Kushiel's Chosen

"Come." Barquiel L'Envers' voice, light and mocking, slid between us like a blade. "Trouble among the Companions' chosen twosome? Say it is not so!"



With an effort, I erased my thoughts from my face to smile pleasantly; Joscelin, forgetting himself, gave a smooth Cassiline bow, hands settling watchfully over his dagger-hilts.



"Your grace," I murmured to the Duc, curtsying.



"If Ysandre doesn't stand on ceremony with you, I'll not." He smiled, showing his teeth. "And of a surety, Nicola is not minded to! She'd not be the first beholden to me I'd lost to your charms, would she, Delaunay's anguissette?"



In truth, she would not. There had been Childric d'Essoms, before, and a minor lordling named Rogier Clavel. Delaunay had used me to get to them, and them to get to the Duc L'Envers. Neither of us had forgotten. "I do not think the Lady Nicola is lost, my lord," I said carefully. "Say rather she thinks we are about the same business, you and I."



L'Envers rubbed at a scar on his chin, a souvenir of Khebbel-im-Akkad, if rumor spoke truth. "And you doubt it."



I raised my eyebrows at him. "Don't you, my lord?"



He laughed. "Ah, Phèdre! I begin to think Anafiel Delaunay named a worthier heir than any of us suspected. I thought Ysandre was mad, when she sent you to the wilds of Alba as her emissary. If I'd thought it was aught else than a fool's errand, I'd have done somewhat more to halt it. But you did it, didn't you? And yet." His thoughtful gaze measured me. "Could you truly have watched her slain?"



I didn't have to ask who he meant.



Melisande.



I didn't have to answer honestly, either, but I didn't trust myself with a lie. I returned his gaze squarely. "No. No, my lord, if you must know; I could not have watched it. Which is why I passed the night on the battlements of Troyes-le-Mont. If you do not believe it, question those men who stood guard that night, and learn it for yourself."



Barquiel L'Envers gave me a wry expression and ran a hand through his short, fair hair. "I've tried, actually; or my men have. They are singularly difficult to locate, the guardsmen of Troyes-le-Mont."



Joscelin started, and I glanced sharply at him. L'Envers didn't miss it, looking from one to the other of us.



"So you, too, have looked. Have you found them? Or," he asked, pleasant and dangerous, "or have you hid them, hmm?"



"Your grace." With an effortless motion, Joscelin stepped between us, and his hands rested lightly on his hilts. "I swear to you, on Cassiel's Dagger, that my lady Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève had naught to do with the disappearance of Melisande Shahrizai, nor any knowledge of the guardsmen of Troyes-le-Mont." His voice was even, and deadly. "If you would be her ally, then be so; if you would not, then do not impugn her."



He had a couple of inches on the Duc, and the training of a Cassiline warrior-priest, begun at the age of ten. But Barquiel L'Envers was a battle-seasoned D'Angeline war-leader whose prowess had won the admiration of the Khalif of Khebbel-im-Akkad; and there are no fiercer warriors on earth than the Akkadians, ever since Ahzimandias, the Spear of Shamash, led his people out of the deserts of the Umaiyyat to reclaim the rights of the long-fallen House of Ur.



"Don't swear on your daggers, Cassiline," he said calmly, "unless you mean to use them. And if you do, strike quickly, because I'll have your head if you don't. Well, we are at an impasse, it seems; perhaps allies, perhaps foes. Shall we bargain, then, Phèdre nó Delaunay? I know one place no one has looked for the guardsmen of Troyes-le-Mont. What do you offer?"



I touched Joscelin's arm lightly, and he stepped reluctantly back. "What does his grace the Duc de Somerville say of his guardsmen?" I asked thoughtfully. "You are friends, my lord. Have you not inquired?"



Barquiel eyed me. "Yes, of course; do you take me for an idiot? He had given their command unto Ghislain, who gave them leave to expiate their failure by pursuing the Skaldi. That much is clear. Their return, howsoever..."



"The Unforgiven." I bit my lower lip, unmindful of L'Envers" amused glance. "Whom Percy de Somerville does not trust, and where no one has inquired."



"Even so." He opened his hands. "What will you give me for it in trade?"



"Phèdre," Joscelin murmured.



Sometimes, one must play at hazards. "A speculation, my lord; do with it what you will. Persia Shahrizai paid her cousin a visit that night, but it was Melisande who left in her stead. This is the knowledge with which Lord Marmion confronted his sister. What she threatened him with in return ..." I shrugged. "I cannot say, except that I think he killed her for it."



His violet eyes narrowed. "Mayhap I will ask him."



"And mayhap I will join the Unforgiven," I said dryly. "Unless I think of a better way to question them."



"Your usual methods seem fairly effective." He gave me an amused glance. "I am given to understand you've made a bargain with Nicola as well, in exchange for this night's entertainment. I might even claim it myself, Phèdre nó Delaunay, as 'twas my purse funded it in the first place, if you'd not convinced me to be wary of you."



With that, he bowed and took his leave; I hastily closed my mouth on my astonishment, in time to find my arm caught tight in Joscelin's grasp.



"No," he said, his voice taut. "Not him. Phèdre, if you love me at all, promise me, not him!"



I thought of Melisande sending the cloak and laughed despairingly, my voice cracking on it. "And if he were the one? Oh, Joscelin!" I shook the tears from my eyes and caught the front of his doublet, a handful of velvet and the khai pendant bunched in my fist. "What will you give me for it in trade? If you love me at all, will you promise what I might ask?"



"Don't. Phèdre, don't ask." With infinitesimal gentleness, Joscelin pried my hand loose; turned, and walked away.



Watching him go, I whispered the words, knowing he wouldn't hear.



"I promise."



TWENTY-TWO



After Nicola's fête, I prevailed on Remy to serve as my carriage-driver and ventured out to pay another visit to the Royal Archives. As it transpired, Micheline de Parnasse was abed that day with an ague in the joints, and I spoke to her assistant instead, the Siovalese lordling.



"Bernard." Having learnt his name, I smiled at him. "Tell me, truly; are no others than the Queen and the Secretaries of the Privy Seal allowed admittance to the archives?"



Ducking his head, he blushed and mumbled. It took some doing, but eventually he confessed that at those times when the Royal Archivist's steely gaze was elsewhere, various peers of the realm had been known to badger her assistants for access. I made him give me names, and from what he could remember, it was a long list.



Barquiel L'Envers was on it; so was Gaspar Trevalion, and Percy de Somerville. He remembered them well enough. None, however, had been near the ledger recording members of the Cassiline Brotherhood attendant on House Courcel. Indeed, Bernard swore up and down that no one - no one! - had ever desecrated the archives on his watch.



"What did they want to see?" I asked him. "Do you remember?"



He nodded, swallowing hard; the apple in his throat bobbed with it. "Some one of them at least asked after the folios on the trial of Lyonette and Baudoin de Trevalion.”



Nothing for it then but that I must look through the folios, poring over transcribed records and supplementary materials. The letters were there-all there, insofar as I could tell. Letters written by Foclaidha of Alba to Lyonette de Trevalion, the Lioness of Azzalle, plotting the invasion that would have put Baudoin on the throne.



Baudoin, infatuated, had showed them to Melisande; even worse, in extravagant, idiotic proof of his love, had given several of them to her. And Melisande used them to destroy him, and any claim to the throne House Trevalion may have held.



She gave him a farewell gift, though.



Me.



Well, and so; it was the past, and should have been over and done, if not for the endless intrusions of old quarrels, old betrayals, into the present. Whatever was there, if it could incriminate one of those three, it was gone now, the allegedly watchful eye of Bernard of Siovale notwithstanding. Some one of them, he said; mayhap others. More than one person had asked to see these folios. I had a good guess about Gaspar's apprehensions; about the Duc L'Envers and the Royal Commander, I could only wonder. And, of course, there were eight or nine others Bernard had named whom I hadn't even begun to suspect.



"Thank you," I said to him, making ready to leave. One last thought struck me. "Bernard, my lady de Parnasse said the Queen visits the Archives, sometimes. Does she bring her Cassiline attendants, when she does?"



"Of course!" His eyes widened. "Not that she'd come to harm, here, mind, but... she is the Queen. It is their sworn duty to protect and serve the scions of Elua."



"Have any ever come alone?" I asked.



Bernard shrugged. "Oh, once or twice, mayhap, the Queen has sent one of her Cassilines on an errand. One must make allowances for royalty, my lady; even the Archivist herself would not turn away the Queen's Cassilines!"



Alas, his description of the Cassiline Brothers he had seen in the archives was predictably vague; of middle years, dour, grey-clad. In short, it fit nearly every Cassiline I'd ever seen, save for Joscelin. "So you do not keep watch over them," I said, discouraged.



"No." He blinked at me, puzzled. "Why would we watch over Cassiline Brethren? They're ... Cassiline! They, they ... you know. Protect and serve."



"Yes," I sighed. "I know."



Since there was no more to be learned in the Royal Archives, I collected Remy from the wineshop where he was awaiting me and returned home in a pensive mood.



"You're back," Joscelin said flatly. "I was worried."



"If you're so damnably worried," Remy said, eyeing Joscelin, "you should have gone yourself, and left off your hang-dog sulking, Cassiline."



Joscelin smiled tightly. "Should I not worry, then, that Phèdre nó Delaunay entrusts her safety to dice-playing sailors without the sense to remain sober when warding her?"



Remy swore once, and swore again, with a sailor's eloquence, and threw a punch at him. Joscelin shifted his balance, turning at the waist, and Remy's fist struck the wall of the entryway. Cursing and shaking his bruised knuckles, Remy drove his left elbow backward into Joscelin's ribs, forcing him back a step. Catching himself against the wall, Remy turned to face him, spitting out an epithet. "Sour-faced, vinegar-sucking cleric!" He threw another angry blow. With the ease of long training, Joscelin slid out of its way, caught Remy's arm between crossed wrists, grating the small bones together, and with an effortless twist brought him to the floor, not disdaining to thrust a knee hard in his midriff on the way down. I stared open-mouthed, scarce able to credit the outbreak of violence within my own walls. When I gathered my wits, I shouted.



"Joscelin!"



He froze, and stepped back, raising his hands in surrender. Remy, swearing furiously, straggled to his feet, shaking his head like the dancer in the Aragonian bull-masque, ready to attack again.



"Enough!" I was angry, truly angry. "Remy, I granted you the title of chevalier at your Lord Admiral's request; if you wish to hold it, act the part. Joscelin ..." Glaring at him, I rapped the daggers at his belt, then flicked the khaì pendant on his chest with my finger. "Live by one or the other, if you must, but don't break faith with both."



He drew himself up at that, but I stood my ground.



"This is my household," I said softly. "And I will not countenance violence within it, least of all from you. If you do not like it, you may leave."



Joscelin muttered something-I could not hear it-and stalked off. And even as I watched, Remy gathered himself to follow.



"Don't." I made my voice flat and emotionless. "Have I ever given you an order? I order it now: Let him be, Remy."



He stared at me and shook his head, his auburn queue moving fiercely. "You're mad, my lady. I know you care for him, I do. But he'll break your heart, that one, grind it to bits against his cursed Cassiline pride."



"Mayhap," I murmured. "And mayhap his pride will break first. It is between Cassiel and Naamah, who make our mortal flesh their battleground. Either way, let be."



Remy paused, then bowed stiffly to me. "My lady."



I would have spoken to Joscelin afterward, and told him aloud what I had whispered unheard, in the matter of Barquiel L'Envers' interest, had somewhat else not arisen. We learned of it in the morning, from the lips of a runner sent by Nicola L'Envers y Aragon, racing so quickly with the news that he needs must double over on my doorstep, breathing hard.



"Comtesse," he gasped, trying to straighten. "My lady bids me ... my lady bids me tell you Marmion Shahrizai is charged with murder!"



I ordered water brought him, and by the time he had the story out, Fortun had quietly made ready the carriage. It seemed that Barquiel L'Envers had wasted no time in pursuing his investigation. Where House Shahrizai quarrelled among itself and feared to risk Ysandre's displeasure while Marmion stood in her favor, the Duc L'Envers had no such fears. Putting all his considerable resources to the task, he sent his men-at-arms on swift Akkadian horses to ruthlessly question Shahrizai retainers and survivors of the fire, and gathered enough evidence to confront Marmion, within a scant fortnight of our conversation. When he played his trump card-my guess at Persia's role in Melisande's escape-Marmion turned pale as death, and Barquiel L'Envers ordered him taken into custody.