Kushiel's Chosen - Jacqueline Carey [257]
If my terror was lessened by a measure, my discomfort only increased. We had reckoned it wisest if I were to stay in concealment until the trunk could be safely unloaded and brought into the Ambassador's residence, and so I remained, cramped and stifling in darkness, while the Ban's ship made its way across the harbor and proceeded up the Great Canal.
I daresay they went as swiftly as they might, but unlike Kazan's vessels, the tribute ship was not built for speed in close quarters and there was a good deal of sea traffic in the harbor and canals. I lay quiet, ignoring the twinges of pain in my contorted limbs, counting my own breaths to time the journey and imagining in memory the sights we passed: the Arsenal; the Palace of the Doge alongside the Campo Grande, where the statue of Asherat-of-the-Sea looked out on the harbor; the Temple of Baal-Jupiter; and, oh, yes, theLittle Court, proudly flying the standard of House Courcel. Other houses of the Hundred Worthy Families lined the Great Canal, and then the mighty Rive Alto bridge, and beyond, the warehouses and banking institutions and residences of foreign ambassadors....
And we were there. I heard the oars jostle and splash as the rowers maneuvered the ship into position, the thump of padded bolsters thrown over the side to cushion her against the dock, and the deep plunge of the anchor dropped into murky green waters. The myriad sounds of sailors striking the sails and making fast the ship followed, and then, mercifully, the opening of the cabin door and Illyrian voices, soldiers moving swiftly under Pjèíri Kolcei's command.
It took four of them to carry the trunk, heavy on its own and heavier still with my weight added to the tribute-gift. A terrifying feeling, to be thus trapped, lifted and swaying in midair. My panic returned, sweat trickling between my shoulder blades as the trunk rose, jolted awkwardly and began to move. Every time it tilted, my stomach lurched in fear; out of the hold, down the landing plank and, worst of all, up a steep stairway and into the ambassador's residence.
There, at last, they lowered the trunk with a bone-jarring thud. I heard voices, familiar and unfamiliar, exchanging formalities and hurried explanations, and then Kazan's voice cutting through it all. "Pjètri, the key. Get her out now.'"
A key fidgeted in the lock and the lid was thrown open. For the third time that day the Ban's tribute-gift was unloaded, gold coinage and chunks of raw amber dumped in an unceremonious pile as Kazan's men scooped it out by the armload, hauling the pelts after. I coiled my body tighter, shivering as someone wedged a dagger-blade into the seam very near my unprotected head, prying up the false bottom. It was Kazan; I heard him curse as his fingernails scrabbled futilely for purchase, seeking the tiny groove.
"Here." Pjètri's voice, quick and impatient. "Move over. Move over, I say! I know how to do it. No, there—pry up on the hilt."
Of a sudden, the pressure atop me was gone and therewas light and air, fresh, clean air. I breathed in a great, gulping draught of it, filling my lungs, and drew myself up to kneel in the trunk. A wave of dizziness overcame me, and I had to brace my hands on the sides to remain upright.
"Phèdre?" Kazan's face swam in my vision. "Are you well?"
I nodded, which made the dizziness worse. Beyond Kazan, I saw an older Illyrian nobleman, elegantly attired, his brows arched in astonished surmise. Pjètri moved between us, bowing and extending a letter to the man.
"Ambassador Rossatos," he said politely. "My father will explain in full."
So he did, I trust; I never knew for a surety what the Ban had written. Janàri Rossatos called for an Illyrian manservant he trusted to bring us wine while he read the letter through twice, taking his time about