Kushiel's Scion
Page 65
It was peace, but a sullen one. A few of the shops opened, though one could see evidence of hasty repairs. The inns remained closed. Some students abandoned their scholars' robes, and others wore them defiantly Still, they kept clear of the city cohort, and there was no violence. By and large, normality was restored, insofar as it was possible.
There was no sign of Canis, which troubled me every time I passed his abandoned barrel.
And, of course, there was Gilot.
In the morning, I escorted Anna to the Temple of Asclepius, where we spent a few hours sitting with Gilot. He had improved a bit with rest. Although his face was swollen and his eye-sockets were black and purple with bruising, he was able to open his eyes. He could see. His broken hand was splinted and immobile, and whether or not it would heal cleanly was anyone's guess.
I didn't say anything to him about the attack. Gilot would only blame himself, and he needed to heal in peace. But afterward, I thought long and hard about what Claudia Fulvia had told me. Bernadette de Trevalion, mother of my erstwhile friend, Bertran. I barely knew her. I'd met her at Court a few times, but she spent most of her time at the duchy of Trevalion in Azzalle. It was hard to fathom her wanting me dead.
In the dispassionate light of day, it was also hard to imagine confiding in the D'Angeline ambassadress with scant evidence. One sentence muttered in the midst of a riot wasn't terribly convincing. I didn't doubt that she would take me at my word, but it was the uproar that would follow that made me wince. It would reach the shores of Terre d'Ange, acrimonious and bitter. I didn't relish the thought of following in my mother's footsteps and accusing Bernadette de Trevalion of conspiracy, even if it was true.
In the end, I held off telling Denise Fleurais. Instead, I confided in Eamonn.
"If I told you somewhat I couldn't prove and asked you to trust me, would you believe me?" I asked him in the privacy of my insula apartment, where we were sharing a skin of wine I'd bought from a street-vendor. "Because I've need of advice, and you're the only person here I trust unreservedly."
"Of course," he said readily, then hesitated. "Well, it's not about philosophy, is it? I'll not concede an argument unheard."
"No, no." I shook my head. "Do you remember what I said the night of the riot? Someone did try to kill me, Eamonn. I was pushed. And I think there may have been a couple other attempts, too. Either way, I know who's behind it."
He refilled my winecup. "Who?"
I took a gulp. "Bernadette de Trevalion. She hired a man here."
Eamonn looked blank. "Who?"
"Bertran's mother," I said. "You remember Bertran?"
"Yes, of course." He continued to look blank. "Why, though?"
I sighed. "Ah, gods! I don't know. There was a plot, ages ago. My mother betrayed it. And as a result, Baudoin de Trevalion and his mother Lyonette, who was my father's sister, were convicted of treason."
"Enough!" Eamonn held out one hand. "I don't know how you keep them all straight. So it's a blood feud, then?"
I nodded. "I suppose so. Baudoin and Lyonette were condemned to death. He fell on his sword, and she took poison. Bernadette and her father were merely exiled for complicity, although Ysandre gave them clemency later. The other business, that was under the old king's rule, Ganelon de la Courcel. My… uncle." It felt strange to say the words. I'd never felt myself to be a king's nephew. "But it was my mother's testimony that convicted them. And she did it a-purpose."
"So it's a blood feud," Eamonn repeated. "Vengeance."
"Yes," I agreed. "So it seems."
He gave me a shrewd look. "And have you told the D'Angeline ambassadress this?"
"Not yet." I met his gaze. "The problem is, I can't prove it, Eamonn. I know it's true. I even know the name of the man Bernadette de Trevalion hired. But I can't prove it, not beyond a shadow of doubt. And if I try, things are likely to get very ugly, here and at home."
Eamonn shrugged. "Would you rather risk another attack?"
"No." I drained my cup. "So if you were me, you'd go to the ambassadress?"
"Me?" Eamonn grinned. "Not likely! If I were you, I'd pay a visit on the fellow trying to have me killed, and tell him I'd slice off his ballocks and shove them down his throat if he tried it again. But that's the difference between the Dalriada and D'Angelines. You make everything complicated."
"You know," I said slowly, "you have a point. Not necessarily a good one, but a point."
"Aye, and I might make a better one if you'd tell me more," he observed.
I smiled wryly. "Call it misplaced gallantry, but I can't. I'm sorry. Eamonn, if I can devise a plan for dealing with this on my own terms, are you willing to help?"
He quaffed his wine. "Name the place, Imri. We swore to be like brothers to one another, didn't we? Well, I meant it, no matter how odd and mysterious you're being."
That night, I tossed and turned on my pallet. I thought about the proof that Claudia dangled before me and the Guild's methods. I thought about what Eamonn had suggested, and I thought about what Phèdre would have done and how she'd managed to gain evidence of L'Envers' plotting. Elua help me, I even thought about how my mother had used Baudoin's own private correspondence to condemn him.
By morning, I had conceived of a plan. Except for the foolhardy part, I thought Phèdre might have approved of it. And so, mayhap, would my mother. From what I understood, Melisande Shahrizai had been nothing averse to blackmail if it served her purpose.
I tried not to dwell on that thought.
First I went with Anna to visit Gilot. We had purchased two votive-offerings, a hand and a torso, and hung them in the grotto where the effigy of Asclepius stood. I went there to give her time alone with Gilot, spending my own time thinking and praying. To Asclepius, who ruled over healing in this place; to gentle Eisheth, who brought the healing arts to Terre d'Ange and taught them to her children, along with the gift of music.
I found myself praying to Kushiel, too. His mercy is cruel, but it is just. I offered up my anger and desire for vengeance along with my pain, vowing to lay them all at his feet in exchange for Gilot's life. In my mind's eye, I beheld Kushiel's face, calm and stern, promising nothing. One cannot bargain with the gods.
Still, it made me feel better to try.
Before we left, I met with the priest of Asclepius. I gave him a sealed letter I'd written. "My lord priest, may I trust you with this? It provides for Gilot and the woman Anna, should aught happen to me. It need only be presented to Lady Denise Fleurais at the D'Angeline embassy."
The priest gave me a long, unreadable look. "You may."
"My thanks," I said to him.
He inclined his head. "Perhaps I will ask a favor in return one day."
Afterward, I met up with Eamonn in the Forum as we'd agreed. His face brightened at the sight of me. "You've a plan, haven't you?"
"I do," I said. "Mostly, it calls for you to be silent and imposing."
Eamonn patted the hilt of his sword. "I can do that."
We went to the wharf, where I found the dock-master to whom I'd reported the dead barge-hand. Allaying his impatience with a bribe, I questioned him about the man.
"The city cohort identified him," I said. "A petty ruffian, they said. But since the riot, I've discovered there's reason to suspect he meant me harm. And I've reason to suspect an old enemy of mine may be behind it. Surely you see everything that passes on the wharf. I thought mayhap you might give me a name. Who in Tiberium might employ a man for such a task?"
He glanced sidelong at Eamonn. "Sorry, my lord. I've no idea."
"That's a pity." I sighed. "I was hoping there would be no need to trouble the D'Angeline ambassadress with a personal matter. You see, she's a dear friend of my foster-mother's. Once I tell her, she'll be obliged to see the matter investigated, even if it means closing the wharf to question every barge-hand and dock-laborer in the city."
The dock-master developed a twitch in one eye. "The princeps would never consent."
"Oh, he would, actually," I assured him. "And hold you to blame for it. Did I mention that my foster-mother is also a very dear friend of the Queen's?"
He held my gaze a moment longer, then broke. "Ah, Jupiter! It's nothing any cutpurse in the city couldn't tell you. Like as not it's Ruggero Caccini you're looking for. He's the one they answer to."
"My thanks." I doubled my bribe. "Where might I find him?"
The dock-master pocketed the coins and jerked his chin. "Inn of the Siren," he said sourly. "A few blocks that way."
We found the inn without difficulty. Unlike the inns in the students' quarter, there was no sign of damage sustained during the rioting here on the docks. It was a nicer place than I would have expected; sturdily built, with windows that looked out over the river. The sign above the door sporting a buxom, bare-breasted siren was freshly painted, the colors bright and crisp.
"Huh." Eamonn gazed at it. "Very fancy."
"Crime pays." I clapped his shoulder. "In fact, I'm counting on it."
Inside, the Inn of the Siren's pleasant appearance was belied by its patrons. Unsavory types, Claudia had called them; barge-hands and dock-workers for the most part. They eyed Eamonn and me with taciturn disinterest, more wary than hostile. I approached the bar while Eamonn lingered near the door, arms folded.
The barkeep raised his brows. "Are you lost, lad?"
"I'm looking for Ruggero Caccini," I told him.
He laughed. "Oh, indeed? What business might you have with him?"
"I'm quite curious myself," offered a smooth voice behind me. "Stand me a jug, D'Angeline, and I'm willing to listen."
I turned around. "Messire Caccini."
He went still, and I knew he'd recognized me. Like the inn, he wasn't what I'd expected. Ruggero Caccini was tall, dark, and lean, well-dressed and clean-shaven, with neatly barbered hair. I met his gaze steadily. He was some forty years of age, healthy and prosperous, but there was a shadow of old hunger in his eyes, a memory of gauntness in his face.
"Well, well," he said softly. "You're a brave little cockerel." He laid one hand on the hilt of a poniard he carried, and a dozen chairs shifted behind him, men preparing to come to his aid. "Come to beard the lion in his den, have you? Unwise. What makes you think you'd get out alive?" He nodded at Eamonn. "Yon strapping friend?"
"No." I smiled pleasantly. "A letter to be delivered to Lady Denise Fleurais detailing my whereabouts, should I fail to return. 'Tis a gambit I learned from my foster-mother long ago when someone else wanted me dead. But I'm pleased to hear you're inclined to be frank. You're a man of business, I understand. I come bearing an offer."
Ruggero stared at me, then uttered a sharp, barking laugh. "Stand me a jug, D'Angeline! I'm willing to listen."
The barkeep drew us a jug and Ruggero led me to a corner table. I motioned for Eamonn to stay where he was. He shrugged, watching attentively. Ruggero filled two cups, sliding one across the table.
"So," he said. "Offer."
I sipped my wine. "Here's the crux of the matter, Messire Caccini. It seems there have been two, perhaps three, ill-fated attempts on my life. The last occurred during the riot, in which my attacker divulged the name of an old enemy. It made me suspicious of the other occurrences. I've made inquiries among the city cohort and elsewhere, and I believe at least one can be traced to a man in your employ."
"Mayhap." He smiled sardonically.
"Mayhap." I nodded. " 'Tis a gamble. I'm willing to take it if I must. But I would prefer to buy out House Trevalion's contract with you."
Ruggero said nothing, but there was a spark of interest in his gaze. He was greedy. From what little Claudia Fulvia had told me, I'd guessed as much. Now that I beheld him, I could see it was born of the old hunger, a childhood of poverty. Ruggero Caccini hungered for wealth, hungered for security. Nothing would ever be enough to allay those old fears.
He raised his winecup, wetting his lips. "Say that I know whereof you speak. And yet I'm a man of my word. I don't renege on a contract."
"Nor have you." I spread my hands. "Attempts have been made."
"For which you bear no grudge?" he asked with candid disbelief.
"If I bore a grudge, you would be dead." The words emerged so coolly that I nearly startled myself. "I could have chosen to come here with a squadron of D'Angeline guards. I did not. Messire Caccini, you are merely a weapon in a quarrel between two of the Great Houses of Terre d'Ange. I no more bear you a grudge than I would an enemy's blade."
"I don't believe you," Ruggero said, but there was doubt now.
I shrugged. "I, too, am a man of my word. Permit me to buy out Trevalion's contract, and I promise you no charges will be brought against you."
"And if I don't?" he asked.
I glanced over my shoulder at Eamonn. He grinned at me, a fierce battle-grin. "Well, messire," I said to Ruggero. "Then the matter would become personal, and I would indeed bear a grudge. You and your comrades can take your chances with my friend and me, here and now. Eamonn is very good with his sword, and I'm quite fast. Fast enough, I believe, to take your head off before you could blink. We might not get out alive, but neither would you." I smiled at him. "Or, of course, you could let us go, and take your chances with the judiciary later."
There was no sign of Canis, which troubled me every time I passed his abandoned barrel.
And, of course, there was Gilot.
In the morning, I escorted Anna to the Temple of Asclepius, where we spent a few hours sitting with Gilot. He had improved a bit with rest. Although his face was swollen and his eye-sockets were black and purple with bruising, he was able to open his eyes. He could see. His broken hand was splinted and immobile, and whether or not it would heal cleanly was anyone's guess.
I didn't say anything to him about the attack. Gilot would only blame himself, and he needed to heal in peace. But afterward, I thought long and hard about what Claudia Fulvia had told me. Bernadette de Trevalion, mother of my erstwhile friend, Bertran. I barely knew her. I'd met her at Court a few times, but she spent most of her time at the duchy of Trevalion in Azzalle. It was hard to fathom her wanting me dead.
In the dispassionate light of day, it was also hard to imagine confiding in the D'Angeline ambassadress with scant evidence. One sentence muttered in the midst of a riot wasn't terribly convincing. I didn't doubt that she would take me at my word, but it was the uproar that would follow that made me wince. It would reach the shores of Terre d'Ange, acrimonious and bitter. I didn't relish the thought of following in my mother's footsteps and accusing Bernadette de Trevalion of conspiracy, even if it was true.
In the end, I held off telling Denise Fleurais. Instead, I confided in Eamonn.
"If I told you somewhat I couldn't prove and asked you to trust me, would you believe me?" I asked him in the privacy of my insula apartment, where we were sharing a skin of wine I'd bought from a street-vendor. "Because I've need of advice, and you're the only person here I trust unreservedly."
"Of course," he said readily, then hesitated. "Well, it's not about philosophy, is it? I'll not concede an argument unheard."
"No, no." I shook my head. "Do you remember what I said the night of the riot? Someone did try to kill me, Eamonn. I was pushed. And I think there may have been a couple other attempts, too. Either way, I know who's behind it."
He refilled my winecup. "Who?"
I took a gulp. "Bernadette de Trevalion. She hired a man here."
Eamonn looked blank. "Who?"
"Bertran's mother," I said. "You remember Bertran?"
"Yes, of course." He continued to look blank. "Why, though?"
I sighed. "Ah, gods! I don't know. There was a plot, ages ago. My mother betrayed it. And as a result, Baudoin de Trevalion and his mother Lyonette, who was my father's sister, were convicted of treason."
"Enough!" Eamonn held out one hand. "I don't know how you keep them all straight. So it's a blood feud, then?"
I nodded. "I suppose so. Baudoin and Lyonette were condemned to death. He fell on his sword, and she took poison. Bernadette and her father were merely exiled for complicity, although Ysandre gave them clemency later. The other business, that was under the old king's rule, Ganelon de la Courcel. My… uncle." It felt strange to say the words. I'd never felt myself to be a king's nephew. "But it was my mother's testimony that convicted them. And she did it a-purpose."
"So it's a blood feud," Eamonn repeated. "Vengeance."
"Yes," I agreed. "So it seems."
He gave me a shrewd look. "And have you told the D'Angeline ambassadress this?"
"Not yet." I met his gaze. "The problem is, I can't prove it, Eamonn. I know it's true. I even know the name of the man Bernadette de Trevalion hired. But I can't prove it, not beyond a shadow of doubt. And if I try, things are likely to get very ugly, here and at home."
Eamonn shrugged. "Would you rather risk another attack?"
"No." I drained my cup. "So if you were me, you'd go to the ambassadress?"
"Me?" Eamonn grinned. "Not likely! If I were you, I'd pay a visit on the fellow trying to have me killed, and tell him I'd slice off his ballocks and shove them down his throat if he tried it again. But that's the difference between the Dalriada and D'Angelines. You make everything complicated."
"You know," I said slowly, "you have a point. Not necessarily a good one, but a point."
"Aye, and I might make a better one if you'd tell me more," he observed.
I smiled wryly. "Call it misplaced gallantry, but I can't. I'm sorry. Eamonn, if I can devise a plan for dealing with this on my own terms, are you willing to help?"
He quaffed his wine. "Name the place, Imri. We swore to be like brothers to one another, didn't we? Well, I meant it, no matter how odd and mysterious you're being."
That night, I tossed and turned on my pallet. I thought about the proof that Claudia dangled before me and the Guild's methods. I thought about what Eamonn had suggested, and I thought about what Phèdre would have done and how she'd managed to gain evidence of L'Envers' plotting. Elua help me, I even thought about how my mother had used Baudoin's own private correspondence to condemn him.
By morning, I had conceived of a plan. Except for the foolhardy part, I thought Phèdre might have approved of it. And so, mayhap, would my mother. From what I understood, Melisande Shahrizai had been nothing averse to blackmail if it served her purpose.
I tried not to dwell on that thought.
First I went with Anna to visit Gilot. We had purchased two votive-offerings, a hand and a torso, and hung them in the grotto where the effigy of Asclepius stood. I went there to give her time alone with Gilot, spending my own time thinking and praying. To Asclepius, who ruled over healing in this place; to gentle Eisheth, who brought the healing arts to Terre d'Ange and taught them to her children, along with the gift of music.
I found myself praying to Kushiel, too. His mercy is cruel, but it is just. I offered up my anger and desire for vengeance along with my pain, vowing to lay them all at his feet in exchange for Gilot's life. In my mind's eye, I beheld Kushiel's face, calm and stern, promising nothing. One cannot bargain with the gods.
Still, it made me feel better to try.
Before we left, I met with the priest of Asclepius. I gave him a sealed letter I'd written. "My lord priest, may I trust you with this? It provides for Gilot and the woman Anna, should aught happen to me. It need only be presented to Lady Denise Fleurais at the D'Angeline embassy."
The priest gave me a long, unreadable look. "You may."
"My thanks," I said to him.
He inclined his head. "Perhaps I will ask a favor in return one day."
Afterward, I met up with Eamonn in the Forum as we'd agreed. His face brightened at the sight of me. "You've a plan, haven't you?"
"I do," I said. "Mostly, it calls for you to be silent and imposing."
Eamonn patted the hilt of his sword. "I can do that."
We went to the wharf, where I found the dock-master to whom I'd reported the dead barge-hand. Allaying his impatience with a bribe, I questioned him about the man.
"The city cohort identified him," I said. "A petty ruffian, they said. But since the riot, I've discovered there's reason to suspect he meant me harm. And I've reason to suspect an old enemy of mine may be behind it. Surely you see everything that passes on the wharf. I thought mayhap you might give me a name. Who in Tiberium might employ a man for such a task?"
He glanced sidelong at Eamonn. "Sorry, my lord. I've no idea."
"That's a pity." I sighed. "I was hoping there would be no need to trouble the D'Angeline ambassadress with a personal matter. You see, she's a dear friend of my foster-mother's. Once I tell her, she'll be obliged to see the matter investigated, even if it means closing the wharf to question every barge-hand and dock-laborer in the city."
The dock-master developed a twitch in one eye. "The princeps would never consent."
"Oh, he would, actually," I assured him. "And hold you to blame for it. Did I mention that my foster-mother is also a very dear friend of the Queen's?"
He held my gaze a moment longer, then broke. "Ah, Jupiter! It's nothing any cutpurse in the city couldn't tell you. Like as not it's Ruggero Caccini you're looking for. He's the one they answer to."
"My thanks." I doubled my bribe. "Where might I find him?"
The dock-master pocketed the coins and jerked his chin. "Inn of the Siren," he said sourly. "A few blocks that way."
We found the inn without difficulty. Unlike the inns in the students' quarter, there was no sign of damage sustained during the rioting here on the docks. It was a nicer place than I would have expected; sturdily built, with windows that looked out over the river. The sign above the door sporting a buxom, bare-breasted siren was freshly painted, the colors bright and crisp.
"Huh." Eamonn gazed at it. "Very fancy."
"Crime pays." I clapped his shoulder. "In fact, I'm counting on it."
Inside, the Inn of the Siren's pleasant appearance was belied by its patrons. Unsavory types, Claudia had called them; barge-hands and dock-workers for the most part. They eyed Eamonn and me with taciturn disinterest, more wary than hostile. I approached the bar while Eamonn lingered near the door, arms folded.
The barkeep raised his brows. "Are you lost, lad?"
"I'm looking for Ruggero Caccini," I told him.
He laughed. "Oh, indeed? What business might you have with him?"
"I'm quite curious myself," offered a smooth voice behind me. "Stand me a jug, D'Angeline, and I'm willing to listen."
I turned around. "Messire Caccini."
He went still, and I knew he'd recognized me. Like the inn, he wasn't what I'd expected. Ruggero Caccini was tall, dark, and lean, well-dressed and clean-shaven, with neatly barbered hair. I met his gaze steadily. He was some forty years of age, healthy and prosperous, but there was a shadow of old hunger in his eyes, a memory of gauntness in his face.
"Well, well," he said softly. "You're a brave little cockerel." He laid one hand on the hilt of a poniard he carried, and a dozen chairs shifted behind him, men preparing to come to his aid. "Come to beard the lion in his den, have you? Unwise. What makes you think you'd get out alive?" He nodded at Eamonn. "Yon strapping friend?"
"No." I smiled pleasantly. "A letter to be delivered to Lady Denise Fleurais detailing my whereabouts, should I fail to return. 'Tis a gambit I learned from my foster-mother long ago when someone else wanted me dead. But I'm pleased to hear you're inclined to be frank. You're a man of business, I understand. I come bearing an offer."
Ruggero stared at me, then uttered a sharp, barking laugh. "Stand me a jug, D'Angeline! I'm willing to listen."
The barkeep drew us a jug and Ruggero led me to a corner table. I motioned for Eamonn to stay where he was. He shrugged, watching attentively. Ruggero filled two cups, sliding one across the table.
"So," he said. "Offer."
I sipped my wine. "Here's the crux of the matter, Messire Caccini. It seems there have been two, perhaps three, ill-fated attempts on my life. The last occurred during the riot, in which my attacker divulged the name of an old enemy. It made me suspicious of the other occurrences. I've made inquiries among the city cohort and elsewhere, and I believe at least one can be traced to a man in your employ."
"Mayhap." He smiled sardonically.
"Mayhap." I nodded. " 'Tis a gamble. I'm willing to take it if I must. But I would prefer to buy out House Trevalion's contract with you."
Ruggero said nothing, but there was a spark of interest in his gaze. He was greedy. From what little Claudia Fulvia had told me, I'd guessed as much. Now that I beheld him, I could see it was born of the old hunger, a childhood of poverty. Ruggero Caccini hungered for wealth, hungered for security. Nothing would ever be enough to allay those old fears.
He raised his winecup, wetting his lips. "Say that I know whereof you speak. And yet I'm a man of my word. I don't renege on a contract."
"Nor have you." I spread my hands. "Attempts have been made."
"For which you bear no grudge?" he asked with candid disbelief.
"If I bore a grudge, you would be dead." The words emerged so coolly that I nearly startled myself. "I could have chosen to come here with a squadron of D'Angeline guards. I did not. Messire Caccini, you are merely a weapon in a quarrel between two of the Great Houses of Terre d'Ange. I no more bear you a grudge than I would an enemy's blade."
"I don't believe you," Ruggero said, but there was doubt now.
I shrugged. "I, too, am a man of my word. Permit me to buy out Trevalion's contract, and I promise you no charges will be brought against you."
"And if I don't?" he asked.
I glanced over my shoulder at Eamonn. He grinned at me, a fierce battle-grin. "Well, messire," I said to Ruggero. "Then the matter would become personal, and I would indeed bear a grudge. You and your comrades can take your chances with my friend and me, here and now. Eamonn is very good with his sword, and I'm quite fast. Fast enough, I believe, to take your head off before you could blink. We might not get out alive, but neither would you." I smiled at him. "Or, of course, you could let us go, and take your chances with the judiciary later."
