Kushiel's Scion (117 page)
I turned them over. They were still callused, a ridge of thick skin along the base of my fingers. I stared at the whorls inscribed there.
"Are you all right?" Denise Fleurais asked gently.
"Yes." I hid my hands beneath the table. "I'm fine."
"Good," Eamonn remarked. "I'm famished."
There was an abundance of food. I hadn't reckoned myself as famished as Eamonn, but as soon as the soup course arrived, I found my appetite. For what seemed like the better part of an hour, we ate our way steadily through course after course—sorrel soup, fish in a galantine sauce, goose stuffed with dates and almonds, all washed down with glass upon glass of good Namarrese wine. By the time we finished with custard tarts in a flaky pastry, my belly was groaning.
Lady Denise watched us with amused indulgence. Although she had no children of her own, she was familiar with the appetites of young men. Picking at her own plate, she drew the story of the siege from us. Eamonn told most of it, in between chewing vigorously and swallowing enormous bites of food.
When it came to the mundus manes and Gallus Tadius, her expression turned somber. She didn't question it, though; not even the portal opening. I supposed she had seen things in Menekhet that had inured her to doubt. A Drujani bone-priest, for instance.
"I'm sorry," she said when Eamonn had done. "If I had known…"
I wiped my mouth with an immaculately clean linen napkin. "How did you know, my lady? Quentin LeClerc said there was a message."
"Yes." She drew a much-folded scrap of vellum from a purse at her girdle and handed it to me. "This."
I unfolded it. The parchment had been used before and scraped clean. It was thin and a little greasy. It bore only a few words written in Caerdicci, the ink blurred and difficult to read by candlelight. Lucca is under attack. I fingered the ragged edges. "Who brought it?"
She shook her head. "He didn't give a name. The guard at the gate said he looked like a peasant. He took the message and turned him away."
I raised my brows. "And yet you believed."
"I didn't dare do otherwise. Better to believe in error and be made a fool than risk the alternative." Denise Fleurais smiled briefly. "The Queen would have my head if I'd let harm come to you when I could have averted it, and I daresay I'd rather answer to her than Phèdre." Her expression turned somber again. "I thought a small delegation would suffice, since Lucca's attackers would have no reason to quarrel with Terre d'Ange. I was wrong."
"You couldn't have known. Obviously, whoever sent this had no idea the Duke of Valpetra wanted vengeance on me. I didn't know it myself." I ran the ball of my thumb over the parchment, wondering if it contained a hidden message. I gave her what I hoped was a disarming smile. "May I keep this?"
"Yes, of course."
There was no hesitation, no trace of guile. I tucked the scrap away. "Thank you, my lady. For this and for securing Tiberium's aid. You must have been most persuasive."
"Ah, well." With a self-deprecating gesture, Lady Denise spread her hands. "Queen Ysandre may be displeased with me after all once she learns what I had to promise the princeps. It will cost dearly. But the matter seemed urgent, and Deccus Fulvius was most helpful in securing the Senate's support."
"He's a good man," Eamonn offered.
She nodded. "Yes, he is. He has a message for you, too, Prince Eamonn; or at least his wife does." A hint of amusement returned to her voice. "From a young Skaldi woman? It seems she wished it held it in safekeeping and out of D'Angeline hands."
"Brigitta!" His face kindled, then fell. "She's gone, then."
"Is there word from Terre d'Ange?" I asked.
"Not current, no." She turned to me, sympathy in her gaze. "There are two letters that arrived while you were gone, but they would have been sent some weeks ago. I'll have the chamberlain bring them to you in your chamber. There hasn't been time since the news from Lucca arrived."
I remembered the letter I'd written there. "Was my missive sent?"
"Yes." She was quiet for a moment. "Prince Imriel, I dared not send word until I knew you were well. I will send it on the morrow, if you wish, but I suspect you will be your own best message. There is a ship standing by at Ostia, ready to transport you."
Ah, Elua! I'd nearly forgotten. They must be going mad there, wondering if I was dead or alive. I should leave; tonight, tomorrow at the latest. Already, it was growing late in the season to make the passage. But there were a few things I needed to do ere I left Tiberium. I rubbed my face with the heels of my hands and sighed.
"Give me a day," I said.
Lady Denise inclined her head. "Of course."
Chapter Sixty-Six
As matters transpired, I couldn't have departed on the morrow. By dawn, there was a summons awaiting us. The princeps of Tiberium had received word of our return, and we were bidden to an audience with him.
"I should have anticipated this," Lady Denise apologized. "You may refuse, of course, but… it would be better if you don't."
"We'll go," I said. Eamonn, not bothering to hide his impatience, grumbled reluctant agreement.
A squadron of the princeps' personal guard arrived to escort us. As a sign of honor, we were allowed to ride. They fell into formation around us, clad in shining breastplates, their white cloaks with the purple border swinging briskly about their bare legs as they marched. I wondered if they felt the chill. I had no idea what to expect of the princeps, Titus Maximius. In my time as a scholar in the city, I knew him only as a distant figure of derision among the University students, who had little respect for the office he held, diminished as it was from its long-ago glory. I'd never expected to meet him in person.
Like the Temple of Asclepius, the royal palace was located on an island in the Tiber River, though it was closer to shore and joined by an elegant bridge. Our escort marched us across it. We dismounted in the courtyard and were conducted inside.
Here, the vestiges of Tiberium's splendor remained on display. We were led into the throne room, which sported a polished floor of pink marble, high ceilings, and a border of gilded friezes. There was a throne, too; an ornate affair of gilded wood crusted with jewels, a purple cushion on the seat. It was empty.
"Dreadful, isn't it?" A man emerged from behind the throne. He was some thirty years of age, with bad skin and a prominent bulge to his skinny throat. In one hand, he held a scroll; the other was extended in greeting. "Well met, Prince Imriel de la Courcel."
I clasped it unthinking. "Well met, messire." Even as I said the words, I realized he wore a simple diadem; a purple ribbon tied around thinning brown hair. I released his hand and bowed deeply, mindful of Court protocol. "Forgive me, your highness."
"Oh, call me Titus," he said. "Please."
I straightened and found him smiling. "Imriel."
"Imriel." The princeps of Tiberium turned to Eamonn. His gaze rested on the gold tore around his neck, oddly wistful. "And you must be Prince Eamonn mac Grainne of the Dalriada, from the far reaches of Alba. I've just been reading about it."
"I am." Eamonn bowed.
Titus Maximius sighed. "Come and take a cup of wine with me, won't you?"
We spent an hour with him, drinking and talking. He wanted to hear of our adventures, here in the city and in Lucca. To my surprise, I found I both liked and pitied him. The princeps had led a sheltered, protected life. He yearned for more, more than his role would ever allot him.
"I wanted to go, you know," he said sadly. "To Lucca. I wanted to lead the army myself. But the Senate refused to allow it."
Eamonn coughed. I daresay he thought it was the right decision.
"Terre d'Ange is grateful beyond telling for Tiberium's aid in this matter," I said diplomatically. "To risk yourself in such a manner would have been far too much to ask."
"That's what they said." Titus Maximius snorted. "You needn't be grateful. I would have done it for the sport. For the glory. And unless your ambassadress is a liar, and I am assured she is not, your queen will pay dearly for our assistance. After all, it was a prince's ransom of sorts."
"Lady Denises word is Queen Ysandre's bond," I assured him.
"That's good." He drummed his fingers restlessly on the arm of a chair. I noticed his nails were bitten to the quick. "It was my wife's idea, you know. She's very clever."
I met his gaze. Although his pale blue eyes were a trifle watery, it was frank and ingenuous. I wondered if his wife was a member of the Unseen Guild. If she was, I wondered if he knew. "Will we be meeting your lady wife?"
Titus blinked his watery eyes. He looked from me to Eamonn, then back at me. He was an unlovely man with unrealized dreams of heroism and glory, and I didn't need to step outside myself to see the shadow of envy that lay on his soul. But he knew it, and he bore it with a kind of forlorn dignity.
"No," he said, slow and sorrowful. "No, I don't think that's a good idea."
We parted with mutual assurances of goodwill. I left in a pensive mood. There are all sorts of prisons in this world, and Titus Maximius was trapped in one of them. I'd often felt the same way myself before I'd reached my majority. While Tiberium had been my escape, its princeps would never taste freedom. I could not help but pity him.
At least he was shrewder than Deccus Fulvius where his wife was concerned.
"Dagda Mor!" Eamonn shook himself. "I'm glad that's over." He punched my arm and grinned. "Come on, let's go find out what message the lovely Claudia holds for me. If I wait any longer, I'm like to burst."
We arrived at the Fulvii domus unannounced, but not unexpected. A heavy knot of guilt settled into my belly as I entered the atrium, rendered all the worse by Deccus Fulvius' hearty greeting.
He embraced us both, pounding our backs. "Good lads, good lads! By the gods, I'm glad to see that dead madman didn't get you killed!" I smiled at him. "Thanks in large part to you, my lord." "Eh." Deccus shrugged, a twinkle in his eye. "I promised you I'd do my best. I'm an old lion, but not yet toothless." Claudia emerged, a letter in her hand.
She was every inch the Tiberian matron, clad in a demure gown of amber velvet with a high throat, her extravagant hair braided in a coronet. It didn't fool me, not for a heartbeat. I could see the way her breasts moved beneath the velvet, the sway of her hips. I swallowed hard as we exchanged greetings. Eamonn, quivering with impatience, didn't notice. His gaze was fixed on the letter she held.
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