Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [336]
"To Claudia," I agreed. "May the gods protect her from herself."
Eamonn laughed. "To the long-suffering Deccus Fulvius!"
"Oh, yes. " I drank. "May he never know what is better left to ignorance. "
Other toasts followed as we refilled our glasses and tried to outdo one another. We drank to Lucius for his courage and to the valor of the Red Scourge. We drank to our fallen companions and toasted the living. I toasted Eamonn for his leadership of Barbarus squadron, and he toasted me for saving his life. We drank to Master Piero for his wise teaching, and then we drank to wisdom itself and to all the virtues we could think of, making a muddled job of it.
By that time, the decanter was nearly empty and we were both more than a bit drunk. After the short rations in Lucca, neither of us had a head for drink anymore. I poured the last of the brandy into our glasses.
"To Gilot," I murmured.
"Gilot," Eamonn echoed.
Silence settled over the room, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire. A charred log settled, sending up a burst of sparks, and Eamonn heaved himself to his feet.
"To bed, "he said, swaying. "You're off in the morning?"
"Early, yes."
"All right." He knuckled his eyes. "I'll see you then."
I almost wished he would stay, that we were sharing a bedchamber as we had in Phèdre's townhouse. For once, I wouldn't have minded his snoring. But we weren't overgrown boys any more, exchanging confidences in the dark. We were grown men who had fought in and survived the siege of Lucca. We were royal guests of the D'Angeline embassy, entitled to the privilege of privacy. I closed the door behind him and climbed into bed.
I'd thought to lay awake for hours that night, staring at the darkness and remembering the stricken look on Anna Marzoni's face, but the brandy had done its work. I fell asleep almost the instant my head touched the pillow, and slept soundly until a servant came to wake me at daybreak.
It was time to go home.
* * *
Chapter Sixty-Eight
All was in readiness.
An honor guard of four men would escort me to the City of Elua. I'd argued against it, but Lady Denise was adamant. When I learned they were drawing lots for the privilege—which was less about my royal personage than it was the chance to return home—I'd ceded the point.
We assembled an hour after dawn and rode in procession to the wharf. Gilot's casket had been fitted with brass rings. Sturdy poles were thrust through the rings, and four embassy guardsmen carried it on their shoulders. Eamonn and I rode on either side of the casket, exchanging glances, bleary-eyed and rueful.
I hated the thought of saying good-bye to him.
There was a barge awaiting us at the wharf. It was reserved for our usage, flying the banner of Elua and his Companions. I lingered on the docks while Lady Denises guardsmen oversaw the loading of the horses, our goods, Gilot's casket.
Then it was done, and there was no excuse for further delay. I bowed to Denise Fleurais. "Thank you, my lady, for all you have done. May Elua bless and keep you."
Lady Denise bowed in reply, then gave me the kiss of parting. "Be well and be safe, Imriel de la Courcel," she said. "I need no other thanks."
Eamonn.
He had dismounted and given one of the guards his reins. We gazed awkwardly at one another. "Here." He thrust a packet of letters toward me. "For my mother, mostly. There's one for my father, too, if he ever comes to port." He gave a lopsided grin. "Didn't want to forget this time."
I took them and tucked them inside my doublet. "I'll make sure they're received."
"Good." Eamonn cleared his throat. "So."
"You've got everything you need?" I asked him.
He nodded. "Nearly. I'll leave within a day or two. Mayhap I can beat the snow."
"Good." I drew a breath. "I'll miss you."
"Ah, Imri!" Eamonn grabbed me in a bone-cracking hug, then