This much we knew, so it was no surprise when the escort arrived en masse and the Captain of L'Envers' Guard knocked on the door. Delau-nay's horse was saddled and ready; although Joscelin was prepared to accompany him, he was minded to go alone. If it went well, he had said, there would be no need of Joscelin's aid; if it did not, then one Cassiline Brother alone would not suffice to protect him, not against those odds. A half-dozen might, or even four, but not one.
Delaunay's plan, however, was laid in vain; Barquiel L'Envers had made other plans. The Captain of the Guard looked Delaunay up and down, folding his arms. He wore light chain-mail, under a tunic of deep purple with the L'Envers' crest on it in gold: a stylized bridge over a fiery river. "I was told to bring the others."
"What others?"
"D'Essoms' girl and the other, the boy who claims to know." The Captain looked smug; Barquiel L'Envers had done his schoolwork. Delaunay paused, then shook his head.
"I vouch for their word. They stay here."
"Then so do you." Turning on the doorstep, the Captain gave his men a hand-signal, and they wheeled their mounts.
"Wait." Alcuin pushed past Delaunay. "I'll go." He turned before Delaunay could speak. "There is a score to be settled. Do you deny I have the right to be there, my lord?" he asked coolly.
He wanted to, I could tell; but it was not in him to deny Alcuin this last ounce of pride. "Very well." He gave a brief nod, then looked back at me. "No. Don't even say it."
"My lord." I lifted my chin and gambled. "I have risked as much as anyone to gain you this audience. If you would jeopardize it by going without me, do not think to find me here when you return."
Delaunay took a step in my direction and lowered his voice. "And do not think I will fail to do as I have threatened."
It was hard to look him in the eyes, but I did. "Will you, my lord?" I swallowed, then pressed onward. "To whom? Melisande Shahrizai, perhaps, who would use me as I've been trained in a game even you cannot guess at?"
"Agh!" Delaunay threw up his arms in disgust. Behind him, I could see bemusement on the Captain of the Guard's face. "I taught you too well by half," he snapped at me. "I should have known better than to buy the marque of someone who enjoys risking her life!" He turned to Joscelin, hovering in the entryway. "You'll come too, then, Cassiline, and ward them both well. By Cassiel's Dagger, it's on your head if you don't keep them alive!"
Joscelin made his impassive bow, but I saw a hint of apprehension nicker in his blue eyes. Still, I had to admit, he made for an impressive companion; the L'Envers Captain took a startled step backward when he emerged.
The team was hitched to the coach and Alcuin's horse saddled for Joscelin in short order, and we were under way, our breath rising in clouds of frost in the chill morning air. The purple-and-gold L'Envers standard rose above our small party, and the gleaming mail the men-at-arms wore gave us a martially festive air—I was naive enough, then, to find it thrilling. Besides, four or five of the men, I was sure, were not D'Angeline. They rode with a particularly wary air about them, and dark burnouses wrapped their heads and swathed their faces. The Khalif of Khebbel-im-Akkad had given L'Envers land and horses and men; I was willing to bet these riders were Akkadian.
The Due L'Envers' country estate was surprisingly charming. I had never been to a country estate save Perrinwolde, but this was no working manor. We crossed a small river—the arched bridge echoed the design on L'Envers' arms—and rode through fanciful grounds, where gardeners labored over all manner of imported trees, binding them with burlap against the cold.
Still, we were seen from the parapets of the modest chateau, there was no doubt of that. The standard-bearer rode a little ahead and hefted the banner three times; there was an answering flash from atop the walls, and the gate was raised to admit us into the courtyard. And if we were politely received, we were nonetheless conducted by our full escort into the Due's receiving room.
The room was beautifully appointed with Akkadian tapestries and furniture of unusual design, low and cushioned. One chair, with carving elaborate enough for a throne, was clearly the Due's, but it stood empty. One of the men-at-arms—one of those I guessed to be Akkadian—left, while the Captain and the others lined the walls and stood at attention. I watched Delaunay, taking my cue from him. He was calm and watchful, betraying no sign of unease. It heartened me to see it. In a few moments, we heard the sound of booted strides in the hallway, and the Due L'Envers entered the room.
Though I'd never seen him, I'd no doubt who it was; his men made him instantaneous bows, and Delaunay and the three of us followed suit.
To my surprise, when I straightened from my deep curtsy, I saw that the Due himself was dressed in Akkadian style. A burnouse of L'Envers purple shrouded his face, and instead of a doublet, he wore loose robes over his breeches, with a long, flowing coat. Only his eyes were visible, but I knew them, once I had the chance to look him full in the face. They were a deep violet, House L'Envers' coloring; the color of Ysandre de la Courcel's eyes, who was his niece.
"Anafiel Delaunay," the Due drawled, taking his seat and unwinding the long scarf of his burnouse. He had the white-blond hair, too, and pale skin, though it was sun-darkened around his eyes and his hair was cropped shorter than I'd ever seen a nobleman's. "Well, well. So you've come to apologize for your sins against my House?"
Delaunay stepped forward and gave another bow. "Your grace," he said, "I have come to propose we put that matter behind us, in the past, where it belongs."
Barquiel L'Envers sat at his ease, legs crossed before him, but I did not doubt for an instant that he was a dangerous man. "After you named my sister a murderess for all the realm to hear?" he asked smoothly. "Do you suggest I simply forgive this slight?"
"Yes." Delaunay said it without losing an inch of composure. I heard several of the men-at-arms murmur. The Due raised his hand without looking to see which ones.
"Why?" he asked curiously. "I know what you have to offer, and I wish to hear it. But it settles nothing between us, Delaunay. Why should I forgive?"
Delaunay drew a long breath and something smouldered in his voice. "Do you swear, your grace, on Elua's name and your own lineage, that my song was untrue?"
His question hung in the air. Barquiel L'Envers considered it, then moved his head slightly, neither a nod nor a shake. "I do not swear either way, Delaunay. My sister Isabel was ambitious, and jealous in the bargain. But if she had aught to do with Edmee de Rocaille's fall, I will swear she never intended her death."
"The intent does not matter; the cause alone suffices."
"Perhaps." Barquiel L'Envers continued to study him. "Perhaps not. Because of your words, a traitoress may name my sister a cold-blooded killer to the King's own face, and no one will gainsay it. You have not given me sufficient reason to forgive. Have you more?"
"I have sworn an oath," Delaunay said softly, "by which you stand to profit."
"Oh, thatl" L'Envers' voice rose in surprise. He laughed. "You mean to stand by that, after the way Ganelon's treated you?"
"I did not swear it to Ganelon de la Courcel."
I wished, fervently, that one of them would say more of the matter, but neither did. Delaunay stood tautly upright, while L'Envers' thoughtful gaze wandered over the three of us, pausing longest on Joscelin.
"Well, Ganelon takes it with some degree of seriousness, it would seem," he observed. "Though I have never seen a stranger retinue. Two whores, and a Cassiline Brother. Only you, Anafiel. You always had a reputation for being unpredictable, but this is downright eccentric. Which one knows who killed my sister?"
Alcuin stepped forward and bowed. "My lord," he said calmly, "I do."
I had never been prouder of him, not even when he made his debut; I could swear, he was more composed than Delaunay. Even when L'Envers pinned him with his violet gaze, Alcuin didn't flinch. "Do you?" the Due mused. "Which one of the Stregazza was it, then?" He saw a flicker of consternation on Alcuin's face, and laughed. "I have ears in the City, boy. If Isabel was killed, it had to be by poison, and no true D'Angeline would resort to such means. I hear tell you were attacked, and one man killed; now Vitale Bouvarre, who trades with the Stregazza, is nowhere to be found . . . and I hear from d'Essoms he paid an unheard-of sum for your virgin-price. Who was it?"
One nicker was all the Due would get out of Alcuin; he looked to Delaunay as coolly as could be. "My lord?"
Delaunay nodded. "Tell him."
"Dominic and Therese," Alcuin stated simply.
I'd not seen the face of a man deciding to kill before, but I saw it then. A stillness came over Barquiel L'Envers, a look of intensity and hunger, all at once. He sighed, and there was release in it. "Did Bouvarre offer proof?"
"No." Alcuin shook his head. "He had none. But he carried a gift of candied figs from the Stregazza to Isabel de la Courcel. They were put in his hand by Dominic, but it was Therese who knew how she loved them. Bouvarre delivered them himself."
"There was an empty salver in her rooms," L'Envers said, remembering. "I suspected, we all did. But no one knew what had been in it, nor from whence it came."
"He tried to tell me it was Lyonette de Trevalion," Alcuin murmured, "but I laughed, and guessed it for a lie; it was too safe an answer, as she no longer lived to refute it. I do not think he would have tried to kill me, nor fled the country, had he lied the second time."
"You knew I have a cousin who has some sway in La Serenissima," L'Envers said to Delaunay. "My arm is longer than yours, and considerably more powerful, yes? But why do you care who killed Isabel? I might almost have thought you'd seek allies among them."
"You insult me," Delaunay said, flushing with anger. "If Isabel and I were enemies, you know well the only weapon I wielded against her was words."
"All too well. Why do you care who killed her?"
"Did you know that Dominic and Therese Stregazza have four children? All of the Blood by way of descent, and all fostered in one of the D'Angeline Great Houses."
"Yes, and Prince Benedicte is yet hale whereas the King's health fails, and his brood is powerful in La Serenissima, while certain parties whisper in certain circles that Baudoin de Trevalion was innocent, and the Dau-phine's name is sullied by virtue of the slur with which her mother's was tainted." Barquiel L'Envers rested his chin on one fist. "Will you teach me to play the game of thrones? I think not, Delaunay."
"No, your grace. And I have not yet congratulated you on the marriage of your daughter," Delaunay added with a bow.
"Indeed." A brief smile touched L'Envers' face. "Well, perhaps you're right. It seems our interests do run the same course in this matter. You are aware that any actions I take against the Stregazza may not be entirely. . . honorable?"
Delaunay's gaze drifted over the line of men-at-arms, taking in the veiled features of the Akkadians. "You have sufficient leverage to insist that Vitale Bouvarre be taken into custody and questioned. He would confess, in exchange for his life. Benedicte would see that justice was done."
"Do you think? Ah, yes, you are old comrades, aren't you, from the Battle of Three Princes. Well, perhaps he would, at that. Benedicte always had a name as an honorable man; he should never have married into that Caerdicci vipers' nest. I swear, if it can be done justly, I will do it." Barquiel L'Envers drummed his fingers idly on the elaborate arms of his chair and turned his attention to me. "So you're Childric's anguissette, hm? Spying on him for Delaunay's sake?"
I curtsied. "Your grace, I am the Servant of Naamah. My lord De-launay merely sought a way to gain your ear. He is grieved at the dissent between you."
"Oh, indeed." A corner of L'Envers' mouth twitched in another faint smile. "As grieved as he was at Vitale Bouvarre's silence, I've no doubt. Well, I'd a mind to see these chits who outwitted one of my best counselors and the shrewdest trader in Terre d'Ange, and to see too if Delaunay was desperate enough to risk you both. It seems he is." The violet gaze turned back to Delaunay, thoughtful. "So it's the old promise, is it, Anafiel?"
"If you would speak of this matter, your grace," Delaunay said quietly, "I ask that we do it in private."
"They don't know?" Barquiel L'Envers' brows rose and he laughed aloud. "What loyalty you command! Ah, I'm envious, Anafiel. Then again, those who loved you always did remain true, didn't they? In some measure, at least. What about you?" He looked curiously at Joscelin. "Surely you don't serve him out of love, Cassiline. What binds you here?"
Steel glinted as Joscelin bowed. "I am vowed to serve as Cassiel did, your grace," he said in his even voice. "I, too, take my vows in earnest."
The Due shook his head, mystified. "They say the old blood runs purer in the provinces. You're Siovalese, lad? Is your House of Shemha-zai's line?"
Joscelin hesitated a moment. "A Minor House, yes. But I am the middle son, and sworn to Cassiel."
"Yes, I can see that," L'Envers said dryly, then to Delaunay, "Well, it must be nice for you to have a fellow countryman in your household, Anafiel."
"Your grace." Delaunay lifted his brows.
"All right, all right." Barquiel L'Envers waved his hand. "You are dismissed. Beauforte, take them to the kitchens, bid them well-fed. We must not be remiss in attending to our guests. Oh, and give word that Lord Delaunay and his companions are indeed to be considered guests." He gave a wolfish grin. "No doubt it will set their mind at ease. So, Anafiel Delaunay, shall we converse?"
I didn't think I had any appetite, after the tension of the day and the audience with the Due, but I was wrong. We were given a table and served warm, crusty bread, sharp cheese and a good stew—fit provender for the Due's men, though not meant for the Due's table, I guessed—and I set to almost as heartily as Alcuin and Joscelin.
No one spoke for some time, unavoidably conscious of the presence of L'Envers retainers bustling around the kitchen. Alcuin and I would not have risked it in any case, but we hadn't reckoned with Joscelin's naivete. On his second helping of stew, he burst out with it, dropping his spoon with a clatter.
"Who is he?" he demanded of us. "There's no House Delaunay in Siovale! Who is he, and why am I commanded to attend him?"
Alcuin and I exchanged glances and shook our heads warningly at Joscelin. "Delaunay does not wish to tell us that which could get us killed," I said, adding wryly, "beyond what we already know. If you think perhaps he will confide in a, a fellow countryman, by all means, ask him."
"Maybe I will." There was a stubborn light in Joscelin's blue eyes.
Alcuin laughed. "Good luck, Cassiline."
THIRTY-ONE
I cannot say what passed between Delaunay and Barquiel L'Envers after we were bidden to leave, but it seemed that some form of accord had been reached, albeit an uneasy one.
The days of autumn grew shorter, and brought no word save the rumor of Skaldi glimpsed once more in the passes of the Camaeline Range. Delaunay waited on the matter's resolution, and once more I cooled my heels, while my coffer stayed empty and my marque grew no longer. I knew there was no malice in it, but even so, it galled me when Alcuin's final appointment with Master Tielhard was made, and his marque completed. He was free, as I had never been, in all my life.
Still, it was not in me to be cruel, not to Alcuin. I accompanied him to the marquist and made all the proper sounds of admiration. Indeed, it was a thing of beauty. The light of the braziers in the marquist's shop warmed Alcuin's fair skin, and the supple lines emphasized his straight, slender back. The delicate spray of birch-leaves that formed the finial ended at the very nape of his neck, where the first down of his white hair began. Master Tielhard actually wore a look of satisfaction as he inspected his handiwork, and his apprentice forgot for a moment to blush. Joscelin, hovering in the background, did blush, looking ill at ease and singularly out of place.
When one looks back at one's life, it is easy to mark the turning points. It is not always so easy to know them when they arrive; but this one, I daresay I knew well enough. It had been a long time in coming, and in some part of me, I had accepted it. Even so, it was another thing when it happened.
I was restless that night, and though I retired early, I found sleep eluded me. Thus it was that I wandered down to the library, with the thought of reading some verse or a diverting tale. When I saw Alcuin slip into the library ahead of me, I nearly went back, being in no mood to be reminded of the change in our status. I don't know why I didn't, save that he had a strange look of resolve and I was trained to curiosity.
As he hadn't seen me, it was a simple matter to stand at an angle to the doorway, where the lamplight didn't reach, and watch. Delaunay was there, reading; he marked his place with one finger and glanced up as Alcuin entered.
"Yes?" His tone was polite, but there was reserve in it. I knew Delaunay, and he had not forgotten what I'd told him.
"My lord," Alcuin said softly. "You have not even asked to see my marque finished."
Even from a distance, I could see Delaunay blink. "Master Robert Tielhard does excellent work," he said, at something of a loss. "I've no doubt it's well-limned."
"It is." There was a rare amusement in Alcuin's voice. "But my lord, the debt is not concluded between us until you acknowledge it. Will you see?"
He spoke truly; in keeping with the traditions of the Night Court, the Dowayne of the House must acknowledge an adept's marque before it is recorded as finished. How Alcuin knew this, I don't know. It may have been a fortunate guess on his part, though he always surprised me with what he did know. At any rate, Delaunay knew it, and set down his book. "If you wish," he said formally, rising.
