Kushiel's Chosen (Phedre's Trilogy #2)

Kushiel's Chosen (Phedre's Trilogy #2) Page 76

"Ricciardo wouldn't rouse the craft-guilds out of vengeance," I said absently. "He had a true care for their concerns. How many of the Scholae are involved?"

"Rumor says a dozen or more," Rossatos said. "Proven?" He shrugged. "At least seven are striking. As for the violence, the Serenissiman Guard has caught members of the salt-panners, the chandlers and the saddlers guilds engaged in acts of civil disturbance. And those young fools from the nobleman's clubs, willing to brawl at the flicker of an eyelash, do but add fuel to the fire."

"Phèdre," Kazan said curiously. "What are you thinking, you?"

He and Pjètri had sat patiently throughout our exchange, listening and offering little or no comment. I glanced at him. "If I were going to stage a public assassination," I said slowly, "I would ensure there was a measure of confusion, that my agent might strike undetected therein. A riot would be the very thing. My lord Ambassador, where does the ceremony of investiture take place?"

"In the Great Temple of Asherat," Janàri Rossatos replied. "With a progression across the Campo Grande, where the newly invested Doge plights his troth to Asherat-of-the-Sea."

I sat unmoving, hearing the surge pressing on my eardrums, the deep, steady thrumming of the current around La Dolorosa that had born me aloft on the waters and saved my life. I had a promise to keep, and I knew, in the marrow of my bones, where I must keep it. "It will be there," I said, hearing my own voice come hollow and echoing, as if from a great distance. "With Ysandre de la Courcel in attendance and a thousand people pressing into the Square, too many to keep at bay. It will be there."

SIXTY-NINE

It was a frustrating thing, to be so near and so far at once, so sure and so unable to prove it; and even if I could have, there was no merit in it. The Illyrian Ambassador had stated the truth. He had no means of gaining access to Ysandre, nor any of her people.

Pjètri Kolcei quarreled bitterly with him that evening, for he had it in mind to try his hand as the son of the Ban of Illyria, writing to the Little Court to request an audience with Prince Benedicte, thereby enabling him to deliver a message to Ysandre's entourage. Eventually Rossatos despaired of him, and the letter was sent; a reply came swiftly, arriving by morning. Prince Benedicte would be honored to grant his request... after the investiture of the Doge.

I had no illusions about the source of these precautions. Marco Stregazza might well believe me dead, slain by the terrible storm that had driven our ship southward before watching Serenissiman eyes. Melisande would take no such chances, and she would ensure that the Stregazza didn't either. No Illyrian suit would be entertained until Ysandre was dead.

I had reached La Serenissima, and the Ban of Illyria's aid had reached its limits.

I needed the impossible.

I needed Joscelin.

"You are mad," Janàri Rossatos said irritably. "You are very beautiful, Contessa, and very easily recognized. If half of what you surmise is true, you place my position in grave danger, very grave indeed. No," he added, shaking his head. "I cannot countenance it, cannot countenance it at all. You must stay here, until the investiture is complete. Do you wish a message sent, I will lend my aid, but if you were to be discovered in the company of Illyrians ... I cannot be responsible for this."

"I am sorry, my lord Ambassador," I said to him. "But I must go."

"You must certainly not!"

It was unwise, I daresay, for Rossatos to take such a forceful tone in Kazan Atrabiades' presence. Lounging in the doorway, Kazan grinned and fingered the 'hilt of his sword. "I almost think you gave an order, you," he said cheerfully. "It is a good thing I am a pirate, eh, and do not heed such things, I."

Rossatos flushed with helpless anger, casting a glance at Pjètri Kolcei. "You're the Zim Sokalí's son, my lord-do something! We will all answer to Serenissima's wrath, if these lunatics are caught!"

"Very well," Pjètri said casually, sauntering onto the balcony. Outside, he leaned over the balustrade and whistled sharply; an answering call came from below, and he returned, his grey-blue eyes light and thoughtful. "Pardon, my lord Rossatos, but I do not believe my father intended your discretion to encompass governing our guests' actions, and I judge this aid worth giving. Your gondola is ready," he added to Kazan. "It has a three-sided awning, ought to do the trick. If not..." He shrugged, and they clasped wrists in a warrior's grip. "Yarovit's grace on your blade, pirate."

"And yours," Kazan replied. "Phèdre? Are we going to this, this temple of Yosua?"

"Yeshua," I said. "Yes." I turned to the Ambassador. "I am sorry, my lord. Please know that I will deny your role if we are captured." He made no answer, and I crossed the room, pausing to address the Ban's middle son. To him, I said softly, "Thank you, my lord."

Pjètri Kolcei smiled wryly. "I'd go with you, if I dared. I'm glad we got you here safely, at any rate. Rossatos is right, this is the most I can do, and a risk at that, letting you and the pirate roam at will. Good luck to you, my lady."

Leaving the Ambassador's residence was the worst of it. Despite the deep-shadowed hood of my Illyrian cloak and the escort of Kazan and his men blocking me from view, I felt terribly exposed as I ventured into the chill light of dawn. The gondola was a humble affair, weathered but sound, with faded paint and a much-patched awning. Keeping my head low, I stepped onto it with care and settled myself on the burlap sacking laid beneath the awning, surrounded by tented walls. Kazan sat directly in front of me, hiding me further. Like his men, he had exchanged his mail and livery for rude pirate's garb.

If anyone were to inquire, they were mercenary sailors out of work due to the strikes; 'twas plausible enough, for a number of Illyrians had hired on to Serenissiman merchanters, valued for their skill at sea and unable to find employ with trade strangled in Illyria. It would not hold up to close inspection, of course-Rossatos was right, I was hard to disguise-but there was no way around it.

The Great Canal was crowded with ships despite the ear-liness of the hour; already patrols of the Serenissiman Guard roamed the streets. And beyond the arch of the Rive Alto, a tumult of activity was beginning on the waterways, gilded bissone belonging to Stregazzan supporters vying for position with ships of the Serenissiman navy.

"They are coming this way, Phèdre," Kazan reported to me in whispered Illyrian, poking his head beneath the awning. "I think that they are blockading the main canals, to secure them for your Queen's entrance. We may yet leave safely, but returning is another matter. Are you sure you want to go?"

I shivered, not at all sure; if there was a chance, any chance, of reaching Ysandre upon her entrance, I would be a fool to let it pass. Storming her ship, leaping onto it from a bridge, firing an arrow with a message tied around the shaft...

"Do we stand any chance of reaching the Queen from here?" I asked him.

Kazan hesitated, then shook his head. "With seven men? No. We would die."

"Then we go," I replied grimly.

Concealed within my awning, I saw little of our journey. Kazan's men maneuvered the battered gondola with swift efficiency, although I confess our route meandered considerably through the labyrinth of canals and it took some doing to find the Yeshuite quarter. It lay in the impoverished eastward sector of the city, where the buildings were all of simple wooden construction and the muddy streets unpaved. Unfortunate for the Yeshuites, though lucky for us; once we had left the Great Canal and the larger waterways behind, we saw few guardsmen.

It was good that we had left at dawn. By the time we located the Yeshuite quarter, the sun was well above the horizon.

The Yeshuites had done what they might to make their dwelling place a more pleasant one. The houses were sturdily constructed and planked walks had been laid over the mire; the water of the narrow canals themselves was cleaner and lacked the reek of ordure one found elsewhere. Here and there, pots of flowers decorated the wooden balconies. Few people were about in the early morning, but I heard the sound of a resonant voice raised in song coming from somewhere within the quarter.

"That will be the temple," I said to Kazan. "Is it safe to disembark?"

"Safe enough," he said dubiously. "Better if you stay, and I go."

"Can you speak Habiru?" I asked him; he rolled his eyes. "It has to be me, Kazan. If I'm right, if they've sheltered him this long, they wouldn't trust anyone else.”

After a few minutes' quarrel, we settled on a compromise. I would go, taking Kazan and three others as my escort; the others would remain with the gondola. We traversed the quarter quickly, the Illyrians watching out on all sides, but no Serenissimans were in sight, not here.

The temple was a modest affair, low-built, of wooden construction with a solid stone foundation. I heard the voice of the chantor grow louder as we approached, rising and falling in ritual song; the Sa'akharit, I thought, recalling somewhat of the Rebbe's teaching. It was regrettable that we had arrived during the morning prayer, but there was nothing for it. I had no time to lose.

There was a khai symbol engraved on the wooden door. I pushed it open and entered, flanked by four Illyrian pirates.

We came into an antechamber that opened onto the temple proper, where scores of worshippers were seated. The chantor broke off his song and stared, and their Rebbe stood open-mouthed at his lectern. Everyone in the temple, men and women alike, wore bright yellow hats such as the Yeshuite man I'd seen in the Campo Grande so long ago had worn. One by one, the seated worshippers turned around to look.

All of them looked terrified, and Joscelm was not among their number.

"Barukh hatah Yeshua a'Mashiach, father," I said politely in Habiru; it was hard to get my tongue around the harsh syllables after so long. "For... forgive me for disturbing your prayers, but it is a matter of great urgency. I seek the D'Angeline, Joscelin Verreuil."

The congregation looked to the Rebbe; his eyes shifted and he licked his lips, two of the telltales of a man preparing to lie. "I do not know who you mean, child."

"No? Then I shall say it thusly, father," I said, and echoed the words the Yeshuite had spoken in the Campo Grande, after Joscelin had come to his rescue. "I seek the one whose blades shine like a star in his hands."

A voice-a young, male voice-uttered a sound somewhere within the congregation, and I saw a woman put her hand hard on her son's shoulder, forcing him to sit when he would have stood. Kazan shifted, looking to me for direction. The Rebbe stood silent. There was an aisle along the side of the temple. I walked slowly down it, drawing back the hood of my cloak, until I stood before the raised dais.

"Look well at me, father," I said softly, turning my face up for his regard. "I am Phèdre nó Delaunay, and Joscelin Verreuil is my oath-sworn companion. With those words and this visage I show to you, I have put my life into your hands."

The Rebbe licked his lips again, and glanced past me toward the Illyrians. He was not old for the position, no more than forty. Behind him, the flickering light of the Ur Tamid, the light that is never extinguished, cast shadows over the sacred ark of scrolls. "I... hear your words, child. But this person you seek ... is not here."

"You can get word to him." I kept my voice steady. "I beseech you, by all you hold sacred, to do so. Tell him I have come. Tell him you have seen a D'Angeline woman, who bears in her left eye a fleck of crimson. The men I am with are friends; I trust them with my life. Tell him I swear it, by Cassiel's Dagger. Until the sun stands high overhead, I will wait for him, at the Inn of Seven Strangers."

No more could I say. Putting up my hood, I turned and made my way back. In the shadowy antechamber, Kazan grinned, teeth gleaming white against the darkness save for the gap where one was missing. "We wait?" he asked; he may not have understood my words, but he read the Rebbe's face well enough and he knew my plan.

"We wait," I said.

The Inn of Seven Strangers had the advantage of being highly disreputable, and an establishment given a wide berth by the Serenissiman Guard unless absolutely necessary. It was a tavern and flophouse recommended with considerable enthusiasm by one of Pjètri Kolcei's sailors, who had sojourned as a mercenary before joining the Ban's service.

Even in the morning hours, it was thronging with out-of-work seafarers from a half-dozen nations; Caerdicci, Ephesians, Akkadians and Umaiyyati, even a few Skaldi, which always gave me an involuntary shiver. No other Illyrians, which I was glad to see. There is privacy in a tongue unshared. Two men stayed with the gondola, and Kazan and Tormos forged a path to the rear of the common room, bulling their way by main force while the others took care to keep me surrounded.

I kept my head down and hooded; there were a few good-natured curses but, for the most part, the other patrons of the inn took no notice, supposing I was a harbor-front whore hired to be shared among Kazan and his men. For once, I was glad of such a mistake.

Kazan secured a table in the farthest, darkest corner of the inn by shifting a sleeping drunkard, who took little notice. We disposed ourselves about the table, and Ushak went to purchase a jug of wine, carefully counting over the Serenissiman coins Kazan gave to him to be sure of the currency's value.

"That's foul stuff!" Tormos proclaimed, drawing in his breath with a sharp hiss as he tasted it. "We make better on Dobrek. I thought it would be all ichor, here in Serenissima."

"That's because you're an idiot," his brother Stajeo said promptly. "My lady Phèdre... I will drink bad wine and play dice all day, if you like, but why are we here? I thought we came to kill Serenissimans and save your Queen! What can this ... D'Angeline ..." he pronounced the word with a contempt that I was now spared, "... do that we cannot?"