Kushiel's Avatar - Jacqueline Carey [85]
"They've not changed since you measured me last," I said with some heat.
"If you say so." Her eyebrows rose again. I sighed, and let her measure me anew, standing patient as the knotted cord was wrapped around my breast, waist and hips. Favrielle made notations on a piece of foolscap.
"Well?" I asked.
Head averted beneath the tumbled mass of red-gold curls, she hid a smile. "It seems your measurements are unchanged, Comtesse."
"I told you as much."
"You did." Without lifting her head, Favrielle made a rough sketch of riding attire in a series of swift, elegant lines. "This is what I'm thinking, do you see? Conventional, but with a looseness of drape that affords better motion and permits the flow of air. And an overgarment, broad-sleeved and hooded, that will keep off the sun's glare or the night's chill. Will it suit?"
"Yes." I looked at her handiwork and sighed. "Beautifully. How soon can you have it done?"
"Come back in two days for a final fitting." She sketched a fine border of embroidery, then looked up at me. The indirect light caught the genuine curiosity in her green eyes, showed plainly the scar tissue that twisted her upper lip. If not for that, Favrielle would have been an adept of Eglantine House, a Servant of Naamah in her own right. "Why Jebe-Barkal?”
"Because," I said. "There is somewhat I must do there. It is a debt I owe a friend."
"A debt." She cocked her head, lip curling. "You're very keen on debts, Comtesse."
Anger born of long frustration blossomed within me, and I met her gaze with a level stare. "Mock me if you will, but you are of Eglantine House, Favrielle, and trained there nigh to adept status. You know the art of telling tales as well as that of draping cloth; it was you who told me the story of Naamah's daughter Mara, the first anguissette. Do you know the tale of how a Tsingano half-breed called the Prince of Travellers became the Master of the Straits?"
For once, Favrielle nó Eglantine's regard held something in it that saw me as a fellow mortal being, and not an inconvenience and an unpleasant reminder of an unwanted favor. "I know it," she said softly. "I have heard it told."
"Well." I ran a length of cloth-of-gold between my fingers. "It is not ended. And that is why I must go to Jebe-Barkal."
"So." She bent over her drawing, adding an unnecessary fillip of embellishment. "Two days. And," Favrielle looked up, eyes gleaming, "you might pay a visit to the marquist, Comtesse. You've need of a good limning."
In her own infuriating way, Favrielle was right, of course; 'twas on my list of things to be accomplished ere we departed for La Serenissima. I thought on it with amusement and annoyance as I lay on the limning-table in the marquist's shop. It was an exquisite torture, the keen, ink-dipped needles piercing my skin, rendering the lines of my marque clean and bold. Whatever claim Kushiel may have on me—and it is a prodigious one—I am Naamah's Servant too, twice-pledged of my own volition. It would not do to set out on a journey of this magnitude with my marque ill-tended.
When it was finished, I regarded myself in the mirror of the marquist's well-heated shop, gazing over my shoulder. It was well done. The black-thorn vine designed by Master Robert Tielhard was immaculate against my fair skin, twining the length of my spine, accented by crimson petals. The marquist bowed, honoring the work more than the wearer. I paid him generously nonetheless. The Marquists' Guild tithes to the Temple of Naamah. A gift to one was a gift to the other.
Naamah, I prayed silently, do not forget your Servant.
There was a good deal more to be done, and much of it dull and prosaic. I met with my factor, Jacques Brenin, to discuss my finances. We agreed on arrangements for the coming year—which is to say, I acceded to his suggestions, which were always good—and he gave me promissory notes for the Banco Tribune in La Serenissima and a money-lending house he knew by repute in Iskandria.