Kushiel's Chosen

"If they don't want to pay the taxes," Marco said reasonably, "they needn't come to market on festival days."



"And lose a third of their trade?" Ricciardo tugged at his curling locks with one exasperated hand. "As well tell them to throw half their goods in the river! I gave them my word, Marco."



"Take it up with the Consiglio Maggiore," Marco said wearily. " 'Tis their legislation, and they passed it."



"At whose behest?" Ricciardo asked dangerously.



"Not mine." Marco shrugged, and spread his hands. "Ask, if you don't believe me, brother. You courted Sestieri Scholae, not I. If they're like to lynch you for making promises you can't keep, I cannot help it. The problem is yours."



It is never a comfortable thing to find oneself in the midst of a family squabble, and all the less so when political intrigue is involved. Murmuring something innocuous, I withdrew to gaze out over the lagoon, while Ricciardo Stregazza struggled to get his temper in check.



"We'll speak of this later," he said shortly, and then, to me; "My lady Phèdre, you swim in dangerous waters when you dally with the Stregazza, but I pray you, remember my invitation kindly. My lady wife-" he cast a venomous glance at Marie-Celeste, "-would be pleased to speak with one such as yourself."



With that, he made his exit, and Marco Stregazza sighed, passing his hands over his face. "Forgive the intrusion, Contessa," he apologized. "My brother... is rather intemperate. So it has been since our father declared him a disgrace to the family. He courts the Scholae out of desperation, and makes rash promises to these rough tradesmen, then needs must fear their anger when he cannot deliver." He shook his head ruefully. " 'Tis an ill match if ever there was one, but Ricciardo is determined to contest for our father's seat. I would do what I could to protect him, if I did not fear he'd repay me with treachery."



Marie-Celeste fanned herself and sipped her wine, making a face. "It's gone warm," she complained. "Marco, send them for a fresh-cooled jug." When he had left to summon a servant, she leaned in confidentially. "Ricciardo has the D'Angeline sickness, I'm afraid. It didn't sit well with his father when the scandal broke."



"The D'Angeline sickness?" I repeated, feeling foolishly ignorant.



"You know." She raised her brows. "He likes boys."



"Ah." One undercurrent of their bitter exchange suddenly came clear to me. I turned my empty wine-cup in my hands, looking across the busy lagoon. "You name this a sickness, in La Serenissima."



"Yes, well, I told you, they are all provincial here." Lowering her voice, she added, "I do not say this to Marco, for when all is said and done, he loves his brother, but if I were to seek out someone with ties to a D'Angeline traitor, I would start at Ricciardo's doorstep. His ... proclivities ... have led him to stranger places, and he has no love for the Little Court, whereas we still hope to make peace." Marie-Celeste patted my arm in a motherly fashion as Marco returned, exclaiming in a different tone. "Come inside and sit, my dear! I must know who made your gown. Are such plain lines the fashion this season?"



Still pondering her comments, I thought of Favrielle nó Eglantine and wondered what she would make of Marie-Celeste Stregazza's attire, which, from what I had seen, was the height of Serenissiman style-a long, sleeveless overdress gaudily adorned with appliques and cut-outs, bound beneath the breasts with gold net and worn over a fine silk tunic with tight-fitting sleeves. The whole ensemble, dreadful to my eyes, was topped with a gauze turban and finished at the bottom with a pair of wooden-soled sandals-pattens, they are called-a full four inches in height.



"Not exactly, my lady," I said diplomatically. "My seamstress is very particular."



"Well." Marie-Celeste de la Courcel Stregazza smiled, "You must tell me everything."



THIRTY-THREE



It was late afternoon when Severio returned to usher me out of the Doge's Palace, and the Square was awash in golden sunlight. I left Marie-Celeste with sufficient advice to ensure that her knowledge of current D'Angeline fashion was competitive with the Little Court-not that I saw her inclined to take it-and Marco with a final promise that I would consider his proposal.



The Immortali were waiting, and Ti-Philippe and Joscelin with them. I would have preferred a chance to speak privately with my retainers, but it was not to be, not yet.



"My lady Phèdre," Severio said gallantly, extending his arm. "Shall we promenade about the Square? It is a most pleasant afternoon for strolling."



"Of course." Hiding my impatience, I smiled at him and took his arm, ignoring Joscelin's look of silent disapproval. At least, I thought, his Cassiline arms had been restored to him; that should please him. Ti-Philippe, by contrast, was in good spirits, trading jests with the Immortali.



I daresay I might have enjoyed it, if not for the pall Jos-celin cast. Like a pair of young noble-born lovers, Severio and I strolled about the Square, observing the goods for sale and the colorful throng of buyers and sellers. The Square itself was inlaid with paving stones of white marble etched with guild-markings for the various Scholae, delineating the allotted market stalls for each guild.



It was strange and exotic to me, seeing such vigorous commerce take place cheek-by-jowl beside the Doge's Palace and the Temple of Asherat. In Terre d'Ange we are more reserved, separating our royal seats and sacred places from the common milieu. But it was true, what Marco Stregazza had said; trade was the lifeblood of the Republic, and I supposed it was meet that its beating heart lay at the center of La Serenissima.



Hosiers, clothiers, glovers-a separate guild for each, and that was merely a beginning. There were stalls for shoemakers, coopers and carpenters, jewelers and soap-boilers, farmers and spice merchants, fishermen and butchers, barbers, smiths and saddlers. Commonfolk in rough fustian and shawled women bartered alongside silk- and velvet-clad nobles. Here and there, we saw other strolling lovers, though I noted that the young women who appeared unwed covered their hair in modest silk head-scarves and were attended by stern-looking dowagers.



Well and so, I thought, I will have to be wary of how I am perceived.



It came to a crux faster than I guessed, when we paused before a merchant from Jebe-Barkal, who was displaying birds of astonishingly bright plumage in wicker cages. I had seen a few women carrying them, and guessed they were a popular novelty as a lover's token; for that, I would not have lingered, but that the Jebean merchant intrigued me. His skin was a brown so dark it made the whites of his eyes vivid, and his teeth when he grinned. This he did readily, when I tried, laughing, to converse with him-his Caerdicci was so broadly accented that I had trouble comprehending it, and mine is the formal scholar's tongue and not the soft Serenissiman argot he was used to. Still, we made ourselves understood, and I gathered that the birds had come from his homeland.



How vast is the world, I was thinking, and how little of it I have truly seen, when Severio's voice cut through my reverie, his hand closing urgently on my wrist.



"Phèdre." His tone was low, and I glanced up to meet his hot gaze. "Phèdre, I will buy you a parrot, I'll buy you a horse, an Umaiyyat camel caravan if that's what you want. A gilded bissone, a house on the Great Canal, a country villa! Name your price, and I will meet it; set your terms, and we will draft the contract. Only promise me I may see you again."



For once, I could have used my overprotective Cassiline's attention; Joscelin's glower has a quelling effect on patrons' ardor. As luck would have it, he was engaged with dissuading Ti-Philippe from poking his finger through the wicker bars of one of the cages. I was on my own.



"My lord," I said gently, "you flatter me. But I do not think it wise that I pursue Naamah's Service here. You yourself said to me, when first we met, 'In La Serenissima, we keep our courtesans in their proper place, where they belong.' "



"I did, didn't I?" Dropping my wrist, Severio flushed a dull red. "Gracious Lady of the Sea, I was a prig," he muttered. "But you see, don't you, what it's like to live here, to be caught in the middle of this neverending intrigue? And how out of my depth I felt in the City of Elua. Phèdre." He looked earnestly at me now. "I have never known such pleasure with a woman, but I swear to you, it's not only that. My very nature is changed because of you, and I have made peace with a side of myself I did naught but revile. Pleasure I can find elsewhere, if I must; there are always women who will do anything for coin. Only you do it because it is your glory."



"In Terre d'Ange, it is," I whispered; I hadn't expected him to make such a compelling argument. "My lord, in La Serenissima, it would be my shame."



"Was it Naamah's shame when she bedded the King of Persis?" he asked cunningly. I had forgotten, too, that he was one-quarter D'Angeline and knew the tales of that legacy. "Was it her shame when she lay down in the stews of Bhodistan that Elua might survive?"



"No," I murmured. "But Severio, I am not Naamah, only her Servant. I need to think."



"No? Think on this, then." Taking me in his arms, he drew me against him; I could feel the heat of his body and his rigid phallus straining against his velvet hose, pressed against my belly. My knees grew weak. "If you will not have me for a patron," he said softly, his breath brushing my hair, "accept me for a suitor. There are ways to accomplish anything. With your guile, your beauty and your title, and my father's money and position, we could rule La Serenissima together one day, you and I."



I have never aspired to power beyond a role as the foremost courtesan in the City of Elua; I do not think, if Joscelin and I had not been estranged, that I would have considered Severio Stregazza's offer for an instant. On D'Angeline soil, I could have handled it with grace. But 'tis a dangerous thing to be courted in a strange city, and I was isolated and lonely on this wild-goose chase even my closest companions thought a folly. Yes, for a few scant seconds, I entertained the notion of conjoining my life to his.



And spending a lifetime playing supplicant to his Tiberian magistrate.



No, I thought; if Kushiel has marked me, surely it is for some greater purpose than this.



"My lord," I said lightly, extricating myself from his grasp with a subtle, flirtatious twist that every adept of the Night Court practices to flawless perfection, "you will fair dazzle me with speed! As to Naamah's Service, I have given my answer. For the other..." I touched his cheek with my fingertips and smiled, "... if you would court me, why then, 'tis romance, and a different game altogether! You will not win the hand of the Comtesse de Montrève by the same means that you gain the services of Phèdre nó Delaunay. I have heard that Serenissiman men are among the most romantic in the world. I would hope that means somewhat more than grappling in the marketplace."



Severio groaned aloud, accompanied by the sound of bells. It took a full moment to realize that the two were unrelated.



I had not seen, until then, that the priestesses of Asherat were offering a daily libation of wine unto the waters of the lagoon beneath the vast statue of the goddess at the end of the Square. Now I saw them making their way back, six of them forming two neat lines, flanked at each corner by a beardless male figure carrying a barbed silver spear and ringing a bell. Later I learned that these were eunuchs, who had voluntarily unmanned themselves to serve the goddess.



The priestesses themselves wore robes of blue silk, overlaid with silver net. Unlike the rest of the women I'd seen in La Serenissma, they did not wear tall wooden pattens on their feet, but went unshod, bare ankles encircled by silver chains from which tiny bells jingled, bare feet treading the marble pavement. Also unlike other women, the priestesses wore their hair loose and flowing; but over their faces, they wore veils.



And such veils! Gauze silk, I have seen aplenty; I have worn it in my guise as Mara, and I have worn it too in the Service of Naamah, where the Pasha and the Hareem Girl is a common fantasy for male patrons. These veils were not gauze, but the finest silver mesh, glittering in the sun and strung with clear beads of glass that caught the light and flashed. It was, in all truth, a lovely conceit, and would it not have been blasphemous, I've no doubt that it would have been taken up as a fashion in Terre d'Ange long ago.



Such were the priestesses of Asherat-of-the-Sea, whom every good Serenissiman worshipped. In Terre d'Ange, we do not; yet she is an aspect of Mother Earth herself, in whose womb Blessed Elua was begotten, and thus we honor her customs. Following Severio's unthinking lead, I touched my fingers to brow and heart, then bowed my head as the priestesses' entourage passed. From the corner of my eye, I could see that Joscelin and Ti-Philippe had followed suit; indeed, so had everyone within my vision, even the Jebean merchant.



My field of vision did not include the Yeshuite. Unfortunately, one of the Immortali's did.



"Heya!" His voice rose in a shout before the crowd had scarce closed behind Asherat's procession. "What are you staring at? Turn your eyes away, damn you!"



I glanced up to see several of the Immortali surrounding an innocuous-looking man in commoner's garb, a yellow cap atop his dark hair. "I meant no offense," he said, a touch of uneasy defiance in his voice. "I do not worship Asherat-of-the-Sea. By our commandments, it is unlawful for me to lower my gaze before false idols and prophets."



Until then, I hadn't known him for a Yeshuite; then, I did. I didn't know yet that Serenissiman law required all followers of Yeshua to identify themselves with yellow caps, but I knew the accent-and I knew their sacred precepts. The Rebbe had made sure of that; I could quote Moishe's Tablets verbatim.