Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [161]
"Thank you, my lord, thank you!" I said with relief.
"It is what I do," he said. "You may go. Tomorrow, we meet at the Temple of All Gods."
I hesitated, watching him inscribe my name. "Master Piero?"
"Yes?" He looked up.
"How might a student at the University come to study the arts of covertcy?" I asked.
He blinked at me. "Covertcy? Is that what you wish to study?"
"No," I said. "Not exactly. I wish to learn how a student who was present"—I counted on my fingers—" some forty years past might have learned them."
Master Piero shook his head. His homely face was as innocent of knowledge as a blank sheet of parchment. "I've no idea, young Imriel. 'Tis before my time, but I've never heard of such a thing. Not here, not at the University."
"All right," I said. "Thank you, my lord."
"Go." He waved his hand. "You know how to thank me."
I went.
Outside, beneath the colonnade, I found Eamonn loitering and waiting for me. "Well?" he asked anxiously. "What did he say?"
I smiled. "I'm his student."
"Yes!" Me gave me a bone-cracking hug worthy of his father, Quintilius Rousse. "I knew you would be!"
"Eamonn!" I wheezed.
"Sorry, Imri." He let me go. A pair of passing Caerdicci students shot snide looks in my direction. "I'm glad, that's all. Aren't you pleased?"
"Yes, of course." I watched the students. "Eamonn, am I imagining things, or is there a certain antipathy toward D'Angelines here at the University?"
"A bit, mayhap." Eamonn scratched his chin. "Truth be told, there aren't many here at the moment. Or any that I know of, other than you." He poked my arm. "Come on, let's go to the baths. We can talk there. Is Gilot about?"
"No." I laughed. "He's hovering in the courtyard at the insula, trying to find a woman to hire to empty the chamberpot."
We strolled together to the baths. It felt odd to me to walk everywhere in Tiberium, but everyone did it, patrician and commoner alike. There were strict rules regarding the use of carriages during daylight hours, and no one rode astride within the city proper unless they were coming or going. The main streets were wide enough and more, but it would be impossible to navigate the smaller ones. I found myself missing the Bastard, and thinking I must make time to take him for an outing. Surely he must be pining.
At the baths, we were sweated, scraped, and soaked. Afterward, Eamonn talked me into availing ourselves of the services of the unctuarium for a scented-oil massage. I had to wait, first, while he saw the barber. Clad in a linen robe, I sat on one of the ubiquitous Tiberian stools while Eamonn stretched his length in a specially made chair, tilting his chin.
The barber on duty made a show of whipping the lather, spreading it over his face and throat with a boar-bristle brush. He dragged a keen razor over Eamonn's skin, scraping away lather and red-gold stubble. The sight of the blue-gleaming edge dragging against his throat made me shudder. Eamonn closed his eyes, heedless.
"You don't have to shave, do you, Imri?" he asked in the Alban tongue.
I shook my head, then remembered he couldn't see. "No," I said, replying in kind.
Eamonn smiled, eyes still closed. "Does it make you proud?"
"No," I said, feeling at my smooth cheeks. "Why, should it? It's a matter of heritage, nothing more." I shrugged. "There are differences. Do they matter?"
"Aye." Eamonn opened his eyes. "They do to some."
In the unctuarium, we lay side by side on marble tables while attendants massaged scented oil into our skin.
"Make no mistake, Imri," Eamonn said. "There's envy at work. You…" He gestured at me with a languid arm. "You D'Angelines, you got lucky. You're a pretty folk, and you're a strong nation. Your gods gave you gifts you can number. And," he said candidly, "D'Angelines are nothing loathe to boast of it."
I gazed at him through my lashes, eyes half-lidded. "I don't, do I?"
"True," he admitted. "You're different. But people here don't know you, yet. All they see is a D'Angeline face." He pillowed his head on his arms. "Give it time,