Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [300]
"On to Alba," I agreed.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Maslin stayed.
It surprised me, more than a little. I hadn't thought he was serious; and even if I had, I wouldn't have supposed Tadeuz Vral would agree to it. He was unaware of Maslin's role in our escapade, but we were all tarred to some extent with the brush of my falsehood.
Still, Maslin managed to convince Vral that he would be in truth that which I had pretended; a young D'Angeline nobleman adventurer, come to explore the length and breadth of this budding nation and its trade routes to the east before reporting back to his Queen. His Rus had improved tremendously since he'd taken Katalena to his bed.
Phèdre thought Ysandre would welcome Maslin's initiative, and she knew the Queen better than most. Of a surety, Sidonie would be willing to release him from her service. She'd kept him on at his own insistence. Still, I found myself worried on his behalf.
"You're sure?" I asked him.
His mouth twisted, wry and familiar. "I'm sure. After all, I've already covered a good portion of the damned country. This is somewhat I can do, Imriel. Somewhat that's all my own. Leave me to do it, will you?”
"What will you live on?" I persisted.
Maslin jingled a purse at his belt. "I've some funds yet. And Prince Tadeuz has promised his patronage if I prove a true advocate. So have a few of the lesser lords.”
"Stay out of Tarkov," I advised him. "They won't have forgotten you.”
"I will." We were drinking starka in the quarters I shared with Urist; Maslin had been lodged there, too. He tipped the jug, refilling our cups. "Tell Sidonie…" His voice trailed off. "I don't know what to tell her.”
Urist snorted. "You might try the truth.”
Maslin glanced at him. "Is he always this way?”
I smiled. "Yes.”
He sighed. "Tell her I'm sorry. That I didn't mean to be an ass. And that I forgive her for goading me. I deserved it." Our eyes met. The silence and companionship of the wilderness lay between us. Maslin's mouth twisted further. "Tell her we became friends, Imriel de la Courcel.”
"I will," I promised.
It was overcast and snowing the day that we left. We'd made arrangements to hire sleighs, donating our mounts to Micah ben Ximon as reparation for the monies he'd paid to the families of the Tarkovan guards. It seemed only fair, and my own mount had been stolen from Tarkov in the first place. There was no ceremony, no further audience with ben Ximon, with Tadeuz Vral, with Rebbe Avraham. By their own decree, our role in their drama was finished. There was only our small company of D'Angelines and one Alban, making our way on foot to the wharf of Vralgrad where a pair of sleighs awaited us on the frozen Volkov River. And there was only Maslin, huddled in a long, padded coat, to bid us farewell.
"Be kind to Katalena," I murmured, embracing him. "Remember, you're a diplomat now.”
"I will." Maslin grinned. "Anyway, she dotes on me.”
I cuffed him. "Don't be an ass.”
What Phèdre said to him, I could not hear and cannot guess. I had already boarded the sleigh I would share with Urist and Hugues. Whatever it was, it brought tears to his eyes and brought him to his knees, his mittened hands clasped between hers. She bent her head and kissed him lightly, then climbed into her sleigh and settled into the seat between Joscelin and Ti-Philippe. They tucked fur blankets around themselves for warmth, and Maslin got to his feet.
The shaggy sleigh-horses shook their heads, bells on their headstalls jingling. Our drivers cracked their whips, calling out cheerful words of encouragement. The sleighs moved forward, runners creaking over ice and snow.
We were off.
I turned in the sleigh, craning my neck to catch sight of Maslin. For a time, I saw him there on the wharf, one arm raised in farewell. And then the veil of snow grew too thick to pierce, and I saw no more. I turned my gaze forward.
We were two days on the frozen Volkov, making our way to the sea. We lodged overnight in a town along the way, a stopping-point for merchants