Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [9]
"Here, chavo" he said, pressing something into my palm. "Give him a treat."
It was a bit of dried apple; the end of last autumn's stores. I held my hand out flat. The Salmon eyed me, lordly and considering, then bent his head to accept the tidbit, his lips velvety against my palm. I began to think about what a glory it would be to ride him—to own him—and wondered if perhaps the Tsingani might sell him to Phèdre after all. I could repay her for him. There were monies that were mine to spend, held in trust for me; the proceeds of estates I had never seen, nor cared to.
"A gadjo pearl, with black hair and eyes like the deep sea," the Tsingano horse-trader murmured.
I jerked back, startling the horse.
"Peace, chavo." The Tsingano raised one hand, palm outward. His dark eyes were calm and amused. "We remember, that is all. Does it trouble you?"
It was the second question of the day I had no chance to answer. On the far side of the field, familiar shouts arose—the battle-call of House Montrève, giving an alarm. I turned to see a single rider departing from the road to race hell-for-leather toward the fair. Whatever his intentions, the sight didn't bode well. I was abruptly aware that I had only Gilot for protection.
Ti-Philippe and his men were on a course to intercept the rider, but they were too far away. The rider would reach us first. Gilot swore and drew his sword. In three swift steps, he reached me, grabbing my arm and yanking me behind him. Katherine and Charles were round-eyed with fearful awe. The spotted stallion reared against his tether, trumpeting, while his Tsingano owner sought to soothe him.
In the midst of the fair, pandemonium broke loose. A handful of villagers sought to rally to our aid, seizing weapons from the arms-sellers' stalls. Protesting merchants blocked their way, grabbing at their purloined goods. Here and there was a struggling knot where one of Montrève's retainers sought to shove a path through the throng.
I watched the rider loom nearer and drew my dagger, flipping it to hold it by its point. At fifteen paces or less, my aim was good. In front of me, Gilot maintained a defensive stance, legs planted, sword tight in his fist. A muscle in his jaw trembled. Katherine's fingers dug into my left forearm. I pried them loose, shoving her toward Charles.
"Take care of her," I said, the words coming harshly. He nodded, his face pale, brown hair flopping over his brow.
A single voice, raised, called my name. "Imriel!"
I raised mine in reply, and though it cracked, it carried. "Joscelin, here!"
There; bursting free of the crowd. He came at a dead run, crossing the horse-fields to the Tsingani camp, passing Gilot. The rider thundered toward us, Ti-Philippe and the others following hard behind, a few seconds too late.
Not Joscelin.
His sword sang as he reached over his shoulder and drew it; a high, keening note. Tradition holds that Cassiline Brothers draw their swords only to kill. When it came to my defense, Joscelin observed no such niceties.
"Stand down or die!" he called to the rider, angling his sword across his body in a two-handed grip.
The rider drew rein, hard, turning his lathered, hard-ridden mount. Froth flew from its bit. A hafted pennant, now visible, fluttered from a hilt mounted on the pommel of his saddle—a square of rich blue with a diagonal bar of silver.
"Queen's Courier!" he shouted. "In the name of Queen Ysandre, hold your hand!"
Joscelin did not shift, his voice remaining taut. "Stand down, man!"
In that moment, it seemed everyone else converged. Ti-Philippe, Hugues, and Colin arrived in a thunderous flurry of hoofbeats, blocking the rider's retreat. Tsingani armed with light hunting bows emerged from the circle of wagons. Villagers armed with sticks, cudgels, and appropriated swords ran into the field.
And Phèdre.
She stepped lightly past me, touching my shoulder briefly in passing. At her appearance, everyone grew quiet. She wore a gown of vibrant blue, the color of the summer sky; the color of Joscelin's eyes. It was trimmed with gold