Kushiel's Scion (66 page)
She accepted my coin without a word of thanks, turned her back on me, and scurried away. I shook my head. Savior of dogs, defender against deer, defrauder of whores. It seemed I wasn't cut out to be a hero. And, I thought, if I didn't make a swift return to the insula, I'd have Gilot's wrath to reckon with.
In my haste to retrace my steps, I nearly stumbled over a recumbent form in the street. Moments ago it hadn't been there. For the second time in less than a day, a jolt of terror washed through me. I ripped my sword clear of its sheath, spinning in a tight circle.
No one was there.
I forced myself to stand still, straining to hear over the sound of my ragged breath. All I could hear were the ordinary sounds of the wharf awakening—a few voices, the occasional splash, the creak of ropes. Swallowing hard, I knelt to examine the inert figure.
It was a man, his throat slit. I sprang back. His blood seeped between the cobblestones, filling the channeled cracks. Mine ran cold. I glanced around once more to find myself alone in the street, then turned the dead man over and studied him.
He was no one I'd ever seen before. He might have been Caerdicci or Hellene or Aragonian. Ordinary, rough-hewn features, half-hidden beneath thick black stubble. His mouth was slack and startled, echoing the gaping wound in his throat. His clothing was plain and unremarkable, the sort one saw worn by barge-hands on the docks. He had a sturdy cudgel still clutched in one fist, and his purse strings had been cut. I thought about the footsteps I'd heard, the dull thud and scraping sound, and my skin prickled.
While I was busy trying to be a hero, a man had been murdered. A man lurking somewhere behind me in darkened streets, a cudgel in his hand; murdered in a manner that was beginning to look uncomfortably familiar. I'd no idea what to make of the coincidence, no idea how it tied into Claudia's dire hints.
"Name of Elua," I muttered. "Why me?"
The dead man gave no answer.
I went back to the wharf and found the dock-master, yawning and bleary-eyed in the early dawn. I told him about the dead man, and he gave a weary nod.
"Not an uncommon occurrence, I'm afraid. I'll notify the city cohort." He eyed me dubiously. "You ought not be wandering these parts on your own at this hour, my lord. They're rife with footpads and cut-purses. That might well have been you."
"Yes," I said. "I know."
Mist was rising on the Tiber, shot through with gold where the sun's slanting rays touched it. It was as pretty a sight as it had been yesterday morning. A full day had passed since I'd risen from my bed and gone to post a letter to Terre d'Ange.
It felt like a lifetime.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
"Water."
Master Piero perched on the low ledge surrounding the Fountain of the Chariot and dipped one cupped hand in the pool, raising it to let the water trickle through his fingers. It sparkled in the sunlight, bright enough to make me squint. My eyes felt raw and sand-scoured, and if I looked too long at the brightness, spots danced before them.
"It sustains and cleanses us, does it not?" he continued. "And yet we may drown in it." He wiped his hands. "What else is like water?"
"Fire," someone said. "For it, too, sustains us; and it, too, can kill."
"Earth," another voice offered; Akil, the Umaiyyati. "All things grow from it, but in my country, a man may be buried alive in the sifting sands."
"In truth, all the elements, Master," Lucius observed. "For without air, we die, but we starve on a steady diet of it."
"So." Master Piero smiled at him. "When the elements are in balance, there is life. Where there is imbalance, there is death. Is this a true statement?"
I stifled a yawn and struggled to focus on the conversation. Like as not, I should have pleaded illness that day. But I'd barely made it back to the insula before Gilot awoke, and I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of chiding me. So I'd saved the tale of the murdered cudgel-wielder for later, poured a bucket of water over my head, put on a fresh shirt, and gone to Master Piero's lecture.
It felt strange.
I felt strange.
I felt like a man caught in someone else's dream. The sunlight, the fountain, the conversation of Master Piero and the students… all seemed unreal. Even the dead man in the empty street seemed unreal. There was a bottomless black well of profound exhaustion inside me, and at every instant my awareness threatened to succumb to it.
And there, beyond the brink, a bedroom lit with a hundred candles awaited, and Claudia, Claudia, Claudia. Kneeling, lips and hands devouring me. Naked, her breasts swaying as she crawled. Beneath me, astride me, taking her pleasure. Her yielding flesh, her avid mouth.
Uttering words, ripping my world asunder.
A room like a temple, a bed like an altar. But ah, Elua! No love. There was no love between us. Nothing sacred, not even pride. Only dark intrigue and desire like a conflagration, desire deep enough to drown. I wanted to put my hands around her throat and choke her until she gasped out the whole truth. I wanted to take her until she begged for mercy.
"Imriel."
I caught myself with a jerk, shaking my head to dispel the images in it. "Master?"
"We have spoken of the physical elements," he said patiently. "But in what other elements does imbalance bring about harm?"
"And don't say 'love,' D'Angeline," Aulus muttered.
I scrubbed my face with my hands. "Why not?" I asked. "After all, it does. A love that is not reciprocated in equal measure may hurt and breed bitterness."
He flushed and looked away.
"Wherein lies the fault if it breeds bitterness?" Brigitta challenged. "If you were to draw your dagger and prick me, it would be your fault, and I would be angry. But to love without being loved in turn…" She frowned, thinking through her logic. "It would be as though I thrust myself upon your dagger and blamed you for it."
Someone made a lewd comment. "Yes," I said, ignoring it. "But people do."
"Should we seek, then, the root of this impulse?" Master Piero asked with interest. "Should we seek to overcome it within ourselves? Or should we seek to redress the balance, that all people might love one another in equal measure?"
"Ah, now, here's a trick!" Lucius commented.
I closed my eyes, soaking in the sun's heat, listening to water splashing and the ebb and flow of discussion. Behind my closed lids, Claudia Fulvia awaited. There was so much we had not yet done. In my mind, I saw her cupping her breasts, holding them forth, nipples ripe as plums. Smiling over her shoulder, offering her haunches. Myself, lashing her buttocks with the flat of my belt. A gaping smile carved into a dead man's throat.
What do you want with the Unseen Guild?
Tizrav, son of Tizmaht.
"Imri?" A strong hand gripped my shoulder, shaking it.
Even dozing, I must have recognized Eamonn's voice, for I went for my daggers and not my sword. I found myself on my feet, glancing around wild-eyed, daggers crossed before me in the Cassiline style. Eamonn stood several prudent paces away, sucking at a scratch on his wrist. Lucius and Brigitta hovered behind him, as strange a trio as one was like to find in Tiberium. For the first time, the Skaldi woman regarded me with approval.
"All-Father Odhinn!" she breathed. "You're as fast as a snake."
I sighed and sheathed my daggers. If it had been an assassin, I would have been dead. Joscelin's words echoed in my ears. Speed's not everything. "Sorry," I said to Eamonn. "It was a long night."
"Oh, aye!" He gave his affable grin. "We noticed."
Taking stock, I realized that Master Piero and the others had departed. Only the three of them remained, and the charioteer in his fountain; legs braced, arms taut, the chiseled sinews springing forth in relief where his hands gripped the reins. His horses plunged, webbed hooves poised as if to churn the pool's waters, clear streams spewing from their lips. The charioteer's face was firm with resolve, his marble eyes filled with purpose.
Claudia, I thought, would enjoy him.
"So," Lucius drawled. He dragged a finger across his throat, echoing the line that grazed mine. The gesture made me shiver inwardly.
"Looks like you landed yourself a proper hellion, Montrève. Who was she?"
I met his gaze without flinching and lied. "No one you know."
"More's the pity," he murmured. "Listen, do you want to get a jug? I've news since last we spoke. Prince Barbarus and yon shield-maiden are welcome, too."
All I wanted in the world was to stumble back to the insula and collapse on my pallet, letting the dark core suck me downward, past the corpses with slit throats, past the candlelit bedroom where Claudia and memory lurked, into utter oblivion. But I was young and proud, foolish and guilt-ridden, and however long I'd dozed at the Fountain of the Chariot, it was enough to sustain me for a while longer.
"Yes," I said. "Why not?"
And so we went, the three of us, to the wineshop; the same wineshop. This time, I noted the faded wooden sign that hung above its door. Though the wood was weathered to a silvery sheen and the paint untouched, one could make out the head of Bacchus, his curling black locks intertwined with vines.
I could tear you apart and devour you.
I nearly think you have.
It made me shudder, all of it. I found myself yearning toward Eamonn, longing to take comfort in his stalwart presence, his sunny disposition. But all his attention was bent toward Brigitta. There was a strange, wary courtship taking place between them, and it left no room for me. Instead, I was confronted with Lucius Tadius with his quicksilver intellect, and the dark red curls and wide, mobile mouth that reminded me of his sister.
"Listen," he said, leaning forward and pouring, filling our cups. "I've decided to take your advice."
"Oh?" I sipped my wine. "What advice was that?"
"I've made an offer for Helena's hand." Lucius frowned at me. "You were the one made me think, remember? The essence of the matter. Whether 'tis better to wed her and risk being made a cuckold, or condemn her to a life she abhors. I thought on it last night, stinking drunk. And I dispatched a missive this morning." He raised his winecup. "So. Here's to taking risks."
Other books
Second Best Wife by Isobel Chace
Havoc (Storm MC #8) by Nina Levine
Claimed by the Mate, Volume 1 by Kate Douglas
Mary Queen of Scots by Antonia Fraser
Caminos cruzados by Ally Condie
Robber's Roost (1989) by Grey, Zane
Wishin' and Hopin' by Wally Lamb
Return to Paradise by Simone Elkeles
Los cuatro grandes by Agatha Christie
The Legacy by Fayrene Preston
