Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [38]
"Your highness," he said, inclining his head a scant inch. "Forgive me."
"My fault," I said hoarsely. "Sorry."
One immaculate brow arched. "As you say."
It made me angry, at last. Ysandre's guard hovered ineffectually behind me. The unknown nobleman looked down his nose. I wanted to spit at his feet, on his glossy, shining boots, and wished I were a commoner who could do so.
"Cousin!" A voice cleaved the crowd, light and friendly. I looked up to see one of the Shahrizai approaching. It was one I had seen before, a few years older than me. He reached out to clasp my forearm. He was smiling, filled with assurance, midnight braids framing his face with its high cheekbones. "Remember me?" he asked, winking.
"Yes," I said, remembering. "You're Mavros."
"So I am." He turned his smile on the nobleman, at once pleasant and dangerous. A kind of heat seemed to emanate from him, playful and predatory. "I suggest you be gone, Messire Bauldry." He paused. "Or… forgive me… did you wish to offend?"
"He jostled me!" Bauldry spat.
"Oh?" Mavros raised his brows, still smiling pleasantly. "As you say."
Somehow, he had turned it all around, and I was grateful to him for it. I returned his arm-clasp; glad, for the first time, to see a face that echoed my own. Both of us laughed as Messire Bauldry stomped away. "Who is he?" I asked.
"No one," Mavros said, amused. "A minor lordling with aspirations. Look, highness—"
"Imriel!" At the dicing table, Gilot broke away, hurrying toward us. "What are you doing here?" he asked. "You're supposed to be resting."
"I've rested," I said irritably. "I want to go home."
Gilot ran a hand through his disheveled brown hair. "Queen Ysandre—"
"Surely the Queen would not deny her kinsman the comfort of his own home," Mavros remarked, sounding eminently sensible. "Not after he has been given insult under her very roof!" He laid a hand on my shoulder, still smiling. "The Shahrizai do not countenance such treatment of their kin."
Gilot eyed me dubiously. "Given insult? Is that so?"
"Yes," I said. It was, though not for the reasons Mavros thought. Still, it felt good to have an ally at my side, one who understood how to negotiate the treacherous shoals of Court intrigue with effortless ease. I sighed. "Gilot, let it be. I'm fine. The Queen's chirurgeon will attest to it. I don't want any fuss. I just want to go home, that's all."
"All right, Imri." His expression softened. "Let me find Hugues, and we'll fetch your things. Stay put and I'll come for you." Patting his pockets, Gilot grinned. "Time enough, any road! I've precious little left to wager."
As Gilot plunged into the crowd, Mavros steered me toward the colonnade, sensing my discomfort. "Here," he said. "Walk with me." We strolled together. Away from the sound of rattling dice, I felt my head clear.
"Thank you," I said to him.
He shrugged. " 'Tis nothing." He gave me a sidelong glance. "Your retainer is familiar with you. Is he a lover?"
Heat rose, scorching my cheeks. "Gilot?"
"No, then." Mavros laughed softly. "Ah, well… Imri, is that what you are called?"
"Sometimes." I drew away from him.
"Forgive me." Mavros halted, turning his hands outward. Everything changed; his tone, his demeanor, all of it turning somber. "Cousin Imriel, you are the last person on earth I wish to offend. I forget that you were not raised as I was. What you have suffered, I cannot begin to guess. I spoke out of turn. Can you forgive me for it?"
I studied his face. He let me measure his expression. I did, and found no trace of a lie in it. Whatever his reasons, he was sincere. I nodded, slowly.
"Good." Mavros blew out his breath in a sigh of relief, shaking his braided head and grinning at me. "So it's girls for you, then, is it?"
I thought about the Thirteen Houses of the Night Court, and I thought about Katherine Friote, and the scent of her flesh, like a sun-warmed meadow. The memory was overlaid with the odor of the zenana, the fecund stench of its stagnant