Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [115]
"What did he say to you?" he repeated.
"Later." I shook him off, racing after Gilot.
Once I passed beyond the faint illumination from the street, it was pitch-black in the alley. Within twenty paces, I slowed to a walk, then halted. Closing my eyes, I listened. I could hear footsteps and someone's breathing. "Gilot?"
"Aye." He sounded disgrunted. "He's gone, Imri."
Bertran appeared at the mouth of the alley with a lit torch. "Any luck?"
"No," I said. "Bring that here, will you?"
By torchlight, it was obvious the alley grew too narrow to admit him on horseback. Bertran dismounted and came on foot. With the torch casting wavering shadows on the crowded buildings of Night's Doorstep, we searched to no avail. The back alleys branched and branched again. There were too many paths my unwelcome messenger could have taken, and all of them were silent and empty.
"Come on." Gilot clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Let's go back; the others must be freezing."
A dozen yards from the mouth of the alley, Bertran pointed. "What's that?"
I stooped and picked up the object. "His cap. He was wearing this."
"Let me see." Bertran held out his free hand. I gave it to him. He examined it, frowning, then peered inside it. I saw his mouth tighten.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Hold this." He thrust the torch at Gilot, who took it without comment. I watched as Bertran worked at a scrap of parchment sewn into the interior of the cap. There was a message written on it. He read it silently to himself, and I felt my blood run cold.
"Bertran," I said. "Please."
He met my eyes and his were dark with distrust. "Read it."
I took it from him, squinting at the blurred ink. " 'Dolphin fountain, sunset, two days hence,'" I read aloud. "Bertran, I have no idea what that means. I swear to you, I have no idea who that man was or what he was talking about."
"Friends," he said softly. "'True of heart and pure of blood. Don't play me for a fool, Imriel. Prince Imriel."
It was like a nightmare. I shook my head. "No," I said. "You know me. Name of Elua, Bertran! I don't want the throne. I don't want the holdings I have! Have I ever given you any reason to doubt me?" I asked fiercely. "Any reason?"
"No." The torchlight made a mask of his face, strange and unfamiliar. "But your mother played a long game, didn't she? So my own mother always said, and she's cause to know." A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Melisande Shahrizai destroyed my grandfather, too, and he was a hero, once. Percy de Somerville. My father gave up his name to be free of the taint of her treachery." He laughed bitterly. "Imagine that! Baudoin de Trevalion was executed for treason, and the stench of the Trevalion name still reeked less than Somerville's after your mother was done with it."
"I know," I said quietly. "And I am sorry for it. But I am not my mother's son."
"Pray you're not." Bertran looked hard at me. "Pray you're not, Imri! Because I will see you dead before I let you follow in her footsteps."
"My lord de Trevalion!" Gilot interceded, cool and crisp. "Do you question the honor of House Montrève?" He shifted the torch into his left hand, placing the right on the hilt of his sword. "If you do, I will be pleased to answer for it."
"Enough!" I moved between them. "Gilot, stand down. This is absurd. Bertran…" I spread my hands. "Whatever is going on, I have no part in it. The first thing in the morning, I'll take the matter to the Queen."
Nothing in his expression changed. "Give me the note. I'll do it myself."
"Fine." I shoved it at him. "Take it."
He took it without comment and we returned to the Cockerel. Our companions were waiting, shivering with cold and excitement, stamping and hugging their cloaks around them as they speculated on what had transpired.
"Was it a cutpurse?" Julien called. "Did you catch him?"
Bertran eyed me.
"No, and no." I took a deep breath. "It's nothing. I've no idea who he was. He tried to imply that I'm involved in some manner of intrigue,