Kushiel's Chosen - Jacqueline Carey [258]
When he had done, Rossatos gazed at me. He had a diplomat's face, smooth and canny despite the lines of age, and one could not read his thoughts in it. "The Contessa de Montrève, I presume," he said in flawless Caerdicci.
I rose and made him a curtsy. "My lord Ambassador, I am Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève. Please accept my thanks for your hospitality."
His eyelids flickered. "I but do the will of the Zim Sokali, my lady. You are welcome here." He tapped the letter. "I am commanded herein to give you such aid as I may, providing it places our position here in no jeopardy. If I understand aright, you seek to prevent the assassination of your Queen, yes? Ysandre de la Courcel of Terre d'Ange?"
"Yes, my lord."
"You have proof of this conspiracy?"
I hesitated. "My lord ... yes. The woman Prince Benedicte has taken to wife is a condemned traitor, sentenced to execution in Terre d'Ange. He knows this, has deliberately deceived the Queen in this matter. It is all the proof that is needful."
"Ah." Janàri Rossatos imparted great precision to a single syllable. "And are you prepared to make this accusation to the Doge-elect, his own son-in-law?"
"No." I shook my head. "Marco Stregazza is his ally."
"Is he really?" Rossatos leaned back in his chair, looking intrigued. "You know, a month ago, I'd have laughed to hear it, so long had Prince Benedicte and the Stregazza been feuding. Twas a strange and wondrous thing, how their feud was resolved nearly on the eve of the election. It is widely agreed that Benedicte's endorsement—and the promise of D'Angeline funds to support fresh dredging and construction—gave Marco the election."
"It was planned thusly," I said.
"Perhaps."
"No. Of a surety." I sighed. "Let me guess, my lord Ambassador. Prince Benedicte repented of his haste in naming his newborn son Imriel heir to his D'Angeline properties, and has restored them to the inheritance of his daughter Marie-Celeste. Do I have the right of it?"
The Ambassador's brows rose. "Near enough. What of it? The boy may inherit the Little Court; the daughter, no. Not in Serenissima."
"The boy will inherit Terre d'Ange," I said softly. "That is their plan. But I cannot prove it to you, my lord, without getting myself killed."
"She speaks the truth," Kazan rumbled impatiently. "I stood on a Serenissiman ship, I, while her captain ordered Phèdre nó Delaunay slain on the Stregazza's orders, eh, Marco Stregazza. I did not let that happen, I. So what is your aid worth, diplomat?"
Rossatos spread his hands helplessly and glanced at Pjètri, his Ban's son. "Little enough, I'm afraid. My word carries little sway with the Doge at the best of times. Now Cesare sees no audiences—due to his health, it is claimed—and asfor the Doge-elect.. . Marco claims piety prevents him from receiving foreign embassies until he is rightfully invested as Doge."
"What of Ysandre?" I asked. "Has the D'Angeline pro-gressus regalis arrived?"
He shook his elegant head, silver-grey hair neatly bar-bered. "Tomorrow, it is said; a day before the investiture. Her emissaries arrived today, from Pavento."
"Where are they housed?"
"The Little Court," Rossatos said. "Where else? Prince Benedicte has been making ready for weeks. It is," he added thoughtfully, "a pity that his wife is said to be unwell, and perhaps unable to attend the festivities."
I'd wondered whether or not Melisande would risk recognition, veiled or no. "I suspect it is an illness of convenience, my lord, in much the same way that I suspect the Doge's ill health has no natural provenance." I wouldn't put it past Marie-Celeste Stregazza to have dosed poor old Cesare with something that gave him a flux. "Can you gain access to the Little Court?"
"No." Rossatos' voice