Fortun cleared his throat. "Would I be right in assuming that no promises are to be made, as you are highly selective in the assignations you choose, but no one is to be discouraged, as your tastes are notoriously eclectic?"

"Yes." I smiled. "You would at that."

"Have you chosen already, my lady?" he asked curiously. "Who will be the first?"

"No." I brushed my fingers along the edge of the window-curtain. "My lord Delaunay cast out his bait, and fished accordingly. I will do the same. I don't know, in truth, who will bite."

"What if it's Marmion Shahrizai?"

"If it's Marmion," I said, "we will see." I ran the curtain through my fingers. Melisande had known me almost eight years before she had contracted me, excepting for Prince Baudoin de Trevalion's pleasure. It nearly drove me mad. I doubted her younger cousin could play her waiting game with the same devastating patience, but it would be interesting to see.

We rode for a time in silence. "It should be Joscelin here with you," Fortun said presently, his voice low. "He's right, I'm not trained to serve as a bodyguard. And he's the only one of us permitted to wear arms in the Queen's presence."

I leaned my head back against the cushion of the carriage-seat. "Joscelin is doing what he needs must do," I said, "as am I. Go where you are invited, listen and learn what you may. Don't grieve me on that score, Fortun."

"I'm sorry, my lady. Only..." He leaned forward, his gaze intent behind the eyeholes of his mask as he looked at me. "Begging your pardon, but anyone who does not choose to be at your side this night of all nights is a fool."

I smiled. "Thank you, chevalier. That is exactly what I needed to hear."

twelve

We entered the ballroom as the bells were striking nine.

"The Comtesse de Montrève!" shouted the crier, his voice half-lost in the din of music and conversation.

Nonetheless, it caused a stir.

It took some time, for eyes to see and rumors to spread. Favrielle had spoken truly, the costuming for the Midwinter Masque that year was ornate. Women, flounced and layered in swathes of fabric turned slowly, moving like galleons beneath the weight of their attire; the men were scarce less laden. Masked faces turned in my direction.

I felt it, the brunt of a hundred stares, as a path opened across the marble floor. In Cereus House, we were taught to move like a swaying willow, limbs disposed to grace, heads high with pride. I drew on all the strength of my training to make that passage, gazing at the crowd from behind my veil, feeling half-naked in my scarlet gown, ribbons trailing from my wrists. At my side, Fortun was a model of austere decorum.

And behind me, in the wake of the sight of my bared marque, the murmurs rose.

Truly, the Palace ballroom was a splendor that night. It is a vast, open space, pierced by a double row of slender columns. Wrapping around three walls is Le Cavaillon's gorgeous fresco of Elua and his Companions at banquet, and overhead, the ceiling is painted a midnight blue with gilded stars. In the very center of the hall stood a tree cunningly wrought of bronze, and from its branches hung a dozen fruits on silken threads; apples, pears, dates, figs and persimmons, plums and nectarines and others whose names I knew not.

At the far end, beneath the wall on which Elua, Cassiel and Naamah disported themselves, stood a small mountain crag and in it a grotto in which musicians struck a tableau as Hellene muses and played sweet tunes. Here and there stood false columns, hollow to the core, holding in niches clear glass lamps that gave a mellow light. Elsewhere, from the ceiling, hung chandeliers of glass lamps floating in colored waters, giving the illusion of fairy lights. Braziers burned sweet incense, and garlands of evergreen added its clean, resinous odor.

"Phèdre!" Ysandre de la Courcel, Queen of Terre d'Ange, cleaved a path through the revelers, her two grey-adorned Cassiline guards incongruously in tow. As was fitting, she was clad as the Snow Queen, in layers of frothing white gauze aglitter with diamonds. She wore the swan mask of House Courcel, an elaborate hood curving over her head, violet eyes behind the white-feathered mask. "I might not have known you with your veil, but with that marque, my dear! You did give warning. May I ask the nature of your costume?"

"Mara," I said, lifting one arm so the scarlet ribbons trailed from my wrist. "Naamah's daughter, gotten by a murderer, and Kushiel's handmaiden."

"Very apt." Ysandre's eyes looked amused behind her mask. "Well, near-cousin, I have greeted you properly and given sanction to your purpose here; let it not be said that I failed to give Naamah's Service its proper regard." With the effortlessness of one born and raised to command, she turned to find a servant exactly where she expected him, offering a salver with small glasses of cordial. "Joie," Ysandre said, raising a glass in toast. "May the Longest Night pass swiftly and the light return."

"Joie." I took a glass and raised it in turn, drinking. The servant lingered as Ysandre moved on, proffering the tray to Forrun. He accepted a glass and drank, gasping at its clear, fiery taste. "To the Longest Night, chevalier!" I laughed, feeling the blood in my veins tingle with excitement. "Do you dance, Fortun? I never asked."

"Try me and see." Taking both our glasses, he set them on a passing servant's tray and bowed, escorting me to the dancing floor.

He did dance, and passably well; I am trained to follow anyone's lead. We looked well together, with the scarlet fabric of my gown swirling against the sober black velvet of his doublet and hose. I saw heads turn as we passed, puzzled whispers at my half-veiled face giving way to dawning recognition at the sight of my marque. I could feel it, almost, the intricate pattern etched the length of my spine, burning as if the ink were fresh-pierced into my skin by the marquist's tapper.

As our dance ended, I espied a figure clad as the Eremite of Seagrove making his way toward me, unrecognizable in flowing blue-green robes with a half-mask of the Eremite's features and a false beard of white curls that spilled down his chest. "Phèdre nó Delaunay," he said, and his tone, though formal, was warm with affection. "Your costume leaves you at a disadvantage to conceal your identity."

I smiled. "As your voice does you, my lord de Forcay."

Gaspar Trevalion, the Comte de Forcay, chuckled and embraced me. "Elua, child, but it's good to see you well! How does your peerage sit with you?"

"It would have sat better on Delaunay, my lord, but I do my best," I said honestly. Disowned by his father, Anafiel Delaunay de Montrève never held the title to which he was born; it was ironic that it had passed to me. And while I could not eliminate him from those I must suspect, I never doubted that Gaspar Trevalion's friendship with my lord Delaunay was genuine-nor, indeed, his affection for me. "Tell me, how have you been keeping?"

As we spoke, a tall woman costumed as an elegant shepherdess-with flounces enough to terrify any flock, I daresay-invited Fortun to squire her in a dance with a subtle beckon of her gilded crook. He glanced inquiringly at me, and I nodded.

"Your Cassiline is not with you," Gaspar observed.

"He is maintaining Elua's vigil on the Longest Night."

"A pity. Ghislain will be sorry to miss him. He has a great respect for that young man." He smiled. "As do I, although I'll admit, I thought Delaunay was mad when he told me he'd contracted one of the Cassiline Brotherhood to ward a Servant of Naamah."

"So did I," I said absently, scanning the costumed crowd. "My lord de Somerville is here? No, wait, don't tell me." I spotted a tall, broad-shouldered figure in an osprey mask, a smaller mate in similar garb at his side, speaking to someone I didn't recognize at all. "There, beneath the fresco of Azza; that must be Bernadette with him."

"Indeed." Gaspar Trevalion sounded surprised. "I didn't know you'd met her."

"I haven't. I saw her at the trial." It was something of a delicate subject; Bernadette de Trevalion had been exiled for treason, though she'd had no part in her mother's machinations. It was Ysandre who had restored her, mending the breach through marriage to Ghislain de Somerville, the Royal Commander's capable son. Lent discretion by my veil, I stared, trying to place their companion by virtue of shape, stance or demeanor, but he evaded recognition. Even his costume, an elaborately striped affair with puffed sleeves, parti-color hose and a long-nosed mask, defied placement. "Gaspar, who is that with them?”

"Ah." He smiled. "That, my dear, is Severio Stregazza, eldest-born son of Marie-Celeste de la Courcel Stregazza, grandson of the Doge of La Serenissima. Would you like to meet him?"

"Yes." I took his arm, resting my fingertips on his sleeve. "Very much, my lord."

Gaspar Trevalion was as good as his word, escorting me over forthwith. After exchanging fond greetings with Ghislain and making the formal acquaintance of his wife-I did not tell Bernadette that I had seen her sentenced to exile- I was introduced to the young Serenissiman lord.

"Charmed, Comtesse." Severio Stregazza's surly tone, in faintly accented D'Angeline, said otherwise. He tugged at the stiff ruff of lace at his neck. At close range, he had a sheen of sweat on his features, and he looked uncomfortable in his costume. Severio had been born and raised in La Serenissima. No more than a year or two older than me at best, he was clearly ill at ease in his surroundings and awkward at the evidence of his mixed blood at a D'Angeline fête. His hot, irritable gaze took my measure. "You're very beautiful," he said abruptly. "I suppose we're related somehow?"

"No, Prince Severio," I said, shaking my head. "My lord Anafiel Delaunay de Montrève of Siovale adopted me formally into his household, and it is his title that I inherited. We are no kin, you and I."

"That's a relief." He tugged harder at his collar, scowling. "Damn nigh every noble I've met claims kinship to the throne one way or another. I can't keep it all straight in my head."

"It is not easy, cousin," Bernadette commiserated kindly. "I grow confused myself, trying to sort out the tangled threads of Blessed Elua's descendants."

Severio Stregazza gave her an ungracious glance. I could not blame him for his anger and discomfort, in truth; in this, of all gatherings, his coarse curls and the ruder cast of his features showed clearly the dilution of Elua's lineage, brought to La Serenissima in the person of Benedicte de la Courcel, great-uncle to Ysandre. "Your inheritance seems clear enough, cousin."

"Looks can be deceiving." Ghislain slid his arm protectively about her. Although he remained calm, one could tell he was heated; a scent of apples hung in the air, hallmark of House Somerville, scions of Anael's lineage. "My wife has known betrayal and exile, Prince Severio, and the sovereignty of our duchy hangs on our offspring. I daresay you cannot claim the same."

"Blood tells, though, here." Severio shrugged. "Scions of Elua and his Companions!" He made a mockery of the words. "It means nothing, in La Serenissima. You can't know what it's like."

"Perhaps you will tell us, my lord," I offered.

"And will you pretend interest, for a price?" Harsh-voiced, Severio caught my wrist and gripped it hard, leering. "I have heard, Comtesse, whom you have sworn to serve! In La Serenissima, we keep our courtesans in their proper place, where they belong."

His grip pained me, and in the roughness of his hands, I felt his anger and frustration commingled, his need to strike out at all things D'Angeline and their attitude of implicit superiority toward all that was not. My blood beat quicker, responding to his anger, and I held his gaze steadily through the haze of my veil. "I serve Naamah, my lord, it is true. And for a price, I will pretend absolutely nothing."

There was a little silence around us; Gaspar, Ghislain and Bernadette, I daresay, did not know what transpired. But I knew, and the young Stregazza. If I have one pride in my calling, it is that I have never judged a patron wrongly- and I have never failed to recognize a patron upon meeting, Severio Stregazza was one of mine. After a moment, he released my wrist with a disgusted sound.

"I need a glass of cordial," he said, dismissing himself rudely.

Gaspar Trevalion stared after him. "What a strange young man," he observed. "Phèdre, what on earth is your interest in him?”

I could not explain to him the compulsions of an anguissette, and of a surety, I dared not discuss my suspicions concerning Melisande Shahrizai and the deadly coils of intrigue within the Stregazza family. Instead, I smiled. "I have a fancy," I said lightly, "to learn somewhat of La Serenissima. Surely he can tell me that much, at least."

"If you say so," Gaspar said slowly, eyeing me doubtfully.

What I would have said to allay his suspicions, I do not know; Gaspar Trevalion had been one of Delaunay's closest friends, and he was no fool. But happily, at that moment, a woman's hand touched my bare shoulder, and I turned in answer to see a drunken couple clad as Diana and Apollo, the twin moon-and-sun deities of the Hellenes.

"Tell me, Servant of Naamah," the woman said laughing, her silver mask askew on her lovely face, "Who does your costume represent? We have a bet, my brother and I."

I inclined my head to them, raising my arms so the scarlet ribbons trailed from my wrists. "Mara, my lady; Naamah's daughter, and Kushiel's handmaiden."

"I told you!" he said to her in drunken triumph.

The woman laughed again, brushing my veil with her fingertips. She was close enough that I could feel the heat of her body and smell joie sweet on her breath. "Then I shall have to pay the penalty for losing," she whispered. "We already agreed upon the settlement. When you receive my proposal, remember there is a debt of honor at stake."