Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [33]
I sat, chewing and nodding, as she expounded on it, thinking about Canis in his barrel. I thought about Gilot, too. I'd planned to make him steward of one of my two estates. He would have liked it, I thought; and he would have done a good job, too.
"Well?" the Marquise demanded. "Does that not seem unjust?”
I swallowed a mouthful of squab. "It does, my lady.”
"You're wasting your time, Marguerite," a familiar voice drawled. "Yon princeling is bound for Alba, as surely as his father was for La Serenissima." A booted foot descended on the edge of my chair and a male figure leaned over me, arms propped on one knee. "Isn't that right, your highness?”
"Duc Barquiel." I glanced up at him. "What a pleasure.”
Barquiel L'Envers, the Queen's uncle, snorted. He wore the same Akkadian finery he'd worn to the last Midwinter Masque, and he hadn't bothered with a mask either, only a turbaned helmet. "Lies don't become you, lad, any more than those rags do." He stroked my hair with a gauntleted hand. "Nor this tangled mane. I thought you might keep it short. It was quite becoming.”
I went rigid with fury and stared at my plate, afraid I might strike him. I hadn't the slightest doubt he'd strike back, and a good deal of doubt over which one of us would prevail. I had youth on my side, but Barquiel L'Envers had a name as a formidable fighter. He'd been Commander of the Royal Army for a long time, before Ysandre made him step down.
"Barquiel!" Marguerite Lafons said tartly. "Leave the lad be. You always were a bully.”
A chair scraped. "Hear, hear," a new voice said.
L'Envers straightened. "D'Essoms?”
I raised my head to see who had put that incredulous note in Barquiel L'Envers' voice. There were two men: one tall and D'Angeline, one slight and foreign. The D'Angeline smiled at me. He had dark hair and hooded eyes. "You must be Imriel de la Courcel. Well met, your highness. Childric d'Essoms, formerly of the Court of Chancery, lately ambassador to Ephesium.”
"Well met, my lord." I stood, ignoring L'Envers, and reached across the table to clasp d'Essoms' hand. I didn't know who he was, but if Barquiel L'Envers didn't like him, I did. My silver medallion swung forward as I leaned over, and I heard d'Essoms' companion take a sharp breath. At the same time, there was some commotion a few yards away; a fresh swirl of gossip, the crowds parting.
"Pray, your highness, come and—" Childric d'Essoms stopped. A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Phèdre nó Delaunay," he said softly.
There she stood, her cheeks flushed. "My lord d'Essoms.”
A patron, a former patron. Elua knew, he couldn't be aught else. It wasn't anything like the priest in Naamah's Temple. The air between them fairly crackled. Ti-Philippe, a step behind Phèdre, looked worried and a little foolish, holding her parasol. D'Essoms dismissed him without a second glance.
"Where's your Cassiline?" he asked her. "I've heard stories.”
"Keeping Elua's vigil." Flushed or no, Phèdre kept her voice steady. " 'Tis the Longest Night, my lord.”
"So it is." He reached for a glass of cordial and downed it. "Joie! Phèdre nó Delaunay, Comtesse de Montrève, this is Diokles Agallon of Ephesium, on embassy from the Sultan.”
I murmured apologies to the Lady Marguerite and brushed past L'Envers. He was standing with arms folded, a look of distaste on his features. There was a story there, no doubt, but I didn't care at the moment. I made my way around the table and put myself between Phèdre and Childric d'Essoms, ostensibly that I might be introduced to the Ephesian ambassador.
Diokles Agallon bowed. "My very great pleasure, your highness," he said in heavily accented D'Angeline. There was somewhat familiar about the accent; and yet, not quite.
"And mine, Ambassador." I fingered