Kushiel's Chosen - Jacqueline Carey [117]
"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 Delaunayalways 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 overlookedthe 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