Naamah's Blessing - Jacqueline Carey [46]
“Anything to flee his sorrow,” I murmured.
“I suspect so.”
We sat a while longer in silence together with our memories. “I don’t want to hurt him,” I said eventually. “Raphael’s been hurt too much already. He’s made mistakes, aye, but fate’s dealt him cruel blows in turn. I wish I knew what this was about.”
The former King’s Poet met my gaze, a furrow of concern etched between her brows. “If it is a piece of Focalor’s spirit inside him… Moirin, what in the name of Blessed Elua and his Companions will you do?”
I lifted my tea-cup and drained the dregs, peering at the leaves plastered to the bottom of the cup, turning it this way and that, and finding no answers there. “Truly? I haven’t the faintest idea.”
She gave another wry smile. “Well, that’s comforting.”
SEVENTEEN
That night, Bao and I dined with the Shahrizai.
It seemed that for Balthasar Shahrizai, a few friends meant a few members of his notorious and notoriously close-knit family.
There was his uncle, Gamaliel, a laconic fellow with a predator’s hooded gaze; and his oh-so-quiet wife, Mariette. There was his cousin, their daughter Josephine, high-spirited and flirtatious, although it was the kind of flirting that carried a sharply honed edge. Somewhat about her put me in mind of Jagrati, only it was a Jagrati filled with playful malice instead of banked rage.
And then there was Balthasar’s great-aunt Celestine, the matriarch of House Shahrizai in the City of Elua, with her long silver hair confined in an elaborate chignon, ivory skin like wrinkled parchment stretched over elegant bones, and dark blue, blue eyes that missed absolutely nothing.
She smiled with genuine pleasure upon being introduced to Bao. “Oh, you’re an interesting one, aren’t you?”
Bao smiled back at her, his expression serene. “Am I?”
Celestine Shahrizai patted his cheek. “You’re not afraid of much, are you?”
He raised his brows. “Should I be?”
“Most people are,” Josephine remarked, approaching to give him the kiss of greeting, drawing back and flicking her tongue over her lips as though to evaluate the taste of him. “It’s always… interesting… to meet someone who isn’t.”
“Told you so,” Balthasar offered.
She glanced at him under her lashes. “So you did, cousin mine.”
I cleared my throat.
“Lady Moirin,” Gamaliel Shahrizai said smoothly, offering me a courtly bow before giving me the kiss of greeting. “We’ve heard so much about you. ’Tis a pleasure to meet you at last.”
“I’m honored, my lord,” I said politely. “I wasn’t aware I’d been the topic of so much discussion.”
He looked amused. “Certainly of late.”
We sat to dine. I had been assured by both Lianne Tremaine and Noémie d’Etoile that the supper-club to which Balthasar Shahrizai had invited us was a very fine, very exclusive establishment.
By all appearances, it lived up to its reputation. The dining room had an enormous crystal chandelier hanging in the center of the room, lit with fresh tapers, and there was a matching candelabra on each of the four tables. Cloths of rich silk damask in muted golden hues and intricate patterns covered each table, and the tables were placed so that all the diners could see one another, but far enough away that one could speak without being readily overheard. Even so, folk spoke in low tones, the atmosphere well nigh as solemn and hushed as a temple.
I was seated between Balthasar and Gamaliel, who made desultory small talk as the first course of pigeons baked in pastry was served, pointing out various peers among the other diners. “That’s the Marquise de Perigord,” Balthasar said with a discreet nod at an attractive blonde woman in a complicated gown, surrounded by admiring suitors. “A recent widow, and a wealthy one. Since her husband’s death, she’s become quite a figure in society.”
I recognized Marc de Thibideau among her suitors. He caught my eye, and quickly glanced away. “Are you saying she’s someone we should court as an ally?”
Gamaliel Shahrizai wagged a finger at me. “Ah, now, Lady Moirin! We try not to be so… obvious… with