Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [137]
I couldn't escape from myself.
"That's the trick," I said drunkenly to Gilot. By that time, the sun had long since set. "To make of the self a vessel where the self is not. That's how she did it, you know." I hiccouphed. "Phèdre, I mean."
He moved my winecup out of reach. "Did what?"
I wagged my finger at him, then lurched over the table to retrieve it. "Got the Name of God." I refilled my cup, wine spilling over the rim. "She holds it in her head, you know."
"Yes, I know." Gilot sighed. "Are you ready to go home yet?"
"No!" I hunched over my winecup and glared at him. "You don't… you don't understand. We were there, at the temple. Kapporeth. I stabbed one of Hanoch's men, right there on the threshhold. She was ready to give her life for me, Gilot! And I repay it like this?"
"If you want to repay it, go home and face her," he said patiently.
I drained my cup and inverted the jar over it. A single drop of wine clung the the lip. I shook my ill-shorn head. "No," I said. "Not yet."
We ended at a disreputable tavern along the Aviline River. It was a rough place; truly rough, not one such as the City's gentry frequent for a thrill of the forbidden. They served only ale, no wine. Broad-shouldered boatmen hunched over their tankards. I liked it because no one knew who I was, or cared.
I picked a fight with one of the boatmen.
I don't remember what it was about. Nothing, like as not; I didn't even know the man. But I managed to insult him to the point where he hauled me off my stool, grasping the front of my doublet and threatening me with a ham-sized fist. There was a surge in the tavern as Gilot sought to come to my defense and went down under a pile of the boatman's comrades, thrashing and cursing.
"Apologize, lordling," the boatman rumbled.
I hung in his grip, laughing. "For what?" I asked. "Tell me, have you a sister? I wouldn't mind giving her a tumble if she'd let me close my eyes."
The front door opened and the whole tavern went inexplicably silent.
My assailant turned his head. Lolling in his grip, I followed his gaze.
Joscelin leaned in the doorway, the hilt of his longsword protruding over his shoulder.
"See that?" I gave a bleary grin, secure in his sudden presence. "I want to be able to do that. Just show up, and have everyone go dead quiet. Why can't I do that?"
Joscelin nodded at the boatman. "Go ahead. I reckon you owe him one."
Jos—
I only got out the first syllable of his name before the boatman's fist smashed into my face. Drunk as I was, I felt it, a starburst opening behind my eyes. It hurt. It hurt a lot, more than anything had hurt me since Daršanga. I gaped, bloody-mouthed, hanging in the boatman's grip and seeing his fist cocked for a second blow, the sinews in his arm taut and swelling.
"I said one."
Joscelin's gauntleted right hand caught the boatman's fist. His other hovered over the hilt of his left-hand dagger. The boatman nodded, ceding to good sense, thrusting me toward him.
"Take him," he said in disgust.
I staggered into Joscelin's arms. "Thank you," I slurred.
He held me up effortlessly, gesturing toward the back of the tavern. "Gilot."
The horde parted, letting him rise. Gilot bounded to his feet, hand on his sword-hilt, fury in his face, abating as he took in the scene. Joscelin jerked his head toward the door.
"Go on," he said quietly. "You've earned your rest."
With a profound sigh, Gilot departed.
Holding me up with one arm, Joscelin fumbled in his purse, tossing a few silver ducats on the bar. "Apologies," he said.
The innkeeper nodded. "No trouble, my lord."
Outside, Joscelin let go of me. I squinted at him, seeing three wavering figures, and concentrated hard on standing upright. The ground seemed to be moving under my feet and my knees felt watery. Mercifully, after the first burst of pain, it had faded. My face felt hot and numb, a wet warmth