In Terre d'Ange, the evidence of his Caerdicci heritage had set him apart. 'Twas different, seeing Severio here, where his D'Angeline blood dealt him a measure of grace lacking in his comrades. He took my arm, leaning to murmur in my ear. "You've no idea how much I've longed to see you. Promise you'll speak with me afterward?"
"Of course, my lord."
"Good." He straightened, adding, "Father would like to meet you, too. He's a mind to discuss trade or some such thing. But I thought perhaps I could show you the city."
"That would be lovely," I said politely, and Severio's brown eyes lit at my reply. I should not have, but I stole a glance at Joscelin, who stood impassive, strangely vulnerable without his daggers and sword, clad in mute grey. Even so, there was no mistaking him for aught but what he was: a pure-blooded D'Angeline from one of the oldest families. I sighed inwardly and smiled up at Severio Stregazza, resting my fingertips on his velvet-clad arm. "Shall I be presented to your grandfather the Doge, my lord?"
"By all means," Severio said gallantly, sweeping his free hand before us.
THIRTY-TWO
1 was received in the Room of the Shield, where a great fireplace roared even in the heat of summer, and on the opposite wall hung the arms of the reigning Doge's family, the familiar tower and carrack of the Stregazza.
Beneath them stood the throne, a modest wooden affair, and in it sat the Doge.
Rumor had not lied; Cesare Stregazza had the shaking-sickness. His flesh was frail-seeming and sunken, and his entire body trembled with the palsy. The ancient dome of his skull looked vulnerable beneath the peaked crimson cap he wore, silk earflaps covering thinning wisps of white hair; terrible and strange to see. The hair of D'Angeline men does not diminish with age, as I have noted with other peoples. Mortality is more pronounced in other lands.
"The Contessa Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève, grandfather," Severio announced.
I curtsied and sank to kneel before the wooden throne, gazing with lowered eyes at the Doge's slippered feet. Cesare Stregazza's hand descended to rest on my head, tremorous and gentle but for the weight of the signet it bore. "I have heard your name, child," he said in quavering Caerdicci. Startled, I glanced up to meet his eyes, dark and canny behind hooded, wrinkled lids. For all that his head bobbed perceptibly, those eyes were steady. "Benedicte sent a harpist last winter, with the latest D'Angeline lay. The Battle of the Skaldi. You brought the Alban army."
"Yes, your grace," I said simply.
"That's good." The Doge withdrew his trembling touch, folding his hands in his scarlet-robed lap. The dogal seal flashed gold, a signet bearing the Crown of Asherat in relief. "We need young people of courage, even mere girls, to fight something more than each other," he added in his thready voice, looking past me to Severio, and I saw a flash of somewhat in those dark eyes. "The Serene Republic!"
Contempt and frustration; I am trained to read voices. Severio flushed, but before he could reply, another man came forward-of middle years, handsome in the Caerdicci fashion, with the same dark, hooded eyes as the Doge. "Contessa," he said in smooth intervention. "Well met. I am Marco Stregazza, Severio's father." He took my hand and drew me to my feet, bowing as I rose. "And this," he added, turning, "is Marie-Celeste de la Courcel Stregazza, my wife."
"My lady," I said, curtsying to her.
"Oh, don't!" Marie-Celeste said impetuously, grasping my hands. "Phèdre, I'm so glad you're here! I've been fair dying to hear the latest gossip and styles from the City, and I've scarce seen a D'Angeline face since I quarrelled with Father. Promise you'll tell me everything, do!"
"Of course, my lady," I said, faintly bemused. Benedicte's elder daughter-who was, indeed, niece and daughter-in-law alike to the Doge-was attractive in her own right, plumply rounded, in the fullness of her years. I could see traces of House Courcel's lineage in her dark-blue eyes, the graceful curve of her brow.
"I have tried to explain," she said confidentially, leaning toward me, "about Naamah's Service, and what it means to a D'Angeline. But you understand, they are all provincial here."
"Customs differ," I murmured. "La Serenissima is not the City of Elua."
Severio muttered something under his breath.
"Come," Marco said expansively, opening his arms. "Phèdre, I pray you, take a glass of wine with us! Severio, surely you and your madcap Immortali can entertain the Contessa's men for an hour or two. Father, if you've naught else to say ... ?"
I glanced instinctively at the Doge. The motion of his head could have been taken for a shake of denial; certainly his family chose to take it as such. But my lord Delaunay always taught us to look twice. I saw it was but the palsy, and knelt before him.
Deep in his hooded eyes, I saw a flash of approval.
"Courage, and vision." The Doge laid his trembling hand against my cheek, and I felt the hard press of his signet. "You remember what I said. And come sing for me, girl! Benedicte doesn't send singers any more, since this idiot's quarrel. Do you sing?"
"Yes, my lord," I said, confused.
"Good." Cesare Stregazza leaned back, satisfied. "D'Angelines always made the best poets and whores. And singers. I want to hear a D'Angeline voice sing again, before Asherat's bitches prophesy me into my grave."
"Uncle!" Marie-Celeste hissed, mortified.
"I'm old," he retorted querulously. "And you're fighting over the throne before I've even left it. I can ask for what I want. Can't I?"
Look twice, I thought, remembering the gleam in those sunken eyes. Whatever game he played, 'twas best I played along. I rose smoothly, inclining my head. "My lord, I was trained in Cereus House, First of the Thirteen Houses of the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers. It will be my honor to sing for you whenever you desire it.""That is well." The Doge waved one crabbed hand, gold signet flashing. "You are dismissed."
"Shall we go, then?" Marco Stregazza inquired impatiently.
I glanced at Ti-Philippe and Joscelin, my silent retainers; the latter's face had a mutinous set. Severio looked impatient, but obedient to his father's wishes. "Yes, my lord," I said aloud to Marco. "I'm sure my men will welcome the reprieve."
The private quarters of Marco and Marie-Celeste Stregazza were generous, with an elegant mosaic inlaid in the floor depicting their purported ancestor, Marcellus Aurelius Strega, seated on an ivory stool and bearing the bundle of fasces, in much the pose his young descendant had once adopted. The rooms intersected a loggia which overlooked the mouth of the Grand Canal, a slice of the lagoon itself within their view. We sipped our wine and strolled its length, taking in the vista in the clear midday air.
"Do you see that?" Marco Stregazza asked rhetorically, gesturing with his wine-cup at the hundred vessels working their way up and down the harbor. 'Trade! Lifeblood of the Republic!"
"It is most impressive, my lord," I replied honestly.
"Yes," Marco said. "It is." He beckoned brusquely for a servant to refill my cup. "Severio tells me interesting things about you," he said obliquely.
I set down my brimming cup untouched and raised my brows. "Such as?"
"Such as the fact that he spent twenty thousand ducats of my money on you," Marco answered nonplussed, "and never invested a penny wiser."
The blood rose to my cheeks, but for Naamah's honor- and my own-I kept my voice level. "In D'Angeline society, what your son purchased was beyond price, my lord. It made his fame. Do you wish the money unspent?"
"Were you listening?" Marco grinned, looking younger and boyish. "Not a copper centime! Our customs differ indeed. Here, we'd die of shame rather than let a courtesan hold title; but there, it bought him admirers and influence. In fact, one such reports that you have fallen out with the Queen, over a certain matter of the Cruarch of Alba. And yet my own reports tell me you shipped Alban lead and made a nice profit in the bargain." Setting down his own cup, he steepled his fingers. "What I am thinking, Contessa, is that Terre d'Ange will grow fat acting as middleman between Alba and the rest of the world. But such a thing need not be. Alba does not have a merchant fleet. La Serenissima does. If someone with, shall we say, entree, to the Cruarch himself were to arrange it, there is great profit to be made in trading directly."
This was a repercussion of our staged falling-out I had never considered, though I had known well that overland couriers would bring news before my arrival, and mayhap gossip as well. I rephrased carefully, to make certain of it. "You wish me to approach the Cruarch regarding trade with La Serenissima?"
Marco shrugged, picked up his winecup and sipped. "I wish you to consider it, no more. I admit, Contessa, I am ambitious. You have seen my father; he is a little mad, I think, and grows more so with each day that passes. Prince Benedicte is enamored of his war-bride and his pure-blooded D'Angeline son, and withdraws his support from our family, fearing we are tainted since Dominic and Thérèse's treason. It may pass, but well and so; I am Serenis-siman, and I will woo my city in the manner to which she is accustomed. Yes, I seek trade, but on honest terms. You have the Queen's enmity. Like Benedicte's infatuation, it too may pass, but you have a life to lead, and it need not dance at the whims of D'Angeline royals. Will you not consider my request?"
"My lord," I said slowly, "I will consider it. But there must be more in it for me than mere profit, to circumvent the interests of my own nation."
"My son adores you," Marie-Celeste offered candidly, Serenissiman shrewdness in her half-Courcel face. "Phèdre, my dear, you may hold sway in your own nation, but in La Serenissima, courtesans do not marry into the Hundred Worthy Families. For free trade with Alba... exceptions may be made."
I nearly had to bite my lip to keep from laughing, and made a show of swirling my wine to disguise it. I liked Severio well enough, but to wed him-Elua preserve me! Still, I appreciated the Stregazzas' naked candour, their ambition and the offer plain on the table. And I had an idea. "My lady," I said, inclining my head to her. "There is somewhat that interests me. I seek an old acquaintance, Melisande Shahrizai by name. I heard it rumored you had knowledge of her."
"Oh, dear!" Marie-Celeste Stregazza turned pale. "I know that name. Father-Prince Benedicte-was looking for her too, not two months' past. Some sort of traitor to the nation, is she not?"
How our concerns encompass us! It seemed astonishing to me that all the world did not know of Melisande's treachery-and yet, small wonder. I have ever known that Melisande played a deep game. She was convicted in an impromptu court in the garrison of Troyes-le-Mont, and those who witnessed it, I could count on my fingers. Of those who had proof... there was only me. I had seen the letter, in her writing, to Waldemar Selig of the Skaldi. No other trail existed.
Now, I would use that to my advantage, and pray the Stregazza knew no more of my history than Severio had related.
"So it is said, my lady," I replied cautiously; there is an art to phrasing matters just so, that listeners may hear what they will. "And, of course, it might be just the thing to retain my place in the Queen's good graces-" I cleared my throat delicately, "-whatsoever might happen with Alban trade. But she is an old acquaintance, and would see me, I think."
"No." Marco shook his head forcefully. "Benedicte gave us a description, and there is no one fitting it in our knowledge. Believe me, young Contessa; trade is one matter, and court politics quite another. If I had any knowledge of a D'Angeline traitor within these walls," he said grimly, "I'd not hesitate to buy my father-in-law's gratitude with it."
I opened my mouth to reply, but a ruckus at the entrance to their quarters cut me short. Even as I turned to look, a Serenissiman with the hooded Stregazza eyes, a neat dagger-point beard and a soft cap perched on his curly hair made his way onto the loggia.
"Marco," he said peremptorily. "Why am I hearing about a ten-percent tax being added to the Saddlers' Guild on festival days? We had an agreement!"
Marco Stregazza's lids flickered. "Ricciardo," he said briefly. "We have a guest."
"Charmed." Ricciardo Stregazza offered dismissively, giving me a perfunctory glance, which changed quickly to a startled double take. "Asherat! What pretty fish do you have on your line this time, Marco?"
"This," Marie-Celeste intervened, speaking in dignified D'Angeline, "is the Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève. Phèdre, my husband's brother, Ricciardo Stregazza."
"Contessa." Ricciardo took my hand and bowed. "You are far too beautiful to be party to my sister-in-law's petty intrigues with the Little Court," he said cynically, straightening. "Pray do me the honor during your stay of accepting an invitation to dine, that my wife and I might show you that not all Serenissiman hospitality comes with strings attached."
"The honor would be mine, my lord," I replied politely in Caerdicci.
"Your wife!" Marie-Celeste gave an inelegant laugh. "A jest to the end, Ricciardo."
His expression grew cold. "Whatever poison you spew, leave Allegra out of it, sister. Marco." He turned back to his brother. "The Scholae were promised there'd be no additional taxes after the Treaty of Ephesium was signed. This is an end run around our agreement."