Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [114]
And that year, for the first time, my loyalty was assailed.
It happened in Night's Doorstep, a few weeks after Midwinter. A party of us had ventured forth, defying the bitter cold. It was my usual group of friends—Bertran de Trevalion, the Trentes, Raul L'Envers y Aragon, Marguerite Grosmaine. Gilot was there, and a handful of men-at-arms attending the others. All in all, we made a considerable crowd.
I had scarce been to the Cockerel since Eamonn had left, and I reveled in the reception I received. There were always Tsingani there, and as Phèdre's foster-son, I was always welcome among them. Whether or not I knew them, they knew me. They knew the story. And in some ways, I felt more at home among them than I ever did at Court.
"The gadjo pearl!" a Tsingano man cried, grinning. He flung his arm around my shoulders. "We Tsingani saved your life, didn't we, chavo?"
"You did," I agreed, ignoring the shocked stares of my Court companions. I beckoned to the barkeep. "I'll stand a round for the Tsingani!"
They cheered and I laughed.
"Are you mad, Imriel?" Bertran asked quietly.
"Not at all," I said cheerfully. "It's true, they did. If not for the Tsingani, I'd still be a slave in Drujan. A dead slave."
He gave me a troubled look. "You shouldn't speak of such things in public."
"Why not?" I asked. "It's true."
"Oh, yes!" My Tsingano comrade gave my shoulders a friendly shake. "And if not for your gadjo foster-mother, Anasztaisia's son would be a prisoner!" He let me go and extended his hand, dark and sinewy. "I am Viktor."
I clasped it firmly. "Imriel."
For a moment, I thought it would go badly with my Court friends; then Julien Trente let out a whoop of enthusiasm. "All right, then! I'll stand a round for the Tsingani!"
After that, all was well. A pair of fiddlers began to play, and everyone mingled and drank together. As if summoned by magic—or more likely, a well-organized system of messengers—others came, including several of Naamah's Servants. There was one I knew, a pretty girl named Hélène. I whispered in her ear, pointing her toward Gilot. He had a dazed look on his face as she led him away toward a back room. I hid my smile in a tankard of ale, reckoning it well worth the patron-fee.
By the time we left, it was late and the moon was high overhead, small and distant. We milled around in the crisp air, laughing and talking over the night's adventure, waiting for the stable-lads to fetch our mounts from the livery. The Trentes had come by carriage, and there was some fuss over a fraying harness strap. I paid it scant heed. Viktor and two of the other Tsingani were admiring the Bastard, discussing his lineage in Tsingani dialect. I was listening to them, trying to make out their comments, when a figure stepped from the shadows.
"Prince Imriel."
"Yes?" I frowned. It was a man, and no one I knew. His lower face was swathed in a heavy scarf, muffling his voice, and he wore a rustic woolen cap pulled low over his brow.
"You have friends in Parliament." His eyes glinted in his shadowed face. "True of heart and pure of blood."
Every ounce of camaraderie and warmth left me. "Who are you?"
"No one." He began backing away. "No one."
"Wait, stop." I moved to detain him. "Stop!" Bertran's mount swung around abruptly, blocking me. Bertran stared down at me, incredulous.
"What did that fellow just say to you?" he asked.
The mysterious messenger was disappearing around the corner of the Cockerel into a dark alley. "Stop!" I shouted, shoving at solid horseflesh. "Damn it, Bertran, help me catch him or get out of the way!"
He tried to do both at once. I slipped past him and was nearly run down. Bowled over by his charge, I ducked my head, trying to scramble out of the way of his mount's churning hooves. I heard Bertran swearing, Gilot shouting at him, and the ring of a sword being drawn.
"Gilot!" I pointed toward the alley. "That way!"
Montrève's men-at-arms don't need to be told twice. Gilot took off at a dead run, boots skidding on the icy