Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [37]
In the midst of that came the news that a sizable delegation from General Astegal of Carthage—who had thus far done not the slightest thing to justify the rampant unease his appointment had provoked—was lying off the shores of Marsilikos, begging leave to sail up the Aviline River and pay tribute to Queen Ysandre.
And I got a letter.
To all appearances, it was a love-missive, written in a feminine hand, tied with ribbon and scented with perfume. It was delivered to the barracks of the Dauphine’s Guard.
It wasn’t the first of its kind. We’d both gotten them; it was a popular pastime at Court. This one was unsigned. It contained an innocuous love poem written on thick vellum . . . but there was a series of subtle notches and lines etched along the edges of the vellum. I fingered them, thinking back on the day in the Temple of Asclepius when the priest had taken my hand and shown me similar notches etched in a clay medallion.
“Who delivered this?” I asked.
Claude de Monluc shrugged. “Some Tsingano lad. He said a lady in Night’s Doorstep paid him.” He grinned. “Not intrigued, are you?”
“Gods, no!” I laughed and showed him the letter. “It’s not signed, that’s all. One never knows if it’s a prank.”
“Like as not it’s just another high-spirited young noblewoman,” he suggested. “Drunk enough to take a dare, sober enough to realize she’d regret it in the morning.”
“Like as not,” I agreed.
Since Sidonie was in conference with her mother, I went straightaway to the townhouse. Phèdre and Joscelin were still in Montrève, but Eugènie admitted me to Phèdre’s study without question. I knew Phèdre had found a reference for the blind priest’s system of notation, but it took me forever to locate the moldering old Hellene medical tome in which she’d found it. Doubtless Phèdre could have laid her hand on it in a heartbeat, but she wasn’t the most organized archivist in the world.
Once I finally did, I laid it open on her desk, studied the maddeningly intricate chart of slashes and crosshatches it contained, and set about transcribing the message.
It was painstaking work and I daresay I made a few errors, but eventually the gist of it came clear.
I do not hold the answer you seek, but one of Carthage does. If the Queen receives their tribute, he will tell you.
“Carthage,” I muttered. “It had to be Carthage.”
Giving Eugènie my thanks and a fond embrace, I took the letter, the transcription, and the musty old Hellene volume, stowed them in my bags and headed for Night’s Doorstep, where the portly Emile presided over a tavern called the Cockerel. He was a Tsingano half-breed who had been one of Hyacinthe’s boon companions many years ago, and he was unfailingly loyal to House Montrève.
“I need a quiet word,” I said to him.
“For you, my gadjo pearl?” He clapped my back. “Anything.”
Emile listened while I told him I’d received a mysterious love letter delivered by a Tsingano lad, that I wanted to talk to the boy and learn what he could tell me of the woman who’d given it to him. And that I wanted it done in secrecy.
“I will find out.” Emile studied me with disapproval. “Already you philander?”
“No!” I shook my head. “But I fear mayhap it’s a plot to make her highness believe otherwise.”
“Ah.” The lines of reproach smoothed from his fleshy face. Emile laid a finger alongside his nose. “Like the other time, eh? Do not fear. The Tsingani will always keep your secrets and seek to ferret out the secrets of those who would harm Phèdre nó Delaunay’s son. We do not forget who freed Hyacinthe from his curse.”
“There’s another matter,” I said. “Can you find someone discreet to ride to Montrève and fetch Phèdre and Joscelin?” Emile hesitated, and I fumbled for my purse, setting it on the table. “For a generous fee, of course.”
The purse vanished. “Of course I would do it for free.