Kushiel's Chosen - Jacqueline Carey [233]
The attendant led us to the Upper East Wing of the Palace, and paused outside a doorway. I could hear odd sounds coming from within, grunting and thudding. Kazan looked inquiringly at me and I shrugged. The attendant cleared his throat and knocked three times, then opened the door.
It led not into a room but onto a small, open-air courtyard with a sandy floor. There was a well at the rear of the yard, and it was set about on all sides with benches and date palms in massive clay pots. Kritian nobles sat on the benches, attended by servants with parasols, eating and drinking andconversing while they watched a wrestling match. Some half a dozen other wrestlers stood watching, laying odds and wagers.
We stood discreetly to one side and waited. I gazed at the seated nobles, trying to guess which one was the Archon while the match played out. The contestants were both naked and oiled, hair bound in clubs. One had the advantage of height and reach, but the smaller man was quick, slipping out of his hold time and again. The spectators oohed and aahed, exclaiming over each near throw and escape. Kazan stared, frowning in perplexity; the other two Illyrians looked uncomfortably at the scene. They will strip to swim, but not much else, and even that, not in the presence of women.
In time, the wrestlers closed in a grapple, legs braced, hands locked on each other's upper arms. I watched their feet scuffle for purchase and advantage in the deep sand as each sought to unbalance the other. The smaller man feinted left, seeking to hook his opponent's ankle; but he was ready for it and threw a hip-check, using the leverage of his long arms to throw the other. Down went the smaller contestant, landing with a resonant thump. The audience sighed and the winner stepped back and bowed deeply; when the loser bounded to his feet grinning, they all applauded, and I realized he was the Archon.
He came over to us as he was, mother-naked with the Seal of Minos strung on a cord about his neck, skin gleaming with oil save for a few patches of sand.
"I am Demetrios Asterius," he said cheerfully, "the Archon of Phaistos. I hear that Pasiphae has sent you to me. Has anyone ever told you that your hair shines like stars caught in a net of the night sky?"
I flushed, kneeling in the sun-warmed sand. "My lord Archon, pray accept my greeting. I am Phèdre nó Delaunay, Comtesse de Montrève, of Terre d'Ange."
"Mother Dia, I think I could guess that! You're enough to send the Goddess of Love running for her mirror." Setting his hands on his hips, the Archon surveyed Kazan, whobowed, eyes averted. "And you must be the Epidauran. Well, you two are an unlikely pair!"
"I am Kazan Atrabiades, I," Kazan said stiffly in Caerdicci.
The Archon raised his brows and switched languages without effort. "If that's so, you've a name for a pirate, Illyrian!"
Kazan grinned wolfishly; I daresay he was pleased to find his reputation had preceded him. "It may be, eh? But I have undergone the thetalos, I."
"So I am told." A shrewd look crossed Demetrios Aster-ius' face, and I remembered well what Pasiphae had said of him. Although he was slender and dark-complected, he had a look of her about the eyes; the deep-set eyes of the House of Minos, who call themselves the Kindred. "You have a letter, I believe?"
Still kneeling, I handed it to him. His slim fingers closed hard about my wrist instead of taking the letter, and he drew me to my feet, laughing. "You need not kneel to me, Lady Phèdre, charming though it looks. Let us see what Pasiphae has written." Plucking the letter from my hand, he gave a sharp whistle in the direction of the gathered wrestlers. One raised his head, smiling in answer, and came over to join us. He was tall and well-made, with hair the color of darkened bronze and grey eyes that held a quiet amusement. "This is Timanthes," the Archon said absently, throwing an arm over his companion's shoulders as he scanned Pasiphae's letter. "He can beat me two falls out of three, too, although he never boasts