Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [345]
The city behind us, the road before. One of Gerard's men brought out a wooden flute and began to play as he rode, and another beat the time on a tambor. After a moment, Gerard began to sing. He had a fine voice, deep and rolling.
"What was all that about Mendacants?" Romuald asked curiously. "I saw one, once. Came to town when I was a boy. No offense to your highness, but Elua, could he spin a tale!"
I cocked my head at him. "A true tale?"
"Ah, well." He grinned. "Who's to say?"
So I told him, as we rode, about how Joscelin had taken on a Mendacant's guise to cross the country with Phèdre and Hyacinthe; a wandering Eisandine storyteller in a multicolored cloak, travelling in the company of the Tsingani. He knew the story, of course; he was D'Angeline. But he only knew the poets' version, which didn't mention ignominious disguises. I knew the version Phèdre told, laughing at the memory of Joscelin Verreuil practicing the dramatic swirl of his Mendacant's cloak, glaring with stiff, irritable Cassiline dignity at Hyacinthe's persistent coaching. There were some stories they'd never told me; ones I'd learned elsewhere, like how Waldemar Selig sought to skin her alive. From Gilot, mostly.
But this one, Phèdre had told.
And Joscelin… Joscelin listening with wry patience. When I was younger, I'd begged him to demonstrate. He'd done it, too, telling some wild, half-remembered tale they'd concocted between them. He'd actually made a good job of it, which made it all the funnier. Phèdre and I had laughed until we wept. I'd rolled on the floor, helpless with it.
Ah, Elua!
"Are you all right, your highness?" Romuald asked in concern; the same kind, decent concern he'd shown on the barge.
"Yes." I willed my voice to steadiness. It was the nearness of it that had caught me. The nearness to the journey's end, the nearness to those I loved. My heart swelled within me, aching, but I made myself give him an answer, the same answer I'd given before. "I will be." Romuald nodded gravely. "That's good, then."
* * *
Chapter Seventy
Never in my life had I been so glad to see the white walls of the City of Elua. From the first glimpse, I found myself standing in the stirrups and craning for a better look. The Bastard caught my mood and began straining at the bit, arching his neck and sidling. He wanted to run, and I wanted to let him.
Gerard laughed at me. "Eager, are we?"
"You've no idea," I said fervently.
It seemed to take forever to reach the gates, and then we had to wait while the guards examined the contents of a merchant's caravan. At last, they waved him through and it was our turn.
"Marsilikos, my lord?" a guard asked Gerard, noting the banners and his crest.
"Gerard de Mereliot," he said cheerfully. "And friends."
The guard looked us over. His gaze passed over me at first and lingered on Gilot's casket. He frowned. "Who died?"
"He was the Comtesse de Montrève's man," I said.
"Why—" He gave me a startled glance. "Oh. Oh! Your highness?"
"Imriel, yes."
A pair of Tsingano lads idling over a game of knucklebones in a patch of sun leapt to their feet. One of them stuck his fingers in his mouth and gave a sharp whistle. "Hey! Is that him?" he called.
The guard grinned. "Aye, it's him!"
With dueling whoops and shouts, they dashed away, pelting through the City.
"What in the world?" Gerard asked, bemused.
"Tsingani." The guard shrugged. "They've been hanging about for a few days. I don't mind, as long as they don't steal."
Another time, I might have stayed to defend the reputation of the Tsingani, but not today. I could well guess that the lads were there at Phèdre's behest; or mayhap Emile's out of the affection he bore her. Even now, they were racing to carry the news. Filled with impatience, I pushed past the guard to follow in their wake.
"Welcome home, your highness!" he called after me.
The City of Elua.
It seemed