Naamah's Blessing - Jacqueline Carey [73]
All the sailors were silent.
Denis de Toluard held my gaze for a moment, reading the truth of my words written there; and then buried his face in his hands. “Elua!” he gasped in a muffled tone. “Take me home, please.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Much like finding him, the task of escorting Denis de Toluard home was easier said than done.
He was still very, very drunk.
We got him upright, although he was unsteady on his feet. Balthasar Shahrizai settled his tab with the innkeeper, who shrugged stoically, pocketed the coin, and poured sawdust from a bucket over the puddle of vomited ale.
“Dark days,” was the innkeeper’s only comment.
Bao and Balthasar slung Denis’ arms over their shoulders and set about the chore of helping him out of the tavern.
One of the sailors staggered after us. “Lady!” he called. “Hey, lady! Did you mean it?”
I inclined my head. “I did.”
There were tears in his eyes. “If there’s a chance Prince Thierry’s alive, if you’re bent on getting his highness back, I’ll sail with you, lady. We all will, every last one of us, even if it means going back to that godforsaken place.”
“Was it truly that terrible?” I asked with sympathy and genuine curiosity. “Terra Nova?”
He nodded. “It’s bad.”
“We’ll see,” I promised him.
Among the three of us, we maneuvered Denis de Toluard back to his townhouse, Balthasar alternating between grumbling that we should have taken a carriage and making insinuating comments in praise of Bao’s prowess with his staff. I rather thought Bao enjoyed the latter. Slung between them, Denis kept his head down and concentrated on putting one wavering foot in front of the other, the toes of his boots catching on the cobbled streets from time to time as the two men half assisted, half dragged him homeward.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, over and over. “Sorry, sorry.”
“Don’t worry.” Bao patted his back encouragingly. “You’re doing well. Under the circumstances, who could blame you?”
“Sorry to be a problem, not sorry I’m drunk.” Denis swung his head from side to side. “Can’t help it, don’t regret it. Only thing kept me sane. But you, Moirin. I owe you an apology, don’t I, my lady? A big, big apology.”
“Mayhap,” I murmured. “But now’s not the time to speak of it.”
Ignoring my words, he coughed and hiccupped, releasing a waft of stale ale and bile on the night air. “You tried to tell us, but we were so damn sure. Raphael most of all. He thought you were sent by the gods to aid us. Him.”
“So did I for a time,” I admitted. “But not that way.”
Denis hiccupped again. “It all went wrong, Moirin. So very, very wrong. All of it. That’s where it all began. We should never have attempted to summon Focalor.”
“I know,” I said quietly.
“You always did,” he said. “But we were too goddamned proud to listen to you. Well, I’m listening now.”
By the time we got Denis de Toluard home, he was nearly able to walk on his own. His steward thanked us profusely, taking custody of his drunken lord.
“Get a good night’s sleep and sober up,” Balthasar advised Denis, adding a pointed sniff. “And have a good, long bath. We’ll call on you on the morrow.”
That was our plan, at any rate; but we had not reckoned on the very public nature of our retrieval of Denis de Toluard, and the inevitable gossip it spawned. D’Angeline sailors are a garrulous lot, especially drunken ones. By morning, my claim that Prince Thierry was alive was all over the City of Elua, and Bao and I found ourselves summoned to appear before the newly appointed Regent.
Duc Rogier was in a state of white-hot fury. His anger in the Hall of Parliament was mostly theatrics. This, this was genuine rage.
“What”—he gritted out the word, and had to pause to collect himself with a violent shudder before continuing—“what in the name of all that’s holy do you mean by spreading such a rumor? Moirin, I understand you’re unhappy at being thwarted. But this…” He shook his head in disbelief. “This is beyond the pale. It’s irresponsible, childish,