Kushiel’s Dart

Chapter Sixty-Four

It was true that the Tsingan Kralis cared deeply for his half-breed grandson, that I believe.

But a silence fell after Hyacinthe’s words, like the silence when a great wave has broken, while another greater wave gathers. And then the outcry arose.

"Vrajna! He has been taught the dromonde! Anaistaizia’s son speaks the dromonde’t He brings a curse upon us all!"

I will not recount the thousand voices that rose to vilify him; suffice to say that they did, these great-aunts and uncles and cousins who had taken him to their hearts. Hyacinthe stood beneath the onslaught, enduring, meeting my eyes in silent understanding. Not for me, I thought. Don’t do this for me alone. He understood, shaking his head. It was not for me alone. Somewhere, in the distance, the scions of House Shahrizai glanced over, mildly curious at the Tsingani uproar, bent on trade, acquiring steeds for a war no one else in the realm knew was coming, taking no sides, merely hedging their bets against the need.

And somewhere an old crone smiled in vindication, a hundred gold coins draped around her withered neck.

Hyacinthe stood unmoving.

Joscelin’s daggers were in his crossed hands, as he turned slowly in a circle, polite and deadly, warding me.

"Is it true?"

It was Manoj who broke the silence, fierce eyes anguished as he came forward, members of his kumpania falling away before the patriarch’s approach.

Hyacinthe bowed his Prince of Travellers bow. "Yes, Grandpa-ji," he said softly. "I have the gift of the dromonde. My mother taught me to use it."

"It is vrajna." Manoj caught his breath as if it pained him. "Chavo, my grandson, Anasztaizia’s son, you must renounce it. The dromonde is no business for men."

If Melisande had looked, in that instant, to the disturbance in the kumpania she would have known. Even if she had not seen me…the circle, the stillness, Hyacinthe at its center, and a Cassiline warrior-priest in a Mendicant’s cloak…she would have known, somehow, that I was involved. Delaunay had taught her what he had taught me, to watch and listen, and see the patterns emerging from chaos. We were alike, in that. But Elua was merciful, and she did not look. The Shahrizai had already spared us one casual glance. They were there to buy horses.

And Hyacinthe shook his head with infinite regret, his eyes like black pearls shining with tears.

"I cannot, Grandpa-ji," he said quietly. "You cast my mother from the kumpania, but I am her son. If it is vrajna to be what she made me, then I am vrajna."

What did she see? A reflection in a blood-pricked eye? I do not know. Only, in the end, that we needed Hyacinthe. And the Long Road he chose was not the one the Tsingani had walked since Elua trod the earth.

"So be it," said the Tsingan Kralis, and turned his back on his grandson. "My daughter is dead. I have no grandson."

A wailing arose then and they mourned Hyacinthe, as if he were not standing alive before them. I saw the blood drain from his face, leaving him grey. It was Joscelin who held us together, then, shoving his daggers into their sheaths, gathering our things, herding us out of the camp of Manoj’s kumpania. On the outskirts of the Hippochamp, we met Neci’s folk.

"Are you still minded to make your name?" Joscelin asked Neci bluntly, speaking in plain D’Angeline.

The Tsingano glanced at us all, startled, then looked to his wife. She shrugged once, looked at the others, then nodded vigorously, beginning to summon the children.

Somewhere, in the background, the Shahrizai were concluding a deal, and I shivered as if with the ague.

"Good," Joscelin said in a hard tone. "Get your horses and your things. We’re riding west."

And so we did.

It is a remarkable thing, the speed with which a Tsingani company can become mobile. I daresay most armies could learn a thing or two about efficiency from them. Neci’s family had one wagon, a team to draw it, and five horses to trade. Only two were hunters; there was a broodmare and her foal, and a yearling besides. In a matter of minutes, Neci had concluded a deal for the mare and the younglings, trading for two more hunters and a rangy gelding of indeterminate ancestry. And in that time, Gisella and her sister had the wagon hitched and the family ready to move.

Enough time, however, for word to spread. By the time we set out, they knew Hyacinthe no longer existed in the Tsingan Kralis' eyes. I thought for a moment that Neci would back out of the deal, but then Joscelin paid him a deposit in gold as surety against the trade with Rousse, and greed and pride won out. They would take the risk.

We were four days riding with Neci’s family, following the Lusande west toward the harsh, stony hills of outlying Kusheth. The Lusande Valley is lush and rich in the center of the province, and we saw a fair number of folk as we traveled. The Tsingani traded with them, mending pots and horseshoes in exchange for wine and foodstuffs. Sometimes we saw nobles and their retinues, House Guards in gleaming Kusheline devices, but we had no fear of discovery. With Neci’s family, our disguise was complete, more than it would have been even with Manoj’s riders. Joscelin performed for small crowds more than once, growing confident in his Mendicant’s trade, while the children went among the spectators with tins, begging copper coins. I had a quiet word with Gisella to ensure that no purses were lifted; if we landed before the judiciary, our quest would be in vain.

It was a strange thing, to sojourn with an eloquent Cassiline and a quiet Tsingano. I spoke with Hyacinthe the first night, the others leaving us to it in privacy.

"You could still go back, you know," I said, sitting beside him. "When this is done. Manoj would take you back, I think. They like to forgive."

Hyacinthe shook his head. "No," he said softly. "He never forgave my mother, you know, for all his tears. Some things are unforgivable. Murder, theft, treachery…but not that which is vrajna. I knew this. I was swept up in it, Phèdre. I’d never known what it was like to have such a family, so many folk to call cousin and aunt and near-brother."

"I know." I slipped my hand into his. "Believe me, I do know."

So much to say, at such a time, and none of it adequate. We sat like that for a long time. Hyacinthe put his arm about me and I laid my head on his shoulder, falling at length into the white exhaustion that follows strong emotion, until at last I slept, and dreamed I was awake. At least I did not dream of Melisande, which I had feared; Hyacinthe’s presence kept those dreams at bay. So I slept, and woke to find it morning, and Hyacinthe still asleep, the two of us entwined like twins, my hair spread like a silken drape across his chest. Someone had laid a blanket over us. I sat up blinking at the daylight. Across the camp, Joscelin glanced at me, and politely looked away. Hyacinthe stirred, waking.

It was hard to leave the warmth of him. I fumbled for Ysandre’s signet, on its chain beneath my dress, beneath the deadly weight of Melisande’s diamond.

A mission for the Queen; that, above all else.

Our caravan moved slowly, the pace dictated by the Tsingani wagon, which was not built for speed, but by the third evening we left behind the rich spring valleys for the rocky terrain of outer Kusheth, and on the fourth day our progress was torturously slow, as the wagon had to be pushed at times. The children bounced shrieking in the back while all the men-Neci, his brother-in-law and cousin, Hyacinthe and Joscelin alike-set their backs to it and shoved, grunting.

But when we made camp that night, we could smell salt air.

I had taken our landmarks from atop the tallest hill, and studied them against the map Ysandre had provided us-a luxury, after the Skaldic wilderness. Joscelin gazed over my shoulder.

"There," I said, pointing. "The Pointe d’Oeste lies there. Rousse’s fleet is quartered three miles to the north. If we take the road that runs just south of that ridge, we should reach him before noon."

"Good." Hunkering on his heels, Joscelin sifted a handful of dirt through his hand. Opening his hand, he showed me the thin, pale grass sprouts taking root even in the rocky soil. "Spring’s coming even here," he said softly. "How long do you think Waldemar Selig will wait?"

"We’re months from the first harvest." Fear made my heart beat faster. "He can’t possibly be provisioned. And he’ll wait for that."

"Not so far off." Joscelin lifted his head, staring toward the darkening west. "And we’ve a long way to go."

"Tomorrow," I said, and repeated it more firmly. "We’ll reach Quintilius Rousse tomorrow."

And indeed, so we should have done. Except that it was not to be.

Perhaps we had grown overconfident, secure in our disguise, traveling unimpeded the breadth of Kusheth; but truly, I think it would not have mattered. The guard that stopped us was there for a purpose, and they would have stopped any travelers, Tsingani or royal courier alike.

Laboring over a hillcrest, we didn’t see them until we were nigh upon them, and one of the children shouted out a warning. "Dordima! Gavveroti!"

A squadron of twenty guardsmen, arranged across the road, waiting for us. Behind them, a mile off, we could see the grey sea wrinkling. The day was overcast, and the light glinted dully on their armor. A breeze lifted the standard-bearer’s flag. I knew its device, echoed on their livery. I had seen it, in another time and place.

A raven and the sea.

The arms of the Duc de Morhban.

Spurring his horse, Hyacinthe rode quickly to the head of the caravan. This much, we had discussed. Better that he should be our spokesman than Joscelin or I, who might be marked as unusual.

"Where are you bound, Tsingano?" The leader of the guard invested the word with scorn; I noticed it more, now.

"We have an agreement to trade with the Queen’s Admiral," Hyacinthe said reasonably. "May we pass, my lord?"

The leader of the guard turned his head and spat upon the ground. "The Queen’s Admiral sails where he will, but this is Morhban. No one crosses without the Duc’s permission. You’ll wait on his grace."

In point of truth, we’d been crossing Morhban for some time now; it is the sovereign duchy of Kusheth, and vast. I understood. It was access to the Queen’s Admiral that Quincel de Morhban was controlling. Hyacinthe turned back as if to survey our party, meeting my eyes briefly. I gave an imperceptible nod. We dared not try to fight our way through, not with the rest of Morhban’s troops a mere mile or two away.

"Then we will wait," Hyacinthe said calmly.

So wait we did, while de Morhban’s men idled and a rider headed south. The adult Tsingani were scared, but bore it well; the children, our best disguise, carried the act for us. One of the little girls found a nest of baby rabbits, which kept them all occupied.

And in short order, Quincel de Morhban appeared, with a second squadron of his House Guard. Forty armed men, now; if ever we’d had a chance of fighting clear, it was gone now.

I kept my head low, watching him through my lashes.

I remembered him, tall and lean, with features that had the same harsh beauty as the terrain he ruled: ruthless and hard. Greying sandy hair, and eyes the color of iron, a dark grey without warmth. I remembered his sharp banter with Melisande on the Longest Night, and how he had touched me beneath the sheer diamond-spangled gauze.

"You seek passage through my lands?" he asked without preface, his tone tinged with irony. "What do the Tsingani want with a sailor?"

Hyacinthe bowed. "Your grace de Morhban, we have an agreement to trade with the Queen’s Admiral."

"Since when does a sailor need a horse?" De Morhban’s keen gaze swept over our group, resting on Joscelin. "What in Elua’s name is that?"

"Your grace!" Joscelin dismounted, bowing with an elaborate flourish that set his cloak to swirling in a riot of color. "I am but a humble Mendicant, born in Marsilikos City. If you would be entertained, I will tell you of how I came to-"

"Enough." De Morhban cut him off with a word, settling wearily into the saddle. "I’ve no time to waste with talespinners. So Quintilius Rousse thinks to build himself a horse patrol, does he?" The grey eyes narrowed. "Perhaps I might make a better offer for these creatures, Tsingano. What do you say to that?"

A murmur of excitement arose among Neci’s family, but Hyacinthe shook his head, as if in sorrow.

"Alas, your grace, I gave my word to the Admiral. I swore it upon my own mother’s spirit, may she rest in peace."

De Morhban crossed his hands, resting them on his pommel. "Did you?" he asked wryly. "And what is a Tsingano’s word worth? Double Rousse’s offer, perhaps?"

Another murmur, quickly hushed, from Neci’s folk.

"Perhaps," Hyacinthe said slyly. "Perhaps we may trade somewhat with your grace. A token for our passage, mayhap?" He shifted his horse. "This steed I ride, your grace, is a fine one…could you use such a mount?"

"Rousse must be offering a great deal." De Morhban’s face was unreadable. "No, I don’t think so, Tsingano. It’s not in my interest to see the Admiral horsed. But I’ll play you fair, I’ll pay his price, and more."

Hyacinthe spread his arms and shrugged. "As your grace wishes. I ask only that you allow me to convey my regrets to the Admiral, and beg his forgiveness." He closed his arms and shuddered, putting a tremor in his voice. "For if you do not, my mother’s mulo will ride the night winds and plague my sleep forevermore," he added pitiably.

It was a good performance; I daresay most people would have bought it. But Kushelines are suspicious by birth, and Quincel de Morhban had not held his duchy by being a fool. He sat in his saddle and surveyed our motley band, then slowly shook his head. "No, Tsingano, I think not. Unless there’s somewhat else you’d like to tell me?"

"My lord!" Joscelin’s voice rang out. Nudging his horse forward, he unsheathed his daggers, and with one quick gesture, offered both hilts-first across his forearm. "I offer you this, in exchange for trade-passage to the Admiral. Genuine Cassiline daggers, forged three hundred years ago. If you would care to listen, I will tell you how I came to bear them-"

"No." De Morhban raised his hand. "I’ve no need of priests' trinkets, Cassiline or Mendicant or whatever you are. So if you’ve no other business with the Admiral you’d care to discuss with me, and naught else to offer in trade, let us be done with it."

His guard ranged unobtrusively before us, spreading out, a full forty men positioning themselves between us and the not-so-distant sea, where I could see, now, Quintilius Rousse’s fleet. To be so near and fail! Perhaps, I thought, we could return after nightfall and gain the fleet.

Joscelin must have thought it too, and shown it. "The sooner it’s done, my friends," de Morhban said aloud in his wry tone, "the sooner you can be on your way. I’ll give you an escort to the borders of Kusheth, that no harm befalls you."

That we didn’t double back, he meant. I heard it plain. We had Ysandre’s ring, of course, which would gain us passage if he were loyal. I thought of showing it to him. But if he were loyal, he wouldn’t deny us access to Rousse in the first place, and if he were Melisande’s ally…there had to be another way.

House Morhban was not so old as the Shahrizai in Kusheth, but old enough to have attained sovereignty. He was a scion of Kushiel. There was one offer he would consider.

"My lord." It is funny, how the tones and inflection of Cereus House remain with one. I lifted my head and rode forward to meet his eyes, close enough that he could not fail to see what mine contained. "My lord, there is somewhat else we may offer in trade for passage."

Quincel de Morhban drew in his breath sharply, and his horse danced under him. "You!" he said, quieting his mount. His eyes narrowed again. "Melisande’s creature, I thought. But I heard you were condemned for the murder of Rolande’s poet, Delaunay."

"No." Joscelin, realizing belatedly what I’d done, grabbed my arm. "Phèdre, no!"

I shook him off, holding de Morhban’s gaze. "You know what I am, your grace. You know what I offer. One night. Free passage. And no questions."

His eyebrows rose, but otherwise his expression was unchanged. "In Elua’s City, you could not dictate such terms, anguissette. Why should I not seek you there? I have coin."

"I own my marque and I dictate the terms I choose," I said evenly. "I have named my price. From you, I will accept no other."

De Morhban’s gaze strayed to Joscelin, who sat taut with anguish. "There was a Cassiline involved, I seem to remember. What would the Queen pay for such knowledge?" His grey eyes returned to me, gauging my reaction. "Or House Shahrizai, perhaps? Melisande likes to know things."

Somewhere behind me, I could hear Hyacinthe muttering in black fury, could feel Joscelin’s wild rage building. We were betrayed, they thought; I had erred. Delaunay used to think such things too, when I took dangerous risks with a patron. But if I had one confidence, it was in that: Never, yet, had I misjudged a patron’s desire. I did not answer de Morhban’s question, only sat beneath his gaze. You know what I am, my lord, I thought. And I am the only one of my kind, the only one born in three generations. I am born to serve such as you are. Kushiel’s cruel fire runs in your blood, and I, and I alone, kindle to it. Choose now, or never know.

The tension mounted between us like heat. At last Quincel de Morhban smiled, a smile that sent a shudder the length of my spine.

"What business is it of mine if someone sends Tsingani horse-traders, whores and priests to the Queen’s Admiral? Very well. Your offer is accepted." He bowed, sweeping one arm toward the south. "I give to your company my hospitality for one night. In the morning, you may ride to Quintilius Rousse. Is it agreed?"

"It is not-" Joscelin began heatedly, while Hyacinthe said, "Your grace, perhaps-"

"Yes." I said it loudly, overriding them. "We will draw up the contract in your quarters, your grace. Have you a priest to witness?"

Quincel de Morhban’s face reflected bleak amusement at my caution. "I will send to the Temple of Kushiel on the Isle d’Oeste. Will that suffice?"

"It will."

Thus did we come to enjoy the hospitality of the Duc de Morhban.