"There's a chance," I said. "If we can turn the tide against Prince Benedicte, even for a little bit, Marco Stregazza may turn with it rather than fall with his ally. If he sees danger and a chance to save himself, he'll take it." I stirred, thinking. "Joscelin, do you think one of your Yeshuites could get word to Ricciardo Stregazza? He's confined to house arrest, but if the Scholae still answer to him, those who aren't in Marco's pocket, they might serve to counter the rioters."
"It might arouse suspicion, if he's guarded," he said thoughtfully.
"What about his wife?" I remembered Allegra Stregazza, seated at her desk in the charming library overlooking their estates, writing out a letter of introduction for me. It had gotten me into the Little Court, where I had walked in the Queen's Garden with Madame Felicity d'Arbos and admired the charming sight of Prince Benedicte's veiled wife and her babe on the balcony. "She has a name for being eccentric, a woman of letters in La Serenissima. Would it arouse suspicion if a young Yeshuite scholar delivered her a scroll?"
"Probably not," Joscelin admitted, grinning involuntarily. "Your mind still turns out ideas like a Siovalese windmill churns grain."
"It works better when I'm with you," I said. "Do you have pen and paper on this forsaken isle?"
"We might." He rose. "Teppo's scholar enough to have brought it... oh, wait, I have something that will serve for paper, at any rate." Disappearing into one of the tents, he reemerged with a packet wrapped in oilskin. "After Ti-Philippe turned up with his tale, I went to Mafeo Bardoni, your factor's man here. I thought if there was any chance you'd left word with him, I should get to him before anyone else did. You'd gotten a letter from home," he said, handing it over. "Eugenie sent it in care of your factor's man, since you'd never written with another address. I looked," he added as I began to open it. "But 'twas naught to do with your disappearance.”
It was, in fact, a letter from Micheline de Parnasse, the Royal Archivist, who had at last heard a reply from the Prefect of the Cassiline Brotherhood; one Lord Calval, who had inherited the post when Lord Rinforte passed away at the end of a long illness. In accordance with her long-ago promise, she enclosed a list of those Cassiline Brothers who had attended House de la Courcel, the information excised from the ledger in the Royal Archives. "You saw what this is?" I asked Joscelin. He nodded. "You learned as much from Thelesis de Mor-nay's inquiries," he said, shrugging and adding laconically, "I wrote too, you know. Lord Calval never bothered to answer me."
"The Cassiline Brotherhood has not declared the Royal Archivist anathema," I said absently. "You, they have. Joscelin, this list isn't the same as the one Thelesis gathered." "No?" He crouched to peer over my shoulder. "What's different?"
My lord Delaunay used to challenge Alcuin and me to exert our powers of observance and memory, quizzing us at unexpected intervals about the most seemingly innocuous of things. It is a habit that has stuck with me all my life. I daresay I would not have scanned the entire list, had it not been for that. But I did, and I came across a name that made my blood run cold with foreboding, my hand rising of its own volition to cover it.
Your Queen, does she not already have such guards in her service?
"Thelesis' list only had the adoptive names of those taken into Lord Rinforte's household, the names such as the Cassiline Brothers themselves offered to her," I whispered. "This comes direct from the Prefect's archives, and gives their names in full. The ledger in the Royal Archives, the one that was desecrated, must have done the same. Oh, Joscelin! I think I know how they're planning to kill Ysandre." He knew what I was reading. He looked sick. "Let me see.”
I moved my hand to reveal a name: David de Rocaille no Rinforte.
"De Rocaille," Joscelin said aloud, and swallowed. "David de Rocaille."
"You're Siovalese, and a Cassiline," I said softly. "Joscelin, Ysandre's mother Isabel was responsible for the death of Edmée de Rocaille. I ought to know; it's what began Delaunay's feud with her. Did Edmée de Rocaille have a brother who joined the Brethren?"
"I don't know." He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "I never followed the genealogies of the Great Houses of Siovale; I knew I was bound for Cassiel's service. And if he was among the Cassilines ... I don't know. He would have left, by the time I began training. Ah, Elua!" He dropped his hands, looking at me with anguish. "That soldier, among the Unforgiven ... he said he saw it, didn't he? A Cassiline Brother, escorting the woman he thought was Persia Shahrizai."
"Svariel of L'Agnace said it," I murmured. "Fortun had it written in his notes."
"Why would he do it?" Joscelin demanded, slightly wild-eyed. "Why now, after so long? Why take revenge on someone for the crimes of her mother? Even if it's true, if he's been attendant on Ysandre, he could have done it at any time! Why now?"
"I don't know." I made my voice gentle. "Melisande blackmailed Percy de Somerville; mayhap he did the same to de Rocaille, or she did. He hid his name a-purpose, to be sure; the timing suits her needs, and the diversion his; the other Cassilines on guard will be distracted. Mayhap he was waiting for the same thing as Prince Benedicte, a true-born D'Angeline heir-and one untainted by L'Envers blood-to inherit. Mayhap I'm wrong, after all. 'Tis only a guess."
"No," he said dully. "All the pieces are there. It makes too much sense, Phèdre. A riot for distraction, yes; but what assassin could be sure to break through the Queen's guard, Cassilines included? This way, it is certain. And Benedicte and Melisande and Marco... as you said, all the world would see their hands were clean."
Perversely, I found myself arguing against it, willing it for Joscelin's sake not to be. "Still, it would be suicide on his part."
He gave a short laugh, raking his hands through his hair. "Yes," he said simply. "If David de Rocaille no Rinforte is considering killing the Queen of Terre d'Ange, he is preparing to die." I had no words left, and merely knelt, wrapping my arms around him. After a moment, Joscelin shuddered, hands rising to grip mine. "And if that is the case," he whispered, "I will oblige him. All right. Let me go, and I'll see if Teppo has pen and ink to spare."
In a short time, he brought the young Yeshuite, a fine-featured lad whose hands bore calluses and inkstains alike. Teppo stammered out a greeting, laying before me a wealth of scholar's supplies; inkpot and quill, and some good pieces of foolscap. I penned a swift note to Allegra Stregazza. "My lady, you aided me once in kindness with an introduction to your mother's friend. I tell you in turn that Marco Stregazza conspires with Benedicte de la Courcel against your lord, his brother Ricciardo, rousing the Scholae to blacken his name. Let him order those guildsmen who are loyal to keep the peace in the Campo Grande during the investiture ceremony; for if he does not, he will be named a conspirator in the death of a Queen. This I swear is true."
I didn't sign it; Allegra Stregazza would know well enough who I was, and if the letter was intercepted, she could yet deny it, for all the good it did her. And Teppo, who rolled the letter carefully between two scrolls, reverence in his inkstained fingers, he would go himself; he insisted on it.
Another frail barque, I thought, watching him go, wending his way through the underbrush; another ship of hope, bearing my words. I wondered if the letters I had sent to the Lady of Marsilikos and the Duc L'Envers had arrived, and if they had acted upon them.
There was little time for contemplation, for a commotion had erupted in the encampment. Blades clashed and shouts rang out, a mix of Illyrian, Caerdicci and Habiru.
"Name of Elua," Joscelin muttered. "What now?"
I should have guessed, if I'd thought on it. Kazan's men were putting Joscelin's Yeshuites to the test. We arrived at the center of the camp to find Stajeo and Micah circling one another. Such will happen, when men who are strangers to one another hone their weapons together. The Illyrian had his buckler and short sword, his guard a trifle high and a broad smile on his face. Micah ben Ximon held two daggers in the Cassiline fashion, watchful and wary, his steps tracing the forms Joscelin had drilled into him with no small measure of competency.
"Kazan," I sighed. "This is foolishness."He came over to stand beside Joscelin and me, shrugging carelessly. "So you say, you, but my men, they will not like it, to fight beside untrained boys with knives in their hands, no. If he is worthy, let him prove it, eh, and we will all fight better for it."
"Joscelin." I turned to him in appeal.
"Micah can handle himself," he said absently, watching. "He's very good, for coming to it so late. See?"
As we watched, Micah feinted with the left-hand dagger; with a cunning move, Stajeo made to bring the edge of his buckler down hard on his arm. The Yeshuite whirled swiftly, somehow moving beneath the blow to end with the tip of his right-hand dagger pointed at the Illyrian's belly.
Kazan whistled through his teeth. The other Illyrians laughed and applauded, and Stajeo stepped back with a sour look on his face, putting up his sword in acknowledgement of surrender. Micah gave a quick Cassiline bow and sheathed his daggers.
"They will fight," Kazan said, satisfied. He eyed Joscelin. "You taught him that?"
"Yes." Joscelin nodded his approval to Micah, who flushed with pleasure.
"Why without swords, eh? It is clever, this fighting, but on a battlefield ..." Kazan drew his hand across his throat. "Pfft!"
"Because Yeshuites are forbidden to bear weapons in La Serenissima," Joscelin said in a hard tone. "As elsewhere. And a dagger, a pair of daggers, may be concealed, where a sword may not. It is what I was taught, my lord Atrabiades, because I am trained first and foremost not to take life on the battlefield, but to defend in close quarters, where a sword may be hampered by innocent flesh."
"But you carry a sword, you," Kazan said casually. "Do you know how to use it, eh?"
"Yes," Joscelin said.
I held my tongue at the understatement. "Kazan," I said. "Cassilines draw their swords only to kill. He does. Trust me in this matter."
Kazan Atrabiades looked at me sidelong, and the whole of our history was in that glance. When all was said and done, it was a considerable one. He grinned and made me a sweeping bow. "As you wish. My men will fight beside his, eh, and that is enough. But I am interested, I, to see what happens when this D'Angeline draws his sword!"
He left us, laughing, to join the others in commiserating with Stajeo on his defeat. Joscelin watched him a moment, then turned to me with raised brows.
"You do find interesting companions, Phèdre," was all he said.
"Yes." I looked evenly at him. "A score of his men died who might not have, had they not fought the Serenissimans on my behalf. All who are with him, and Kazan himself, are willing to die at our sides. Do you have a quarrel with that?"
"No." Putting his hands on my shoulders, Joscelin drew me close. "Should I?"
I rather liked this new side of him. It would be nice, I thought wistfully, if we both lived to enjoy it.
SEVENTY-TWO
Ti-Philippe and Sarae returned in the early evening hours, excited and full of talk. It seemed the warehouse was unguarded from the outside, and largely unwatched by Serenissiman guards to boot. If any of us had had doubts, that sealed it. Our plan was set. In the small hours before dawn, we would take the warehouse by stealth, and gain our access to the Temple of Asherat-of-the-Sea.
The young Yeshuite scholar Teppo returned too, albeit with less information. Marco Stregazza's guards set to enforce his brother's house arrest had allowed him to deliver his scrolls without much interest, but they had been taken by a maidservant; whether or not they had found their way into Allegra's hands-and what her reaction-he could not say.
Well and so, I had expected no more, and was glad that all had returned alive.
Pooling our stores of food in common, we put together a tolerable meal of small game-rabbit, and a brace of ducks-dressed with autumn berries, wild greens and a dish of pulses. The Illyrians shared around several skins of wine and there was fresh water in plenty from a spring-fed creek on the isle. Afterward, the hours of the night watch were divided among our company, with considerable arguing over who would take the vital duties.
Dark was falling as the Yeshuites huddled together, quarreling among themselves softly in Habiru. Kazan watched idly, and I knew him well enough to guess that the Illyrians would maintain a separate watch of their own.
"I will take the first watch," Joscelin announced, looking to put an end to it. "And Philippe the last. Settle the middle among yourselves. Will that suffice?"
"But... Joscelin." One of the young men-Elazar, his name was-looked flustered. "We thought... you are D'Angeline, after all, and you risked your life to rescue her...."
Joscelin looked uncomprehendingly at him.
"Your tent," Elazar said lamely. "We... well, you will see."
And see we did, how they had set a pair of lighted oil lamps within his humble tent, strewing the bedroll and rough ground with late-blooming wood roses, small and fragrant, painstakingly gathered from the dense undergrowth. I caught my breath and let it out in a gasping laugh. Ti-Philippe grinned with a trace of his old mischief, the Yeshuites shuffled in embarrassment and Oltukh, peering over their shoulders, called back a comment in Illyrian that roused laughter from several of Kazan's men.