There was a pause, and then the Temple eunuchs moved to obey her, several on each side mounting the curving stairs, ceremonial spears held tentatively before them.

"Now, Joscelin," I murmured over my shoulder, rising fluidly to my feet. With a grim smile, he emerged from the echo chamber, Ti-Philippe on the other side a mere step behind him. Each of them took a post at the top of the twin stairs; narrow, winding stairs defensible from above by a single armed man. The attendants halted at the first curve, untrained to combat and fearful.

Stepping into the balcony and laying my hands on the railing, I gazed down into the Temple. Let them see me now; it no longer mattered. In the milling crowd, the divisions nonetheless showed clearly. The captain of the Dogal Guard and a full three quarters of his men looked to Marco Stregazza for guidance, while the others, bewildered, gazed from their commander to Cesare Stregazza to the other Ser-enissiman nobles who began to slowly size up the situation, one by one aligning themselves with the Doge, Cesare.

Ysandre stood tall and erect, her face pale as her Cassiline Brothers formed a square around her, vambraces and daggers crossed to defend. The D'Angeline nobles fell in behind, men-at-arms fanning out to protect them.

The old, blind priestess Bianca raised two trembling hands to the effigy of Asherat, her lips moving in prayer; with a shudder, she turned her sightless face to the Priestess of the Crown and began backing away from her, and three others of the Elect followed.

And the D'Angeline guardsmen of the Little Court shifted as if on cue into a tight knot around Prince Benedicte and his lady wife.

Melisande.

She had turned and stood motionless, veiled features lifted toward the balcony, and I knew behind the crystalline shimmer that her eyes were fixed upon my face. I stared down at her, shuddering, my fingers clenched on the marble balustrade.

"Phèdre?" It was Ysandre's voice, at once sharp and perplexed. "What in Elua's blessed name are you doing here, and what are you talking about? I thought you had gone to Ephesium!"

"Your majesty," I said softly, not shifting my gaze. Even without the echo chamber, my voice carried at this height. "You allowed me to go in search of the traitoress Melisande Shahrizai. And I have found her," I said, lifting one arm and pointing directly at Melisande, standing proudly at Benedicte's side. "There."

Although I cannot be sure, I am nearly certain I saw Melisande's head bow fractionally toward me in a duelist's nod; I am certain that I saw her left hand move in a covert gesture, taken up by Marie-Celeste Stregazza and relayed to the Priestess of the Crown, who nodded in the direction of the antechamber. Easy to see, from above, for one trained to it; still, there was naught I could do. My lips shaped a warning shout, but already a nameless hand had slipped the bar of the great doors to the Temple of Asherat. "Rioters!" cried a high male alto from the antechamber, and acolytes and attendants began to fall back into the Temple proper as an onslaught of crudely armed workers and tradesmen poured through the wide-flung entrance doors.

That was when the fighting began.

I daresay 'twas not so great an influx as the conspirators expected. Now that the doors were opened, I heard the clash and roar of quarrel continuing in the Campo Grande and knew with a great surge of hope that Ricciardo had rallied the Scholae. Still, there was a determined core who penetrated the Temple, and 'twas enough to set violence erupting. Enemy or ally; who could say? I watched it all unfold from above, concentrating on Ysandre's Cassilines even as two sets of attackers stormed the balcony stairs below me.

The first, rioters with clubs and homemade weapons, Joscelin and Ti-Philippe turned back easily. The second was the Dogal Guard, and not so easy to disperse.

"Pirate!" Joscelin cried over his shoulder, dodging in narrow quarters and catching a sword-thrust on his crossed daggers. "Now!"

With a whoop of exultation, Kazan Atrabiades led his Illyrians forth from concealment and they pushed their way past Joscelin and Ti-Philippe, bucklers and short swords carving a path down the curving stairs. Blood was flowing, spattering marble and stone. I heard pushing and shouting, the groans of the wounded. One of the Illyrians went down. Cursing, Kazan waded through the fray, shoving one of the Serenissimans and forcing him over the railing of the stair.

And in the center of the Temple, a wedge of armed tradesmen drove steadily toward my Queen's retinue, Dogal Guardsmen loyal to Marco Stregazza falling back carefully before their onslaught. I marked the skill with which they fought and the well-worn swords they bore, and guessed that these were not bribed rioters, but mercenaries with orders to attack Ysandre's party.

The attempt was coming.

No one was watching, though it was happening in plain sight. Marco Stregazza was shouting, trying to make himself heard over the clamor, but my accusation had had its effect; support was beginning to ebb away from him and growing steadily around Cesare. "The Doge!" a voice bellowed, others taking up the cry. "Rally to the Doge!"

Four Cassiline Brothers, a pair fore and aft, moving with uncanny fluid grace, a space around each where steel wove deadly patterns around them.

I watched them fixedly and Joscelin joined me on the balcony, following my gaze while Kazan's men held the stairs. We both heard it the moment Marco cut his losses, gathering his breath and shouting loud enough to quell the fighting for an instant.

"Serenissimans, we are betrayed! I have been deceived! Benedicte de la Courcel has betrayed me!"

In the pause, the members of the Dogal Guard ceased fighting among themselves and exchanged uncertain stares, their sundered loyalties reunited by Marco's defection. It didn't take long. With grim resolution, the Serenissimans turned as one against the entourage of the Little Court and the surge of violence began anew.

To his credit, Benedicte de la Courcel was no coward. He had been a hero, once, and a valiant warrior-eldest hero of the Battle of Three Princes, where his nephew Rolande had lost his life. I do not think he reckoned to fight again in his twilight years, but he did, wresting his ceremonial sword from its jeweled scabbard and wielding it courageously in defense of his people ... and his wife.

Forgotten, the Illyrians lowered weapons on the stairs, catching their breath. Those rioters, the true sons of the Scholae with work-stained hands and bewildered faces, began to retreat or flee, sensing their cause abandoned.

Not so with the mercenaries, who continued to fight. I do not think they were skilled or numerous enough to have taken Ysandre's guard. They didn't have to be. It wasn't the point. They were enough to press the D'Angelines, engaging them-even the Cassilines, who had not yet drawn to kill. They wouldn't, in a Serenissiman temple, not without the Queen's order, unless her life was truly threatened. It was enough to maintain a cordon of safety around her.

Ysandre's face was taut with fear and anger; mostly anger. Across the Temple, I stared at her, at her Cassilines. One by one I stared at them all, my gaze returning again and again to one in particular, in the forward left position, as I remembered an afternoon in the Hall of Portraits, where there hung the image of Isabel L'Envers de la Courcel, my lord Delaunay's enemy, the mother Ysandre so resembled.

And there hung too a portrait of Edmée de Rocaille, Rolande's betrothed, the woman he would have wed if Isabel had not arranged an accident.

My mother was responsible for her death, you know.

I knew; oh, how I knew! That death had shaped my life in ways I could scarce encompass, forging Anafiel Delaunay, a Prince's beloved, into the man his enemies would name the Whoremaster of Spies; turning me, an anguissette raised to serve pleasure in the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers, into one of his most subtle weapons.

One death; so many repercussions.

I stared at Edmée de Rocaille's brother.

If I had not been watching him so hard, I might not have seen it, the beginning of that fateful turn in the clear space that surrounded him, graceful and flowing, tossing his right-hand dagger in the air and catching it by the blade to make ready for the throw.

"Joscelin!" I grabbed his arm with one hand, pointing with the other. "There!"

Joscelin had spoken truly; a Cassiline Brother planning to assassinate his sovereign would indeed be prepared to die.

David de Rocaille was performing the terminus.

SEVENTY-FIVE

David de Rocaille!" Given from the balcony, Joscelin's shout echoed from the vaulted dome as he hurtled into motion, wrenching out of my grip and whipping past Kazan's startled Illyrians on the stair. At the far end of the Temple, the grey-clad figure faltered ... and continued onward with the terminus, setting the blade of the left-hand dagger at his own throat while his right arm cocked for the throw.

Directly at Ysandre de la Courcel, the Queen of Terre d'Ange.

She hadn't even seen the danger, gazing instead at the balcony with the frown of an embattled monarch, wondering what new threat the outcry betokened.

At the sharp curve in the staircase, Joscelin leapt onto the railing, catching himself to balance above the fray, flipping the dagger in his right hand to hold it blade-first. David de Rocaille did pause then, and I think for an instant their eyes met across the crowded space. With a death's-head smile, the brother of Edmée de Rocaille looked at the Queen and made to cast his dagger.

And with a prayer that was half-curse, Joscelin threw first.

I do not think it is stretching the truth to say that Cassiel himself guided Joscelin's hand that day, for it was an impossible throw under impossible conditions. I cannot think how else he made it. End over end, the blade flashed over the heads of skirmishing guardsmen.

Ready to die or no, David de Rocaille reacted on instinct, blocking the strike with one vambraced arm. Joscelin's dagger clattered against it and fell harmlessly to the floor. Slow to react, those nearest turned, uncertain what had happened. Closing his eyes briefly, David de Rocaille bowed and sheathed his daggers, reaching over his shoulder to draw his sword.

With a wordless cry, Joscelin launched himself from the railing, scattering members of the Dogal Guard as he landed.

I daresay he would have been slain then and there had he stood still for it, but he took them by surprise and, by the time they responded, he was already halfway through the melee. I stood rigid with fear as he forced his way through them.

In the uncertainty, David de Rocaille attacked-but he had waited a heartbeat too long to seize his advantage. Shock and disbelief writ on their faces, Ysandre's other Cassilines closed ranks around her and faced their comrade.

One died quickly, too slow to raise his guard, thinking somehow, still, that it was all a terrible mistake until David de Rocaille opened his chest with an angled, two-handed blow. The second fought better and might have lived longer if he had drawn his sword instead of trusting to his daggers; he went down when de Rocaille dropped to one knee and leveled a sweeping blow at his legs, finishing him as he fell with a quick cut to the neck.

By that time, Joscelin had arrived, and his sword sang free of its sheath as he drew it. "David de Rocaille," he said softly. "Turn and face me."

The remaining Cassiline backed slowly away, covering Ysandre's retreat. In the stillness, David de Rocaille turned to meet Joscelin Verreuil.

Outside the practice fields of the sanctuary, where they are raised and trained under the eye of the Prefect, no one living has ever seen two Cassiline-trained warriors do battle. It is a spectacle capable of bringing an entire riot to a standstill-and that, in fact, is exactly what it did. D'Angelines, Serenissimans, mercenaries ... all of them, quarrels laid by as they watched in awe, stepping back to give the combatants room.

I gripped the balcony railing so hard my fingers ached, and watched it happen.

It is to this day one of the deadliest and most beautiful things I have ever witnessed. Their blades flickered and clashed in patterns too complex for the eye to follow, while they moved through form after form, those movements drilled into them from boyhood onward. On his side, Joscelin had the vigor of youth; but D'Angelines are not quick to age. De Rocaille was a man in his prime, his strength not yet faded, fighting with nothing to lose.

"Anathema!" he hissed as their blades locked. "You betrayed the Brotherhood for one of Naamah's pets!"

"I honor my vow to Cassiel," Joscelin said grimly. "How will you answer for yours, oath-breaker?"

David de Rocaille answered him with a clever twist, slipping his blade loose and stepping back to aim a great blow at Joscelin's head; Joscelin ducked and spun, de Rocaille's blade passing harmlessly above his half-shorn hair, striking on the rise at his opponent's midsection. The other parried ably and they fought onward, whirling and dodging. It was an odd-looking match, David de Rocaille the model of austerity and competence in his grey Cassiline garb and Joscelin in rough-spun attire, his tangled locks still streaked with walnut dye.

In that disparity, however, lay the other difference between them. For all that de Rocaille had twenty years on him, the bitter wisdom of experience was Joscelin's. David de Rocaille had spent his life waiting attendance on the regents of Terre d'Ange.

He had never drawn his sword to kill.

Joscelin had.

I'd been with him when he fought Waldemar Selig's thanes, alone and unaided in a raging Skaldic blizzard, one of his greatest battles still, and one unheralded by poets. I had been there when he fought the Tarbh Cró in Alba, defending with blood and slaughter myself and the family of Drustan mab Necthana, who hailed him as brother for it. And I had been there on La Dolorosa, when he assailed it with bared daggers alone, fighting to win my freedom.

He knew what it was to fight for love's sake.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the tide began to turn against David de Rocaille. He who had nothing to lose had nothing to gain, either, save death. Still the bright blades flashed, wielded in dueling two-handed Cassiline grips, subtle angles and interplay half-lost on the watchers; still they maneuvered around each other in a series of intricate steps and turns too numerous to count. But David de Rocaille had begun to despair, and it showed in his face.