Kushiel's Chosen - Jacqueline Carey [132]
We were attracting enough curious glances already; I refused Remy and Ti-Philippe's laughing offer to carry me. As a result, I was mired to the ankle by the time we had trudged through a murky labyrinth of back alleys into a mean little courtyard, strung with crisscrossing lines of drying laundry. One closed door onto a windowless dwelling bore a rude painting of the circle of the Zodiac.
"Quite a comedown for the Doge's astrologer," I remarked, holding up my skirts and trying in vain to stamp the worst of the mud from my finely made heeled slippers, which were likely ruined.
"He read the stars for His Grace's wife when she was ill," Ti-Philippe said philosophically, "and prescribed a philtre of sulfur to cure her. It's a wonder it didn't kill her. My friend Candido said Prince Benedicte sent his own Eisandine chirurgeon, who gave her a purge that likely saved her, though she's been sickly ever since. But his mother's superstitious; she thinks someone played foul with Magister Acco's potions, and is yet devout to his advice.”
I gave up on the mud. "Lucky for us we're not seeking him out for his medical acumen."
Remy chuckled and rang the bell outside the astrologer's door. Presently it opened a crack, and a sallow face peered out. Weary eyes sized up our persons and our attire, and the astrologer's face took on a cunning look. "Adventurers from the Little Court, yes? Does the fair lady want her stars charted?" Magister Acco stepped back and opened his door wide. "Come in, come in!"
We entered the dark and frowsy interior of the astrologer's dwelling. He bustled around, lighting additional lamps. I gauged him to be some fifty years of age, lean, streaks of iron-grey in his black hair, atop which perched a fraying cap of velvet. The satin robes of his calling, decorated with celestial symbols, had been fine once, albeit unsubtle. Now they were stained with foodstuff and worn about the hems. Still, there were books and scrolls strewn about his rooms. One, obviously well-thumbed, was in Akkadian script, which I could not read. Obviously, he'd had some learning. I should have guessed as much, since he had been a friend of Maestro Gonzago's.
"Sit, my lady, I pray you." With some embarrassment, Magister Acco cleared the picked remains of a chicken leg from his worktable. Covering his shame, he asked in passably good D'Angeline, "Shall we conduct the charting in your maiden tongue, my lady?"
"Caerdicci is fine, my lord astrologer," I said politely, sitting opposite him, the table between us. Remy and Ti-Philippe took a stand on either side of me. "But I'm afraid—"
"Ah, yes, of course." Magister Acco steepled his fingers, nodding wisely. "My lady, have no fear, your coin buys my utmost discretion. I ask only that if you find my advice sage—and you shall, you shall!—you drop a kind word in the ear of Prince Benedicte. It is not meet that I should be without a royal patron, being trained to serve kings."
I leaned forward and held his eyes. "My lord astrologer, if you have the knowledge I seek, believe me, Prince Benedicte will reward you. I seek not counsel, but information." The astrologer drew back, a veiled look coming over his face. I smiled disarmingly, changing my tactic. "Forgive me, I did not mean to alarm you. You are a friend of the Aragonian historian Gonzago de Escabares, are you not?"
Magister Acco relaxed. "Yes, Gonzago, of course. Did he send you? I know he's ever had a fondness for Terre d'Ange and ..." he chuckled, "... its fair cuisine. Pray, send the old rascal my greetings."
"I shall," I said, and paused. "Magister, I know Maestro Gonzago visited you last year, and after he left, an acquaintance of his, Lucretius by name, came seeking him too late. You sent him on to Varro, whence the Maestro was bound, and gave him the name of a reputable