Kushiel's Chosen - Jacqueline Carey [26]
So it was that Fortun accompanied me to Eglantine House, where Favrielle eyed him with approval. "Asmodel," shesaid, measuring the breadth of his shoulders with the span of her arm. "One of the seven courtiers of hell, who served under Kushiel. We'll put him in a black velvet doublet and hose, and a great bronze key on a chain about his neck. A simple horned domino, I think; black satin. A fitting attendant for Mara. Noreis!" Raising her voice, she beckoned to a tailor. No adept, he hastened to obey. "Will you see to it? Something elegant, not this season's forsaken nonsense."
"Of course." He bowed his head. Genius rules in Eglantine House. If Favrielle was unfit to serve Naamah, she clearly reigned over the fitting-room.
"Very well." With a sigh, Favrielle turned back to me. "Let's see what we have."
Once I had stripped and donned the half-sewn gown, I had to admit a grudging acknowledgment of her skill. Truly, it was splendid. The scarlet of the silk jersey-cloth matched the accents in my marque perfectly, and it flowed on my skin like a living thing. Standing on a stool while Favrielle grumbled about me, gathering and pinning, I gazed wide-eyed at my reflection in the mirror.
"Favrielle, my sweet!" The door to the fitting-room swung open to admit a tall adept in his mid-thirties, with merry eyes and a handsome, mobile face. "Where's my three-layered cloak for the Troubador of Eisande? I'm commissioned for Lord Orion's fête tonight, and the Dowayne promised him a private performance!" Catching sight of me, he stopped and swept an elaborate bow. "Forgive me, gentle lady ..." His resonant voice trailed off, and the merry gaze turned sharp as it swept up the length of my marque. His eyes met mine in the mirror, looking for the scarlet mote. "My lady, indeed. Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève, if I am not mistaken."
"Roussillon no Eglantine." I smiled. His satires were famous in Night's Doorstep; I'd heard him declaim, once. "Well met."
"And me without an ounce of doggerel!" He made a dismayed face, then struck a pose. "Waldemar Selig was a warlord," he declared. "Waldemar Selig had a big sword. But his plan fell apart, thanks to Kushiel's Dart, and Waldemar Selig got Isidore'd."
Across the room, Fortun gave a snort of repressed mirth. He had been there, on the battlefield, when Isidore d'Aiglemort slew Waldemar Selig. It cost him his life, but I reckoned Terre d'Ange's greatest traitor won his redemption in destroying her greatest enemy.
Still, it was good to be able to laugh.
"I'm not done," Roussillon said mildly, and cleared his throat. "Mighty Selig turned his back, when he divulged his attack, to the men of his barbarian horde. His loins, how they burned! Too late, Selig learned, a skilled anguissette is not safely ignored!"
I laughed aloud, clapping my hands; Roussillon swept me another bow, and Favrielle muttered in disgust. I winced as a carelessly wielded pin scratched me.
"The trim needed stitching," she said crossly to the satirist. "I'll have it sent to your room on the hour. Now get out, and stop distracting me with your wretched verse!"
He mimed fear convincingly, and I was hard put to keep from laughing again. "Thank you," he said then to Favrielle. Catching up her hands, he kissed them despite her best efforts to swat away his grasp. "You are a very angel of clothiers, precious one, and I shall light a candle to your name." Releasing her, he smiled at me, this time without any artifice. "May I say that it is an honor to meet you, my lady. Naamah's Servants are in your debt."
"Thank you." I returned his smile gravely. He laughed, gave one last swirling bow, and departed.
"Blathering jackass!" Favrielle muttered, picking up a dropped pin and driving it hard through the silken fabric. The fine stuff gave easily, and she buried the pin nearly an inch deep in the flesh at the base of my spine. I barely had time to gasp.
Pain, fiery and radiant, burst outward in concentric circles, pulsing and contracting. It washed over me in ripples, acute at the core,