Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [212]
In the dispassionate light of day, it was also hard to imagine confiding in the D'Angeline ambassadress with scant evidence. One sentence muttered in the midst of a riot wasn't terribly convincing. I didn't doubt that she would take me at my word, but it was the uproar that would follow that made me wince. It would reach the shores of Terre d'Ange, acrimonious and bitter. I didn't relish the thought of following in my mother's footsteps and accusing Bernadette de Trevalion of conspiracy, even if it was true.
In the end, I held off telling Denise Fleurais. Instead, I confided in Eamonn.
"If I told you somewhat I couldn't prove and asked you to trust me, would you believe me?" I asked him in the privacy of my insula apartment, where we were sharing a skin of wine I'd bought from a street-vendor. "Because I've need of advice, and you're the only person here I trust unreservedly."
"Of course," he said readily, then hesitated. "Well, it's not about philosophy, is it? I'll not concede an argument unheard."
"No, no." I shook my head. "Do you remember what I said the night of the riot? Someone did try to kill me, Eamonn. I was pushed. And I think there may have been a couple other attempts, too. Either way, I know who's behind it."
He refilled my winecup. "Who?"
I took a gulp. "Bernadette de Trevalion. She hired a man here."
Eamonn looked blank. "Who?"
"Bertran's mother," I said. "You remember Bertran?"
"Yes, of course." He continued to look blank. "Why, though?"
I sighed. "Ah, gods! I don't know. There was a plot, ages ago. My mother betrayed it. And as a result, Baudoin de Trevalion and his mother Lyonette, who was my father's sister, were convicted of treason."
"Enough!" Eamonn held out one hand. "I don't know how you keep them all straight. So it's a blood feud, then?"
I nodded. "I suppose so. Baudoin and Lyonette were condemned to death. He fell on his sword, and she took poison. Bernadette and her father were merely exiled for complicity, although Ysandre gave them clemency later. The other business, that was under the old king's rule, Ganelon de la Courcel. My… uncle." It felt strange to say the words. I'd never felt myself to be a king's nephew. "But it was my mother's testimony that convicted them. And she did it a-purpose."
"So it's a blood feud," Eamonn repeated. "Vengeance."
"Yes," I agreed. "So it seems."
He gave me a shrewd look. "And have you told the D'Angeline ambassadress this?"
"Not yet." I met his gaze. "The problem is, I can't prove it, Eamonn. I know it's true. I even know the name of the man Bernadette de Trevalion hired. But I can't prove it, not beyond a shadow of doubt. And if I try, things are likely to get very ugly, here and at home."
Eamonn shrugged. "Would you rather risk another attack?"
"No." I drained my cup. "So if you were me, you'd go to the ambassadress?"
"Me?" Eamonn grinned. "Not likely! If I were you, I'd pay a visit on the fellow trying to have me killed, and tell him I'd slice off his ballocks and shove them down his throat if he tried it again. But that's the difference between the Dalriada and D'Angelines. You make everything complicated."
"You know," I said slowly, "you have a point. Not necessarily a good one, but a point."
"Aye, and I might make a better one if you'd tell me more," he observed.
I smiled wryly. "Call it misplaced gallantry, but I can't. I'm sorry. Eamonn, if I can devise a plan for dealing with this on my own terms, are you willing to help?"
He quaffed his wine. "Name the place, Imri. We swore to be like brothers to one another, didn't we? Well, I meant it, no matter how odd and mysterious you're being."
That night, I tossed and turned on my pallet. I thought about the proof that Claudia dangled before me and the Guild's methods. I thought about