banners of the Cruarch of Alba waving, the Black Boar of the Cullach Gorrym depicted on a red field. A scraping hoof, a looming shadow, the rank odor of pig and the rich scent of loam. Sidonie, trapped beneath me, laughing a full-throated laugh. I shuddered. "He was killed by a boar."

"Oh, the boar!" Canis waved a dismissive hand. "No, I meant the goddess of love, who made him her consort. Watch out for her, young Adonis. Betimes the gods take sides against one another, and we mortals are caught between them."

"Imriel," I said. "Who is this goddess of love, Canis?"

"Right." He nodded, ignoring my question. "Imriel." He held out his begging bowl, watching me place a few brass sestertii in it. "So tell me, pray. What was it like in the tree's womb, young Adonis? Did you find it a sticky place?"

"Canis!" I grasped his shoulders, exasperated. I was beginning to wonder if he wasn't a bit touched in the head after all. He stood steady beneath my grasp, blinking at me. His frame was unexpectedly sturdy. "My name is Imriel nó Montrève. And I was not born of a tree."

"Well, of course not!" He held himself with dignity. "That all happened a long time ago, didn't it? It's only the scent of myrrh that brings it back." He nodded toward the incense-maker's shop. "There was a messenger came for you, earlier today. He left a note with Master Ambrosius, I think."

I uttered a curse and let him go, banging on the incense-keeper's door.

He had closed his shop against the day's heat, but he opened it for me, peering through the gap with a dyspeptic look. "What do you want?"

"Master Ambrosius? My name is Imriel nó Montrève," I said humbly. "I live behind your shop. I think you hold a message for me."

I had to wait while he sought for it, sighing and scratching among his things. At length, he returned, thrusting a scrap of sealed parchment through the gap. "Here!" he grumbled. "Take it and be done. I'm not your messenger boy, D'Angeline."

Standing on the cobbled streets, I cracked the note and read it.

The hand was unfamiliar, as was the device, though I spotted the Fulvii name in it. The impress of carmined lips that blotted the parchment, I recognized. I read the note, touching my own lips in memory.

Sundown. My domus.

There was no signature, merely initials. It didn't matter. None was needed.

My heart soared, and I felt the best and worst of me drawn aloft in its wake. Clutching the carmine-stained parchment, I luxuriated in the memory of Claudia's hand caressing my phallus; of her mouth taking mine.

Sundown couldn't come soon enough.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Gilot was furious.

I didn't tell him about Claudia; he was angry enough that I had left him without warning this morning to wander the city alone. We quarreled about it, speaking in fierce, hushed tones.

"It was broad daylight!" I protested. "Gilot, I've spent the last eight years of my life being warded day and night. We agreed that you'd come as my companion, not my nursemaid. All I'm asking for is a chance to live like a free man."

"Fine!" Gilot said. "You want to get killed, that's your business. Only you'd better get someone else to bear word to her ladyship, because I don't want to see the look on her face when she hears it."

"Fine!" I said, storming toward the door.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"The baths," I retorted over my shoulder. "I have… an engagement this evening."

Gilot caught up to me as I wrestled with the new bar on the door. He held the door shut with one hand, leaning all his weight on it. "An engagement with whom, your highness?"

" 'Tis no concern of yours!" I glared at him and jerked hard on the door. "And don't call me that. This place is full of listening ears."

"Imri…" Gilot staggered off balance, then caught himself. "Wait a moment." He exhaled hard, and I could see him struggling for patience. "All right, then, don't tell me. But at least let me escort you wherever you're bound tonight."

I nearly refused, then paused. Claudia Fulvia might be a harmless libertine with no thought beyond her own desires, but her husband was a powerful man engaged in dangerous politics. I was taking a risk, and a foolish one at that. "All right," I said slowly. "If you'll swear to me in Blessed Elua's name that you'll keep my business in confidence."

Gilot gave me a hard look. "And whose business are you about?"

I grinned. "Naamah's."

His lips twitched. "Oh, aye? And who are you dallying with that you need swear me to secrecy? Not a widow, I'm guessing."

I shook my head. "No more questions. Do you swear?"

He put up his hand. "In Blessed Elua's name, I swear it."

Thus reconciled, we went to the baths. There was a buzz of gossip regarding the day's events. Although none of it seemed particularly urgent, the matter of the pantomime and the princeps' disapproval was discussed with avid interest. I had to force myself not to prick my ears every time Deccus Fulvius' name was mentioned. It was, I suppose, good practice.

I debated over my attire. Claudia Fulvia was a senator's wife; she would expect me to dress in my best finery. But she had already seen it, and mayhap it was better not to cater to her expectations. So I chose to dress simply instead, in lightweight woolen breeches and a white cambric shirt, open at the throat. It was fitting attire for an impoverished D'Angeline gentleman scholar, albeit one with access to a singularly skilled seamstress.

"So she's not a noblewoman, then," Gilot observed.

I smiled and did not answer. "If you mean to escort me, let's go."

We strolled through the city. It was much the same hour it had been the day we arrived, with the sun lowering over the seven hills of Tiberium, gilding the tops of buildings, casting the narrow streets in shadow. It seemed like a long time ago.

Outside the Fulvii domus, I paused. "Here we part ways, Gilot. Don't worry, she'll send a servant to escort me home."

He gazed at the townhouse, taking in the finely carved marble pediment above its door, the expensive potted trees. It was unmistakably the house of a wealthy man. "So she is a noblewoman." His brows knit. "Imriel, be careful. It's not like home, you know."

"I know," I said. "And I will be." I laughed. "Besides, what harm can I take? Her husband's away. The worst she's like to do is wear me out so that I can't keep my lids open during Master Piero's lecture."

"I don't know how you manage it as is." Gilot's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "All right, I'll see you anon."

I watched him leave, then mounted the steps and knocked on the door.

It opened, and a servant with a downcast gaze ushered me inside.

Taking a deep breath, I entered.

Empty of Deccus Fulvius' presence, it seemed a different place; larger, yet charged throughout with uneasy energy. In the center of the atrium, the impluvium—the square pool Tiberians use to collect rainwater—reflected violet twilight from the opening in the ceiling overhead. All around the perimeter of the room, fat tapers were burning on gilt stands, wax stalactites dripping down their sides. The air smelled of beeswax and incense, although mayhap the latter was the scent of myrrh lingering in my nostrils.

I sat on a marble bench and let the servant remove my boots. He reached for a pair of the soft sandals they kept for guests.

"Leave them."

It was her voice. I looked up to see Claudia Fulvia in the far doorway, clad in a gown of yellow silk. Her auburn hair was dressed with a gold fillet, and one coiling tendril spilled over her shoulder, the color of dark fire.

"I heard D'Angelines approach their gods unshod," she said. "Is it not so?"

"Only Blessed Elua," I said. "Do you claim divine status, my lady?"

"Not at all." Her full lips curved. "But you have beautiful feet."

The tile mosaic floor was warm beneath my bare soles, retaining the day's warmth. I stood, opening my arms. "I place them at your disposal, my lady. Where would you have them carry me?"

She raised her brows. "Will you enter my presence armed, Imriel nó Montrève? I appreciate the manner in which your sword-belt clings to your hips, but it is not the sword at your belt I seek to employ."

I flushed, at once discomfited and aroused, and accorded her a bow. "Forgive me." I undid the buckle of my rhinoceros-hide belt, handing it to the waiting servant, then stooped to undo the dagger-sheath around my left calf. So I had done before when I had visited as Deccus' guest, but that had been mere courtesy.

It had not left me feeling as though I disrobed before him.

Claudia Fulvia watched me. "You do like to go well-armed, Imriel nó Montrève."

"Yes, my lady," I said. "I do."

She beckoned. "Come."

I went.

In the doorway, she took my arm, tucking hers beneath it. I felt her full breast brush against my forearm. She gave me a sidelong glance with her fox-brown eyes. "Are you hungry?" she asked. "Young men always are. I thought we might dine in the garden."

"As you will," I said in a thick voice.

So I dined in the peristyle garden of Deccus Fulvius with his wife. There, the flagstones were cooling and the scent of bruised herbs rose beneath my bare feet. The garden was set all about with hanging lamps, casting fretted shadows. Somewhere in the shadows, a flautist played, soft and piping. We reclined on a pair of couches, almost near enough to touch.

But not quite.

What we ate, I could not say, except that there were honey-drenched pastries at the end. I watched Claudia eat her portion, the sweet triangles disappearing between her carmined lips, the tip of her tongue flicked at errant flakes of pasty. Afterward, she licked her fingers, slow and lingering, sucking away the last traces of honey. I nearly groaned aloud at the sight.

"Ah, sweet boy!" Her eyes gleamed. "Do you hunger still?"

I clenched my fists and released them. "What do you think, my lady?"

She laughed, low and deep. "Oh, many things, Imriel nó Montrève! At the moment, I think you are a proud young D'Angeline who fancies he knows somewhat of self-control." She shook her head. "You know nothing."

"Then teach me," I challenged her. "I came to Tiberium to learn."

Claudia's eyes narrowed. "Would you suffer yourself to submit to my will?"

I hesitated. "Mayhap."

"Are you afraid?" Another smile curled her lips. "I mean you no harm. I merely want to see what stuff this singular will of yours is made of."

"And if I agree?" I asked.

Her smile widened. "Oh, you will be rewarded."

I got to my feet. "Then let us find out, my lady."

Claudia led me to her bedroom. Whether it was one she shared with Deccus, I did not ask. Of a surety, it was large enough and sumptuously appointed. Everywhere, set in lampstands, on every surface, candles blazed, filling the room with golden light. It was like the inside of a temple, and the bed an altar in it. I stood in the center of the room while she prowled around me.

"So, my lady," I said. "What will you?"

"Nothing, yet." Her fingertips trailed over the fabric of my shirt. "I want you to stand there. I want to see you."

I stood. I could feel the heat of her as she moved behind me. Then she drew away and went to recline on the bed. Her eyes reflected the candlelight.

"Take off your clothes," she said.

I untucked my shirt and pulled it slowly over my head, baring my torso. On the bed, her breathing quickened. I unlaced my breeches and drawers and let them fall over my hips. At the sight of my erect phallus, the tip brushing my belly, she touched her lips with her tongue and swung herself off the bed.