Kushiel's Chosen - Jacqueline Carey [163]
Who would stand against her, then, with Benedicte at her side?
There was Quintilius Rousse—and him, I could not guess. Would he swallow it or no? He would never believe me a traitor, 1 thought, nor Melisande innocent. And yet, he knew Benedicte of old, and Percy de Somerville, too. What could the Royal Admiral do, if the army held the land? Little enough, it might be; especially if the Serenissiman navy stood in support of Benedicte's claim. And if Marco Stre-gazza were elected Doge, I'd no doubt that would follow. Quintìlius Rousse was canny and a survivor. He might back Benedicte's claim, if he felt he had no other choice.
There was Barquiel L'Envers.
And he, I thought ruefully, was the key. The Duc L'Envers, whom I had thought my enemy. He was the reason Benedicte dared not act without the support of the Royal Army. As Ysandre's maternal uncle, he stood the nearest challenger to the throne, with ties by marriage to Aragonia, to Alba, to Khebbel-im-Akkad. All of whom might rally to L'Envers' cause if there was a whiff of suspicion concerning Ysandre's death. Drustan would, I was sure of it; nor had I forgotten the company of Aragonian spearmen which had fought beside us against the Skaldi, and the deadly Akkadian cavalry.
They would need to act quickly, Benedicte, Melisande and de Somerville, to secure the throne and dispose of Barquiel L'Envers.
1 am a fool, I thought, to have believed so easily. All is not lost until the game is played out in full, and it is not,not yet. It is a bitter hand Melisande has dealt me, but there are some cards still unplayed.
So I mused and thought, until the light began to fail in my stifling chamber and one of the guards brought my evening meal. Constantin, he was called, silent and grey. As the prison guards went, I liked him well enough, for he troubled me not.
"Constantin," I said to him when I returned my empty tray. "Will you carry a message to the warden for me?"
He shifted the tray in his arms and looked stolidly at me. "I will carry it. I do not promise he will hear."
"I understand," I said gravely. "Pray tell him I seek an audience with him."
"I will do that."
No more did he say, and with that, I had to be content. Falling night leached the last of the light from my cell. I sat on my pallet and watched the afterglow fade through my narrow window, blue twilight turning to grey and thence to star-pricked black. As vision failed, the endless moan of Asherat's grief filled my senses. Awake, I listened, picking out the sounds of my prison mates amid the cacophony. I had named them all, in the endless nights. The Wailer, whose ululating cries rose and fell without ceasing. The Scratcher, who made sounds like a small animal trying to tunnel through solid rock. The Snarler, who had wits left to curse his fate. The Banger... I did not like to think what the Banger did, producing dull muffled thuds that punctuated the howling night. There were others, mayhap seven or eight. It was hard to tell, even to my trained ear. I was not sure but that the Pleader and the Screamer were not the same person. I never heard them at the same time, but I was not certain if it were one prisoner alternating between begging despair and wild rage, or merely the orchestrations of madness.
When I am gone... it will be worse.
It would get worse. It would get a great deal worse. I did not yet cry out in the night, but only woke whimpering from a fitful sleep. When my dreams were full of naught butMalvio's slippery, grinning gaze, Fabron's lewd whisper in my ear ... ah, Elua!
It would get much, much worse.
If Joscelin and Ti-Philippe lived, if they stood a chance, it would be worth it.
Because I did not think I could withstand Melisande for very long.
If.
I fell asleep at last, exhausted by the torments of my mind. Morning came and wore on late; at length, a guard came with food. It was Tito,