Kushiel's Chosen (48 page)

If Tito was the best of the guards, despite his fearsome appearance, Malvio and Fabron were the worst. Malvio was the cock-eyed guard I had seen on my arrival, and he spoke seldom, but grinned all the while, his slippery gaze wan dering all over me when it was his turn to bring food, wait ing to ensure I ate. At first, he did nothing save look. On his third visit, he reached inside his breeches, fondling him self and grinning. And on the next, he loosened the draw string of his breeches, drawing out his erect phallus, dark and engorged with blood, and showing it to me. I looked away as he stroked himself to a climax, knowing he was grinning. When he was done, he tucked himself away, waiting calmly for me to eat and hand him my empty plate.

Fabron, by contrast, spoke volumes, moving close enough so I could smell his breath as he told me in lewd detail exactly what and where and how he would do to me the many things that he thought about doing to me. While he was not particularly inventive, he never tired of describing the acts in which he would engage me.

"What would it be worth to you?" I asked him once, tilting my head back to gaze at him. "My freedom? For that, I would do all you ask, and more."

At that, he blustered, then turned pale and fled, grabbing my half-eaten supper tray.

It was some weeks later when Tito entered my cell with arms laden. I watched curiously as he set down a brimming bucket of fresh water and a bundle of cloth. Reaching into his pockets, he drew forth two hard-boiled eggs and an ap ple, a rare feast. "Eat," he said, handing them to me, and then, procuring somewhat from another pocket, "Wash."

Tito returned with the chamber bucket well scoured, and another smaller bucket of fresh drinking water. I sat curled on my pallet and finished my apple, reveling in the luxury of being clean for the first time in weeks.

Wearing my clean dress, I was standing on the stool at the window, working one hand through the iron bars to toss crumbs from a heel of bread I'd saved to the gulls that skirled around the isle. All it took was one to discover it for half a dozen to descend, squalling and fighting with raucous cries on the ground outside my window, fierce beaks stabbing. It was somewhat unnerving, viewed at eye level, but it relieved my tedium and their squabbling drowned out the sound of the sea.

It also hid the sound of my door unlocking.

It was Melisande's voice, rich and amused, sounding for all the world as though she'd encountered me in the City or at court, and not imprisoned half-underground in a forsaken dungeon by her own decree. My heart gave a jolt. Pulse racing, I turned slowly to face her.

In the dim grey light of my cell, Melisande shone like a jewel. No veil concealed her features, her flawless ivory skin, generous mouth and her eyes, her eyes that were the deep blue of sapphires. Her hair hung loose as I remembered it, rippling in blue-black waves. Her beauty was dizzying.

I stayed where I was, standing on my stool, back to the window. Whether it looked ridiculous or no, it gave me the advantage of height and kept me as far from her as possible. "You have won," I said in an even tone. "Do me the cour tesy of not mocking me further, my lady. What do you want?"

"1 didn't conspire against D'Angeline trade interests."

"No?" Melisande raised her brows. "But Marco Stregazza will swear you did."

"Ah." 1 glanced out the window at the churning grey sea beyond the cliff's verge. "And did he suborn the corruption of Asherat's Oracle as well? I have endured her grief for many days now. I would not like to face her wrath."

"No." Her tone was complacent. "He wouldn't have dared; that was Marie-Celeste's idea. I am not fool enough to mock Asherat-of-the-Sea. Her temple gave me sanctuary, and I am grateful for it. If her means suit my ends, so much the better, but I do not risk blasphemy. No D'Angeline would, nor true Serenissiman. Marie-Celeste straddles two worlds, and fears answering to the gods of neither," she added. "You do not sound surprised."

"I have had some time to think, my lady," I said dryly, looking back at her. "What choice is this you offer?"

As I knew hers.

Melisande wanted something of me.

Heart and mind raced alike, as I stood trembling before her. My hand rose unthinking to seek out the bare hollow at my throat where her diamond had hung for so long, the leash she had set upon me to see how far I would run. "Joscelin," I whispered. "You can't find him."

Her eyelids flickered, ever so slightly.

I laughed aloud, having nothing to lose. "And Ti- Philippe? Don't tell me! What makes you think I would know where to find them, my lady? Joscelin Verreuil left me, for committing the dire crime of seducing him. If Philippe evaded your guardsmen ... how can I guess? Marco's men would do better than I, if Benedicte can't find him."

"Think on it," Melisande repeated, withdrawing her touch. "I'll be back."

After Melisande had left, I sat huddled on my pallet, arms wrapped around my knees, thinking. It had been different, before. There is a certain calmness in despair. Now even that luxury had been torn away from me.

I had to think.

Joscelin and Ti-Philippe, alive! They were in the Yeshuite quarter, I was sure of it. It was the one place neither Benedicte nor the Stregazza would think to look; it was the first place Joscelin would have gone. And if Ti-Philìppe had escaped, if he was clever and able enough, it was where he would look. I gave thanks to Elua, now, that my chevaliers had been suspicious enough to follow Joscelin during his disappearances.

I hadn't thought it; nor would they. The best I could hope for was that my disappearance and the traitorous guardsmen would make them wary, wary enough to avoid the Little Court and go straight to Ysandre.

If they lived. If Ti-Philippe wasn't lying on a cot somewhere sweating out his last ounce of life with some dreadful canal-bred pestilence. If Joscelin wasn't halfway to the northern steppes, chasing some arcane Yeshuite prophecy.

And if they could reach the Queen, which Melisande, who brooked few illusions, believed impossible.

If, if, if.

It is a dire thing, to hope against hope.

I did not doubt the veracity of Melisande's claims. It is a truism; history is written by the victors. With the solid support of Duc Percy de Somerville and Prince Benedicte de la Courcel behind her, her reputation would be restored, nearly spotless. There would be protest from a few, silenced swiftly. A few might rebel; not many, I thought. I had not forgotten the murmurs among the nobility when Drustan mab Necthana rode into the City of Elua.

For Terre d'Ange, a true-born son, gotten on his D'Angeline wife.