Kushiel's Chosen (35 page)

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Authors: Jacqueline Carey

Tags: #High Fantasy

BOOK: Kushiel's Chosen
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"That's one of the noblemen's clubs," Ti-Philippe mur mured behind me. "Your Severio's, I'll warrant.”

I had chosen him and Joscelin both to accompany me that day; the latter for his sober presence, and the former for his quick wit and knowledge of the city. I nodded briefly, and made the rest of my descent smiling.

"Thank you, my lord," I greeted the Serenissiman, inclin ing my head and giving him my hand to aid me onto the bissone. "You know my name, but I confess, I am at a disadvantage."

"Benito Dandi." He grinned and swept another bow. "You would not come to my birthday party, my lady, but I confess, the mere sight of you is a gift nonetheless precious for its tardiness! I thought Severio was boasting, but it seems he spoke the truth."

"For once," one of his fellows added impishly, pretending to stagger when I glanced at him. "Ah! It's true! She wounds me with her blood-pricked gaze!"

I could not help it; I laughed. Serenissimans do not wor ship Elua and his Companions, but they know our religion well by virtue of a long-standing D'Angeline presence in the city. Obviously, Severio's boasting had added to the lore. Another of the Immortali dropped his oar and fell to the bottom of the boat. "Bells and chimes!" he groaned, rolling and clapping his hands over his ears. "The D'Angelines seek to invade us with beauty and destroy us from within; Baal-Jupiter, forgive me, I worship the sound of my enemy's voice!"

It was enough of a spectacle to gather an audience, figures appearing on the balconies of neighboring houses, gazing down with amusement.

"My lady," Joscelin said in a flat tone. "You have an audience with the Doge."

"Ah." Benito Dandi eyed him warily. "The chaperone. You'll have to leave those arms with the guards ere you enter the Palace, fair Sir Gloom. Well, never mind us, Contessa; we're an unruly lot, but the fastest rowers on the wa ter, and only the Immortali are fit to carry you! Summon your pretty squawking grey-crow aboard, and yon maidenfaced boy, and we'll be at Old Shaky's doorstep before you can blink!"
I raised my eyebrows at Joscelin and Ti-Philippe, waiting to see if they would balk at the insults, but both gave way— Joscelin with stiff dignity, and Ti-Philippe with a glint in his eye that told me he would take full advantage of their erroneous perceptions. Yon maiden-faced boy, I thought, would fill his pockets at the Immortali's expense once their play turned to dicing.
We were off to see the Doge, whom the scions of the Hundred Worthy Families, I had just learned, called Old Shaky. It didn't augur well for the level of respect he com manded.
Along the way, folk in passing craft and on the bridges and quais cried out greetings to the Immortali, who shouted in response. Admiration, aspiration, adversity; I heard it all, in the ringing shouts. There was no small curiosity about me, and I took care to keep my features serene, even when Benito Dandi shouted my name to a group of his fellow Immortali atop the Rive Alto bridge.

Not until we passed the bustling center of the Campo Grande did my unsolicited escort sober, under the unamused gaze of the Dogal Guard. Benito Dandi handed me ashore, and I brushed off my gown, a rich blue satin inset with velvet panels; Serenissiman blue, the color is called. It had a fretted silver girdle with jet beads and a caul to match; somber, nearly. Except for the elegance of the fit.

I looked away as the Guard confiscated Joscelin's arms.

The Immortali trailed behind, laughing and jesting as a pair of guardsmen escorted us along the serried colonnade, through alternating patterns of light and shadow, and thence through the old triumphal arch into the inner courtyard, where statues of ancient Tiberian statesmen and heroes stood in niches along the facade of the building and a marble well stood in the center of the courtyard. We mounted the broad stairway, flanked by tall statues of Asherat-of-the-Sea and Baal-Jupiter, and were met at the top by Severio Stregazza.

"Phèdre!" His voice caught echoes in the courtyard. Smil ing, he bowed and greeted me in my own tongue. "My lady Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève, welcome to La Serenissima."

I curtsied, and answered in Caerdicci. "Well met, Prince Severio."

The Immortali elbowed each other and made jests, while the guardsmen remained stoic; for his part, Severio glowed with pleasure. I had not forgotten that his own attendants acknowledged him as noble-born, not royal—but I was D'Angeline, and by our reckoning, he was of the lineage of House Courcel and a Prince of the Blood.

In Terre d'Ange, the evidence of his Caerdicci heritage had set him apart. 'Twas different, seeing Severio here, where his D'Angeline blood dealt him a measure of grace lacking in his comrades. He took my arm, leaning to murmur in my ear. "You've no idea how much I've longed to see you. Promise you'll speak with me afterward?"

"Of course, my lord."
"Good." He straightened, adding, "Father would like to meet you, too. He's a mind to discuss trade or some such thing. But I thought perhaps I could show you the city."

"That would be lovely," I said politely, and Severio's brown eyes lit at my reply. I should not have, but I stole a glance at Joscelin, who stood impassive, strangely vulnerable without his daggers and sword, clad in mute grey. Even so, there was no mistaking him for aught but what he was: a pure-blooded D'Angeline from one of the oldest families. I sighed inwardly and smiled up at Severio Stregazza, resting my fingertips on his velvet-clad arm. "Shall I be presented to your grandfather the Doge, my lord?"

"By all means," Severio said gallantly, sweeping his free hand before us.

THIRTY-TWO
1 was received in the Room of the Shield, where a great fireplace roared even in the heat of summer, and on the opposite wall hung the arms of the reigning Doge's family, the familiar tower and carrack of the Stregazza.
Beneath them stood the throne, a modest wooden affair, and in it sat the Doge.

Rumor had not lied; Cesare Stregazza had the shaking-sickness. His flesh was frail-seeming and sunken, and his entire body trembled with the palsy. The ancient dome of his skull looked vulnerable beneath the peaked crimson cap he wore, silk earflaps covering thinning wisps of white hair; terrible and strange to see. The hair of D'Angeline men does not diminish with age, as I have noted with other peoples. Mortality is more pronounced in other lands.

"The Contessa Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève, grand father," Severio announced.

I curtsied and sank to kneel before the wooden throne, gazing with lowered eyes at the Doge's slippered feet. Cesare Stregazza's hand descended to rest on my head, tremo rous and gentle but for the weight of the signet it bore. "I have heard your name, child," he said in quavering Caer dicci. Startled, I glanced up to meet his eyes, dark and canny behind hooded, wrinkled lids. For all that his head bobbed perceptibly, those eyes were steady. "Benedicte sent a harp ist last winter, with the latest D'Angeline lay. The Battle of the Skaldi. You brought the Alban army."

"Yes, your grace," I said simply.

"That's good." The Doge withdrew his trembling touch, folding his hands in his scarlet-robed lap. The dogal seal flashed gold, a signet bearing the Crown of Asherat in relief. "We need young people of courage, even mere girls, to fight something more than each other," he added in his thready voice, looking past me to Severio, and I saw a flash of some what in those dark eyes. "The Serene Republic!"
Contempt and frustration; I am trained to read voices. Severio flushed, but before he could reply, another man came forward—of middle years, handsome in the Caerdicci fashion, with the same dark, hooded eyes as the Doge. "Contessa," he said in smooth intervention. "Well met. I am Marco Stregazza, Severio's father." He took my hand and drew me to my feet, bowing as I rose. "And this," he added, turning, "is Marie-Celeste de la Courcel Stregazza, my wife."
"My lady," I said, curtsying to her.
"Oh, don't!" Marie-Celeste said impetuously, grasping my hands. "Phèdre, I'm so glad you're here! I've been fair
dying
to hear the latest gossip and styles from the City, and I've scarce seen a D'Angeline face since I quarrelled with Father. Promise you'll tell me everything, do!"

"Of course, my lady," I said, faintly bemused. Benedicte's elder daughter—who was, indeed, niece and daughter-in-law alike to the Doge—was attractive in her own right, plumply rounded, in the fullness of her years. I could see traces of House Courcel's lineage in her dark-blue eyes, the graceful curve of her brow.

"I have tried to explain," she said confidentially, leaning toward me, "about Naamah's Service, and what it means to a D'Angeline. But you understand, they are all provincial here."

"Customs differ," I murmured. "La Serenissima is not the City of Elua."

Severio muttered something under his breath.

"Come," Marco said expansively, opening his arms. "Phèdre, I pray you, take a glass of wine with us! Severio, surely you and your madcap Immortali can entertain the Contessa's men for an hour or two. Father, if you've naught else to say ... ?"

I glanced instinctively at the Doge. The motion of his head could have been taken for a shake of denial; certainly his family chose to take it as such. But my lord Delaunay always taught us to look twice. I saw it was but the palsy, and knelt before him.
Deep in his hooded eyes, I saw a flash of approval.
"Courage, and vision." The Doge laid his trembling hand against my cheek, and I felt the hard press of his signet. "You remember what I said. And come sing for me, girl! Benedicte doesn't send singers any more, since this idiot's quarrel. Do you sing?"

"Yes, my lord," I said, confused.

"Good." Cesare Stregazza leaned back, satisfied. "D'Angelines always made the best poets and whores. And singers. I want to hear a D'Angeline voice sing again, before Asherat's bitches prophesy me into my grave."

"Uncle!" Marie-Celeste hissed, mortified.

"I'm old," he retorted querulously. "And you're fighting over the throne before I've even left it. I can ask for what I want. Can't I?"

Look twice, I thought, remembering the gleam in those sunken eyes. Whatever game he played, 'twas best I played along. I rose smoothly, inclining my head. "My lord, I was trained in Cereus House, First of the Thirteen Houses of the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers. It will be my honor to sing for you whenever you desire it."

"That is well." The Doge waved one crabbed hand, gold signet flashing. "You are dismissed."

"Shall we go, then?" Marco Stregazza inquired impa tiently.

I glanced at Ti-Philippe and Joscelin, my silent retainers; the latter's face had a mutinous set. Severio looked impatient, but obedient to his father's wishes. "Yes, my lord," I said aloud to Marco. "I'm sure my men will welcome the reprieve."

The private quarters of Marco and Marie-Celeste Stre gazza were generous, with an elegant mosaic inlaid in the floor depicting their purported ancestor, Marcellus Aurelius Strega, seated on an ivory stool and bearing the bundle of
fasces,
in much the pose his young descendant had once adopted. The rooms intersected a loggia which overlooked the mouth of the Grand Canal, a slice of the lagoon itself within their view. We sipped our wine and strolled its length, taking in the vista in the clear midday air.
"Do you see that?" Marco Stregazza asked rhetorically, gesturing with his wine-cup at the hundred vessels working their way up and down the harbor. 'Trade! Lifeblood of the Republic!"

"It is most impressive, my lord," I replied honestly.

"Yes," Marco said. "It is." He beckoned brusquely for a servant to refill my cup. "Severio tells me interesting things about you," he said obliquely.
I set down my brimming cup untouched and raised my brows. "Such as?"
"Such as the fact that he spent twenty thousand ducats of my money on you," Marco answered nonplussed, "and never invested a penny wiser."

The blood rose to my cheeks, but for Naamah's honor— and my own—I kept my voice level. "In D'Angeline soci ety, what your son purchased was beyond price, my lord. It made his fame. Do you wish the money unspent?"

"Were you listening?" Marco grinned, looking younger and boyish. "Not a copper centime! Our customs differ in deed. Here, we'd die of shame rather than let a courtesan hold title; but there, it bought him admirers and influence. In fact, one such reports that you have fallen out with the Queen, over a certain matter of the Cruarch of Alba. And yet my own reports tell me you shipped Alban lead and made a nice profit in the bargain." Setting down his own cup, he steepled his fingers. "What I am thinking, Contessa, is that Terre d'Ange will grow fat acting as middleman between Alba and the rest of the world. But such a thing need not be. Alba does not have a merchant fleet. La Serenissima does. If someone with, shall we say, entree, to the Cruarch himself were to arrange it, there is great profit to be made in trading directly."

This was a repercussion of our staged falling-out I had never considered, though I had known well that overland couriers would bring news before my arrival, and mayhap gossip as well. I rephrased carefully, to make certain of it. "You wish me to approach the Cruarch regarding trade with La Serenissima?"
Marco shrugged, picked up his winecup and sipped. "I wish you to consider it, no more. I admit, Contessa, I am ambitious. You have seen my father; he is a little mad, I think, and grows more so with each day that passes. Prince Benedicte is enamored of his war-bride and his pure-blooded D'Angeline son, and withdraws his support from our family, fearing we are tainted since Dominic and Thérèse's treason. It may pass, but well and so; I am Serenis-siman, and I will woo my city in the manner to which she is accustomed. Yes, I seek trade, but on honest terms. You have the Queen's enmity. Like Benedicte's infatuation, it too may pass, but you have a life to lead, and it need not dance at the whims of D'Angeline royals. Will you not consider my request?"

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