Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [116]
"Oh, good!" Julien said happily. "Are you?"
"No!" The word burst from me. I sighed, taking the Bastard's reins from a wide-eyed stable-lad. "Come on," I said. "It's late. You'll hear all about it on the morrow."
We made our respective ways home. Gilot and I rode the last few blocks alone. I kept silent for as long as I could stand it, and then finally spoke.
"I am telling the truth, you know," I said.
"Of course!" He looked surprised. "Imri, I've known you since you were thirteen years old. I never doubted it."
A wave of gratitude overtook me. "My thanks."
Gilot shook his head. "No thanks needed." He grinned at me. "Well, except mayhap mine to you, young highness. Hélène is a peach."
I smiled. "I'd forgotten. It seems like days ago, doesn't it?"
"Aye." His face turned sober as we entered the townhouse courtyard. "Whatever this business is, it's no good. I think you'd best wake her ladyship and tell her."
"I mean to," I said.
We woke the household and held a conference in the salon. Everyone sat or stood around, blinking and stifling yawns. Phèdre listened without interrupting, the vague softness of sleep giving way to a fierce clarity.
"What of the man?" she asked when I had finished.
I shrugged, feeling stupid and helpless. "I couldn't see well enough! I know, you trained me better than that, but it's just like the assassin in Nineveh. I wasn't expecting it, I didn't think."
"That's all right," she said gently. "Go slowly, and tell me what you remember."
I closed my eyes, hearing his muffled voice in my memory. "He was youngish," I said. "Older than me, but still young. And he knew Night's Doorstep, but he's not City-born. He had a provincial accent; Namarrese, mayhap." I thought about it. "Yes, Namarrese. He sounded a little like the master cheese-maker at Heuzé."
"Good," Phèdre said. "How tall was he?"
Opening my eyes, I held my hand out a few inches above chin level. "Not tall. He stood about so high to me. Slight, and quick."
"He knew what he was about," Gilot agreed. "He vanished like a rabbit."
"Lucky for him," Joscelin said darkly. He looked absolutely thunderous. For the first time in years, I shivered a little at the sight of him.
"Not lucky," Phèdre said. "This was carefully planned. But why?" She paced the salon, frowning in thought. "Imri, is there anything you might have said or done to give someone reason to believe you might welcome such an overture? Anything?"
Her words were an unexpected blow. "How can you ask?" I said bitterly. "I wouldn't, not in a thousand years! How can you think it? How can you possibly?"
"Imriel." She touched my hand. "I don't. But people hear what they wish to hear, and a careless jest may be taken in earnest."
It calmed me enough to think. "No," I said. "It's not somewhat I'd jest about. Only…" I paused. "Last year, at the Midwinter Masque, when I came as Baldur… because he was a god of light, Sidonie asked if I thought I might be asked to play the Sun Prince."
"Like Baudoin de Trevalion," Phèdre said softly.
I nodded. "Someone might have taken it for a sign."
She looked a little sick. "I never thought of that."
"Nor did I." I squared my shoulders. "But that's all. There's nothing else."
"So why this?" Phèdre mused. "Why now?"
"Because Imriel turns eighteen and gains his majority in the spring," Joscelin said in a blunt tone. "And there are members of Parliament unhappy about a half-Cruithne heir to the D'Angeline throne while Drustan's damned nephew appears to be laying claim to the succession in Alba without a D'Angeline in sight."
They exchanged a glance.
"Mayhap," Phèdre said slowly. "Or it may be somewhat else altogether."
Joscelin raised his brows. "What are you thinking?"
She shook her head. "Nothing, yet." Her dark eyes focused on me, clear and impossibly deep, save for the scarlet mote. "Go to bed, love. There's naught to be done about it tonight. We'll speak with the Queen in the morning."
* * *
Chapter Twenty-Four
My status at Court was altered overnight.
It wasn't Ysandre's doing. To her credit, the Queen heard