I felt my arms caught from behind in an unexpectedly strong grip, elbows drawn together. Diànne's breasts pressed against my back, her voice laughing at my ear. "It seems," she whispered, "my brother is not so tired as he thought.
Your Delaunay's machinations are an inspiration to the scions of Naamah!"
So it seemed, for I continued to inspire them for a good while longer.
One does not reckon, at such times, the cost to one's limbs and joints; there is a limit to the pliancy of the mortal form. I daresay I surpassed it that day, although I have kept myself limber, ever since Delaunay first ordered Alcuin and me to study as tumblers. Still, it was a fine time, for brother and sister alike were wholly without shame in the arts of Naamah, and had honed their desires on the fine edge of Kushiel's cruelty. Some things I learned, and it accomplished what I set out, purging my mind for a time of its endless workings.
For all of that, my bed was still lonely when I went to sleep at the end of the day, and I still woke shuddering from nightmares.
NINETEEN
Winter spun out its length in grey, dreary days, chill wind and bluster, and only sometimes a snow that transformed the City into a vista of pristine whiteness, shining towers and icy minarets. I had become quite the fashion by this time, and I accepted assignations as readily as my swift-healing flesh allowed, choosing sometimes at whim and sometimes out of covert interest, so that no pattern might be discerned in my choices. My patrons were noble-born, scions of Elua and his Companions, diverse in their desires, and not a one displeasing to me.
Everything I had dreamed of having as a young adept in Delaunay's service, I had. Poets wrote odes in my honor, praising my beauty and charms; indeed, one slept three nights on my doorstep, nearly dying of cold and exposure, until Fortun dragged him bodily to his home. My patrons sent me gifts unbidden, curiosities and trinkets of varying value. Of money, I had no want; it flowed like a river. I paid my retainers and servants generously, and my debt to my glumly unsurprised factor. I invested in a Serenissiman enterprise, on the strength of a vague foreboding. I gave, quietly, considerable sums to Naamah's Temple, and made certain a portion of it went to sanctuaries in Namarre devastated in the war, where a captive priestess had once given her body to win me a few precious minutes of freedom in which to warn the fortress of Troyes-le-Mont.
I paid visits to Favrielle no Eglantine, who had taken to freedom like a fish to water and designed for me any number of spectacular gowns with the fierce, focused joy of a genius at work. And when I was not doing any of these things, I met with the Rebbe Nahum ben Isaac and bent my mind to the difficult tasks he set me, droning Habiru verses for hour upon hour, while he chewed his beard and glowered at me.
And I was, quietly, unhappy.
No more pieces of the puzzle fell into place, no matter how I juggled them in my mind. No matter how diligently my chevaliers drank and diced and delved, not a single guardsman from Troyes-le-Mont was found. No word was forthcoming from the Prefect of the Cassiline Brotherhood; not in answer to Joscelin's query, and not in answer to the Royal Archivist's. I gave myself up to violent ecstasies at the hands of patron upon patron, all the while waiting and watching and listening in that tiny, Delaunay-trained corner of my mind I held back, but none divulged the key to make sense of it all.
Joscelin and I spoke less and less.
Somewhere, Melisande was laughing.
I thought a great deal of Hyacinthe in those days, and sometimes I missed him so terribly I ached with it. It had been our youthful dream, he and I: The Queen of Courtesans and the Prince of Travellers. Well, I was living it, but a shared dream half-lived is a hollow thing. I used to tell him everything. I could not even count the hours we spent in the Cockerel, puzzling out the mystery of Anafiel Delaunay, putting the pieces together, trying to guess at the patterns that emerged. He had always wanted to hear it all, my guesses and speculations; and the tales of my patrons, their wants and foibles, listening while his black Tsingano eyes danced merrily, his white grin flashing at the good parts.
Sometimes I felt as alone and islanded as he.
I had my chevaliers, it is true, and their ever-burgeoning, swaggering pride; Remy and Ti-Philippe, at least. Fortun was always steadier. I used to gaze at him, sometimes, and the way his dark hair curled on his brow, and thought of taking him as a lover. Thought, and chose not to, time and again. I liked Fortun, very much, and trusted him not a little.
But he did not make me laugh. And there was Joscelin.
One day our paths crossed at the yeshiva, although he knew it not. The Rebbe had sent for me, and Ti-Philippe had driven me; I gave him leave to dally at a nearby wineshop while my lesson was concluded. It was a long ordeal and draining; I saw in the Rebbe's eyes the mingled pride and despair, that a pupil of his should exceed so well, and have so little faith. And, too, I was hearing tales by then spoken openly in D'Angeline circles of the schism among the Yeshuites. I had not forgotten what I saw in the courtyard, the young men with swords at their hips, arguing fiercely in Habiru for harsh glory to be won in a far-off land.
The Rebbe dismissed me that day, lowering his hoary old head with weariness. I went quietly, stooping to kiss his withered cheek and seeing myself out of the yeshiva to await Ti-Philippe's return. I knew the way well, by then.
Impossible to mistake a D'Angeline voice in that place, even in hushed tones.
I have not forgotten my earliest training. I can move silently when I choose, and make myself as unobtrusive as a shadow. With noiseless steps, I followed the thread of Joscelin's voice, until I came nigh upon them, conversing in
urgent tones in an empty study chamber. I had heard her speak before; it needed only once, for my memory. A young woman's voice, speaking softly accented D'Angeline. She taught the children, and had given him a khai pendant.
Hanna, her name was. It meant "grace." I knew, because I studied her mother tongue.
"Don't you see, Joscelin," she pleaded in her charming voice, "this pain, this pain you suffer, you cling to it; it is the pain of separation from Adonai, who is Lord of us all! You have only to make an offering of this pain, lay it upon the altar of Yeshua, and He will take it away. Can you not see it?"
Joscelin's voice was tense. "You speak of it as if it were a thing separate from me. It is not. I am Cassiel's, and vowed to his service. It is all that I am, this pain."
"Do you think Adonai would demand less?" Her voice took on passion, the shaking passion of a true believer. "Your pain is your pride; do not think He does not see that! But He is compassionate, and loves you all the more for it. I tell you, the Mashiach lived and suffered, to redeem the pain of us all. Would you belittle His sacrifice? Even so, He loves you, and awaits you like a bridegroom. There is a place prepared for you at His table, I tell you! And it awaits us, so close we might touch it, not even beyond the gates of death, but here and now, if only we dare seize it! The Diaspora has begun, Joscelin, and Yeshua's kingdom lies to the north. Will you deny, even now, your place in it?"
"Yes." His voice was harried, and I heard his vambraces rattle against his dagger-hilts. If he had bowed, it must have been with unwonted awkwardness. "No. I don't know, Hanna! I must think on it."
Another rattling bow, and the quick rush of his long strides departing, carrying him away. I sank back against the dim-lit wall, and he never saw me; all the turmoil he felt reflected in his face. I heard her sigh, and make ready to leave.
I stepped into the hallway in front of her.
Hanna's face changed when she saw me; guilt and defiance and passion all at once. A Yeshuite and a teacher, she was, but a woman too, and one in love. I had heard as much, in her voice. I am versed in such things. "My lady Comtesse," she said defensively, drawing back a step and clutching her shawl at her throat. "We were but talking. Joscelin Verreuil is not your servant, when all is said and done."
"No," I said softly, tilting my head to gaze at her. "When all is said and done, he is Cassiel's servant. And the gods are jealous of those they have marked their own. I ought to know."
"Gods!" The young Yeshuite teacher's eyes flashed, and her hand dropped from her throat, clenching into a fist. "Whom Joscelin worships as a god is but the least of Adonai's servants. Will you condemn me for telling him so?" When I did not answer, but shrugged, turning away, she raised her voice. "Comtesse!" Despair made her harsh. "The Rebbe has no knowledge that will save your friend. He plays you for a fool, knowing that where you are tied out of hope, Joscelin will be bound out of loyalty. You may be a lost cause; but he is nearly one of us, now. It is said that if ever Cassiel the Apostate returns to the throne of the Almighty and bows his head to the Mashiach, Elua's Companions will follow. All rivers flow to the ocean in time, Comtesse. Adonai is the sea, and one mortal soul may turn the tide."
Though her words struck like arrows betwixt my shoulder blades, I did not turn back, but walked steadily away from her. She had told me nothing I did not know, where the Rebbe was concerned; he had never pretended to have the answer to Hyacinthe's riddle. All I required of him was the knowledge to pursue it myself, and that, he taught me fairly.
As for Joscelin; well. Now I knew in full why the Yeshuites courted him. It was his choice, still. Cassiel's Choice, they call it, when a member of his Order chooses banishment rather than abandon his once-sworn ward. He had made it for me, though I had not asked it of him. I had warned her. I could do no more. And perhaps, truly, it would be different, when a god demanded the choice. I could not know, but only grieve at the necessity of it.
In the small courtyard, there was no sign of Joscelin, and three sword-bearing young Yeshuite men set upon Ti-Philippe as he drew up in my carriage; laughing in Habiru, catching at the horses' bridles and snatching at the long reins, mocking Ti-Philippe as he perched in the driver's seat. Wrapping the reins about his wrist, my chevalier scowled and hurled a D'Angeline insult at them; one of the Yeshuites drew his sword and prodded Philippe's boot with the point of his blade.
An anger I'd not known I was suppressing overcame me.
"Gentlemen!" My voice rang out across the courtyard with an icy contempt I didn't know I could muster. I stood motionless, wrapped in my cloak, as they turned guiltily. "Let him be." Lest they were unsure, I added in flawless Habiru, enunciating each word with chill precision. "Leave him. Do you understand?"
Swords were sheathed, the carriage abandoned. The young men walked past me, sullen. The last turned, his face full of loathing. "You would not speak to us so, in Adonai's country!"
Mayhap he was right; I do not know. But this was Elua's country, and free by the grace of soldiers like Ti-Philippe, who had risked his life to beat back the Skaldi invasion. If not for him and ten thousand like him, we would all be equally on our knees, baring our necks for Waldemar Selig's yolk and offering praise to All-Father Odhinn. I thought these things, and did not say them. The Yeshuite glanced quickly from side to side, to be sure no one saw, and made a gesture, poking forked fingers at my face.
"A pox on your witch-marked eyes!" he jeered, spitting at my feet.
Men mock what they fear. I looked at him without answering, until his belligerence turned to unease and he shuffled, jerking away from me and hurrying to rejoin his companions, his walk turning to a swagger as they neared the yeshiva.
Ti-Philippe came down from the driver's seat in a fury, swearing a blue streak as he yanked open the carriage door and threatening vengeance.
"Let it be," I said wearily, climbing inside. "Yeshua's House is divided against itself; I will not add to their sorrows. I owe a debt to his children." Remembering Taavi and Danele, the Yeshuite couple who had been so kind to Joscelin and me in our dire flight, I wondered if they were caught up in this schism, and prayed not.
I had money; I bought books, and read them, tracing with my finger the lines of Habiru text. I slept ill at night and tossed in my sheets, waking fevered from dreams I could not remember. I read, and studied, and learned, and came no closer to answering the riddle.
Hyacinthe.
Elua, but I missed him!
I suppose that my rootless sorrow made me reckless, although it may have been in part the slow-wearing frustration that arose from my stalled inquiries. Whatever the source, it was recklessness that led me to accept an assignation with Nicola L'Envers y Aragon.
It was in the Hall of Games that she approached me, where I watched Fortun engaged in a game of rhythmomachy with the Baronesse de Carvoile, whose mother had been an adept of Bryony House. It is a game for which I have no especial gift, being the province of those whose strength of wit lies in dealing with numbers; I can play it, if I must, but I do not do it well. Fortun, who had never once laid hand to the board ere becoming my chevalier, showed considerable skill at it.
Back and forth they went, placing their different-shaped counters in varying progressions, according to varying mathematical formulae, until I was well-nigh lost. "Ah!" murmured a watching connoisseur, as Estelle de Carvoile laid down a sequence with surety. "A Fabrisian series!"
I blinked, bewildered, seeing no correlation in the numbers she played; Fortun merely frowned and countered with something called a Tertullian set. I can see patterns in events, and behaviors-in mathematics, I follow slower. Still, I added my voice to those lauding Fortun's play.
"A dull game," murmured a nearby voice, "for those who would rather dally with somewhat other than numbers." I turned to meet the violet gaze of Nicola L'Envers y Aragon, who gave me the lazy smile of a stalking leopardess. "Your chevalier is skilled, Comtesse."
"Yes," I said automatically. "He is." I eyed her sidelong. "Where is your companion, Lord Shahrizai, my lady?"