Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [326]
So we entered with fanfare, and the people of Tiberium gawked at our company. A few of the bolder ones shouted out for news. One of LeClerc's men—Romuald, who'd warned me about the dam—called back the news of victory in Lucca.
There were cheers then. And the Tiberian citizens stared at Eamonn and me, nudging one another. They gazed with open curiosity at Gilot's casket, carried in the open cart. It was very fine, made of polished walnut and draped with a banner bearing the lily-and-stars insignia of Blessed Elua and his Companions. "Who died?" someone called.
"A hero!" I raised my voice. "A hero of Terre d'Ange." Beside me, Eamonn nodded.
We made our way to the embassy. A crowd followed us, many of them reaching out to touch the hem of Gilot's banner as the cart passed them. Tiberians are very fond of dead heroes, even D'Angeline ones. I clung to the memory of Gilot staring gape-mouthed around him on the quai in Ostia, and blinked back tears. The Bastard pranced and stomped, glaring around him with white-ringed eyes, forcing the onlookers to keep a wary distance.
At the embassy gates, the guards turned them back and we passed into relative quietness. Lady Denise Fleurais was awaiting us in the courtyard. Since it was a formal occasion, she bowed low in greeting. "Your highness," she murmured. "Prince Eamonn. Be welcome." We were made welcome; extravagantly welcome. Although the Lady Denise, with her shrewd diplomat's instinct, took care not to overwhelm us, the sudden immersion in luxury made for a stark contrast with the lives we'd been leading. Every amenity of the embassy was laid at our disposal. Our mounts were whisked away to the stables, Gilot's casket with carried with careful honor into a stateroom where it would reside until returning home.
The palazzo's private baths were cleared for our usage. Barbers and masseurs were sent to attend us in the unctuarium. While we soaked and luxuriated, Lady Denise's couturier measured our discarded clothing and made hurried alterations to near-finished garments intended for other clients. A leather-worker undertook to replace the cracked heels and worn soles of our boots. By the evening, we had been scoured and scrubbed, oiled and rubbed and combed, and in Eamonn's case, shaved. We were clad in clean, unworn attire, the fabric soft against our skin. Our newly resoled boots shone with polishing.
It felt good.
And it felt strange.
I sat down at Denise Fleurais' table in the small salon where we had dined before. The table was draped in white linen so pure it was dazzling in the candlelight. All the accoutrements on the table gleamed with polishing. I rested my fingertips on the edge of the table, feeling the fine weave of the cloth, and gazed quizzically at the backs of my hands. They were clean and familiar again. My hands, well-shaped and sinewy. The knuckles were no longer swollen, and only a few deep nicks remained. The squarish nails had been trimmed and buffed. I'd once heard Phèdre remark in an unguarded moment that I had my mother's hands.
I turned them over. They were still callused, a ridge of thick skin along the base of my fingers. I stared at the whorls inscribed there.
"Are you all right?" Denise Fleurais asked gently.
"Yes." I hid my hands beneath the table. "I'm fine."
"Good," Eamonn remarked. "I'm famished."
There was an abundance of food. I hadn't reckoned myself as famished as Eamonn, but as soon as the soup course arrived, I found my appetite. For what seemed like the better part of an hour, we ate our way steadily through course after course—sorrel soup, fish in a galantine sauce, goose stuffed with dates and almonds, all washed down with glass upon glass of good Namarrese wine. By the