Kushiel's Avatar - Jacqueline Carey [148]
Some did, I know; I saw it, then and later.
There was a tall Jebean woman who told fortunes with bones, holding court on a carpeted island. Sometimes, with great ceremony, she would unravel a single crimson thread from her frayed garments and make a knotted talisman, handing it over in exchange for some small
gift. There was a Chowati woman who sat on the floor with her hands
on her knees, rocking back and forth and uttering ceaseless prayers, eyes shut tight, diagonal scars marking her cheeks.
There were three Bhodistani who had plainly resolved to die, hollow-eyed, their skin touched with the translucence that comes of drinking only water and taking no sustenance. They had drawn their couches into a triangle and knelt facing one another, hands folded. Ienvied them their serenity. No one seemed inclined to stop them.
Of hope . . . there was none.
And not one of them, I thought, had known desire at the Mahrkagir's touch.
I didn't like to think about it.
If Imriel had been here—if he had, then what? For all my vaunted skills in the arts of covertcy, I'd come here without a plan, placing myself in Blessed Elua's hand. The zenana was guarded, the Akkadian eunuchs wearing short, curved knives at their belts. Mayhap Joscelin could have fought his way through a dozen of them . . . but Joscelin could not aid me here. No, he was sworn into the Mahrkagir's service, surrounded by the men who had defeated and unmanned the Akkadians, clad in leather and steel plate, heavily armed. Even if he tried, they were enough to stop him; enough, and more.
And there were the Skotophagoti.
Blessed Elua, I thought, what have I done?
What have you done to me?
FORTY-FOUR
"You HAVEN'T wept."
The sound of a voice speaking Caerdicci—a civilized tongue, the scholar's language, nearly my milk-tongue—jolted me awake. I hadn't realized I'd been dozing. I stared uncomprehending at the woman standing before me, strong-featured and handsome. There was blood spattered on her woolen gown, which was cut in the Tiberian manner, a long shawl worn over it.
"Forgive me," I said, nearly stammering. "My lady . . . ?" "Drucilla." She sat down on the far end of my couch uninvited, fixing me with a disconcertingly level grey-blue gaze. "It will do. You are D'Angeline."
"Yes." I sat upright, running my hands over my face. "Phèdre nó Delaunay."
"Phèdre." Drucilla nodded once. "That's an ill-luck name." "So it seems," I said, eyeing her. She bore it with composure, only flinching a little and tucking her hands into the folds of her shawl. I saw before she did that the fourth and fifth fingers were missing the furthest joint on both hands. "Are you wounded, my lady?"
"No." She shook her head. "I have come from seeing Hiu-Mei, who is newly returned from his lordship's attentions. She is his favorite. In a fit of anger, he struck her face with a— ' Seeing me blanch, she switched mid-sentence. "It is not my blood. I was a physician, once. I do what I can to tend to the living."
"Ah." I swallowed. "Truly, it is admirable, my lady." "It keeps despair at bay," Drucilla said matter-of-factly. "One clings to what one knows, until. . . well." She glanced at her hidden hands. "Until one can cling no longer. They are speaking of you. I was curious.”
I remembered the words that had awakened me. "Because I have not wept?"
"That, and other things. A guard said that you were not taken; you were brought. Others have been, but never one such as you. And now there is a D'Angeline lordling among the Mahrkagir's men, a leopard among wolves. There was a quarrel, last night in the festal hall."
My heart leapt in my breast. I schooled my voice to hardness, asking, "Is he dead?"
"No," the Tiberian woman said. "One of his lordship's Drujani soldiers is."
I looked