"I think that will do," I said softly.
"My lady." Gemma held up a tangle of scarlet ribbons. "For your wrists."
I had forgotten, that was the final touch to the costume of Mara; silk ribbons bound about the wrists, hanging grace fully and fluttering. Deft enough now that her nerves had settled, Gemma tied them in place with elegant knots. I caught my breath, feeling them tighten around my wrists. That settled it, then. If there was any truth to old legends, Naamah's child Mara was truly an
anguissette.
I turned, ribbons trailing, surveying my reflection one last time. From the rear, the entire expanse of my back was bare, ivory skin framed in scarlet silk and bisected by the dramatic black lines and crimson accents of my marque.
"That will do, indeed." It was Fortun's calm, deep voice. He stood leaning in the doorway, surprisingly elegant in black velvet. The bronze key glinted dully on his chest, emblem of Asmodel's calling, and the black domino made his features mysterious. It peaked in twin horns, piercing the dark locks that fell over his brow. "Are you ready, my lady? Ti-Philippe has the carriage waiting."
I drew a deep breath. "I am ready."
He bowed, and held out his arm. "Then let us depart."
Perched in the driver's seat, Ti-Philippe wore an imp's mask shoved high on his forehead, the better to see. When I emerged on Fortun's arm, he gave a sharp whistle and stamped his feet, making the horses skittish.
"Enough," I said, laughing. "You're to be on your best behavior tonight."
"Much like yourself, my lady." With an irrepressible grin, he leapt down to throw open the carriage door. "Though it may mean somewhat different!"
Fortun handed me into the carriage and followed after, and in short order we were on our way.
Unaccountably, I found I was nervous. It had been a long time—two years, exactly—since I had appeared in public in the formal role of a Servant of Naamah. A great deal had happened since Melisande Shahrizai had paraded me before the peers of Kusheth on a velvet lead. Thinking on it, I reached instinctively to touch my throat where her diamond had lain. I had been a slave, an ambassador, and inherited a noble title; what I was about now was a far cry from my days as Delaunay's
anguissette,
where I had naught to do but that which my own nature dictated and to recount the observations of my faculties to my lord Anafiel Delaunay.
I had no master, no patron to whom to report, and I knew altogether too well the stakes for which I played.
"My lady." Fortun interrupted my thoughts. "There are bound to be inquiries. How do you wish me to handle them?"
He was right, of course; every D'Angeline past the age of five knew what it meant to see a Servant of Naamah bare his or her marque publicly. "Tonight," I said, "is the Longest Night, and I am attending the Queen's Midwinter Masque by her invitation as the Comtesse of Montrève. To conduct business, even Naamah's business, on this night would be unseemly, and you would do well to remind them of that— courteously, of course. As of tomorrow, however, if they wish to propose an assignation, they may send around a courier with a written offer."
Fortun cleared his throat. "Would I be right in assuming that no promises are to be made, as you are highly selective in the assignations you choose, but no one is to be discour aged, as your tastes are notoriously eclectic?"
"Yes." I smiled. "You would at that."
"Have you chosen already, my lady?" he asked curiously. "Who will be the first?"
"No." I brushed my fingers along the edge of the window- curtain. "My lord Delaunay cast out his bait, and fished ac cordingly. I will do the same. I don't know, in truth, who will bite."
"What if it's Marmion Shahrizai?"
"If it's Marmion," I said, "we will see." I ran the curtain through my fingers. Melisande had known me almost eight years before she had contracted me, excepting for Prince Baudoin de Trevalion's pleasure. It nearly drove me mad. I doubted her younger cousin could play her waiting game with the same devastating patience, but it would be inter esting to see.
We rode for a time in silence. "It should be Joscelin here with you," Fortun said presently, his voice low. "He's right, I'm not trained to serve as a bodyguard. And he's the only one of us permitted to wear arms in the Queen's presence."
I leaned my head back against the cushion of the carriage- seat. "Joscelin is doing what he needs must do," I said, "as am I. Go where you are invited, listen and learn what you may. Don't grieve me on that score, Fortun."
"I'm sorry, my lady. Only..." He leaned forward, his gaze intent behind the eyeholes of his mask as he looked at me. "Begging your pardon, but anyone who does not choose to be at your side this night of all nights is a fool."
I smiled. "Thank you, chevalier. That is exactly what I needed to hear."
twelve
We entered the ballroom as the bells were striking nine.
"The Comtesse de Montrève!" shouted the crier, his voice half-lost in the din of music and conversation.
Nonetheless, it caused a stir.
It took some time, for eyes to see and rumors to spread. Favrielle had spoken truly, the costuming for the Midwinter Masque that year was ornate. Women, flounced and layered in swathes of fabric turned slowly, moving like galleons beneath the weight of their attire; the men were scarce less laden. Masked faces turned in my direction.
I felt it, the brunt of a hundred stares, as a path opened across the marble floor. In Cereus House, we were taught to move like a swaying willow, limbs disposed to grace, heads high with pride. I drew on all the strength of my training to make that passage, gazing at the crowd from behind my veil, feeling half-naked in my scarlet gown, ribbons trailing from my wrists. At my side, Fortun was a model of austere decorum.
And behind me, in the wake of the sight of my bared marque, the murmurs rose.
Truly, the Palace ballroom was a splendor that night. It is a vast, open space, pierced by a double row of slender columns. Wrapping around three walls is Le Cavaillon's gorgeous fresco of Elua and his Companions at banquet, and overhead, the ceiling is painted a midnight blue with gilded stars. In the very center of the hall stood a tree cunningly wrought of bronze, and from its branches hung a dozen fruits on silken threads; apples, pears, dates, figs and persimmons, plums and nectarines and others whose names I knew not.
At the far end, beneath the wall on which Elua, Cassiel and Naamah disported themselves, stood a small mountain crag and in it a grotto in which musicians struck a tableau as Hellene muses and played sweet tunes. Here and there stood false columns, hollow to the core, holding in niches clear glass lamps that gave a mellow light. Elsewhere, from the ceiling, hung chandeliers of glass lamps floating in colored waters, giving the illusion of fairy lights. Braziers burned sweet incense, and garlands of evergreen added its clean, resinous odor.
"Phèdre!" Ysandre de la Courcel, Queen of Terre d'Ange, cleaved a path through the revelers, her two grey-adorned Cassiline guards incongruously in tow. As was fitting, she was clad as the Snow Queen, in layers of frothing white gauze aglitter with diamonds. She wore the swan mask of House Courcel, an elaborate hood curving over her head, violet eyes behind the white-feathered mask. "I might not have known you with your veil, but with that marque, my dear! You did give warning. May I ask the nature of your costume?"
"Mara," I said, lifting one arm so the scarlet ribbons trailed from my wrist. "Naamah's daughter, gotten by a murderer, and Kushiel's handmaiden."
"Very apt." Ysandre's eyes looked amused behind her mask. "Well, near-cousin, I have greeted you properly and given sanction to your purpose here; let it not be said that I failed to give Naamah's Service its proper regard." With the effortlessness of one born and raised to command, she turned to find a servant exactly where she expected him, offering a salver with small glasses of cordial.
"Joie,"
Ysandre said, raising a glass in toast. "May the Longest Night pass swiftly and the light return."
"Joie."
I took a glass and raised it in turn, drinking. The servant lingered as Ysandre moved on, proffering the tray to Forrun. He accepted a glass and drank, gasping at its clear, fiery taste. "To the Longest Night, chevalier!" I laughed, feeling the blood in my veins tingle with excitement. "Do you dance, Fortun? I never asked."
"Try me and see." Taking both our glasses, he set them on a passing servant's tray and bowed, escorting me to the dancing floor.
He did dance, and passably well; I am trained to follow anyone's lead. We looked well together, with the scarlet fabric of my gown swirling against the sober black velvet of his doublet and hose. I saw heads turn as we passed, puzzled whispers at my half-veiled face giving way to dawning recognition at the sight of my marque. I could feel it, almost, the intricate pattern etched the length of my spine, burning as if the ink were fresh-pierced into my skin by the marquist's tapper.
As our dance ended, I espied a figure clad as the Eremite of Seagrove making his way toward me, unrecognizable in flowing blue-green robes with a half-mask of the Eremite's features and a false beard of white curls that spilled down his chest. "Phèdre nó Delaunay," he said, and his tone, though formal, was warm with affection. "Your costume leaves you at a disadvantage to conceal your identity."
I smiled. "As your voice does you, my lord de Forcay."
Gaspar Trevalion, the Comte de Forcay, chuckled and embraced me. "Elua, child, but it's good to see you well! How does your peerage sit with you?"
"It would have sat better on Delaunay, my lord, but I do my best," I said honestly. Disowned by his father, Anafiel Delaunay de Montrève never held the title to which he was born; it was ironic that it had passed to me. And while I could not eliminate him from those I must suspect, I never doubted that Gaspar Trevalion's friendship with my lord Delaunay was genuine—nor, indeed, his affection for me. "Tell me, how have you been keeping?"
As we spoke, a tall woman costumed as an elegant shepherdess—with flounces enough to terrify any flock, I dare say—invited Fortun to squire her in a dance with a subtle beckon of her gilded crook. He glanced inquiringly at me, and I nodded.
"Your Cassiline is not with you," Gaspar observed.
"He is maintaining Elua's vigil on the Longest Night."
"A pity. Ghislain will be sorry to miss him. He has a great respect for that young man." He smiled. "As do I, although I'll admit, I thought Delaunay was mad when he told me he'd contracted one of the Cassiline Brotherhood to ward a Servant of Naamah."
"So did I," I said absently, scanning the costumed crowd. "My lord de Somerville is here? No, wait, don't tell me." I spotted a tall, broad-shouldered figure in an osprey mask, a smaller mate in similar garb at his side, speaking to someone I didn't recognize at all. "There, beneath the fresco of Azza; that must be Bernadette with him."
"Indeed." Gaspar Trevalion sounded surprised. "I didn't know you'd met her."
"I haven't. I saw her at the trial." It was something of a delicate subject; Bernadette de Trevalion had been exiled for treason, though she'd had no part in her mother's machinations. It was Ysandre who had restored her, mending the breach through marriage to Ghislain de Somerville, the Royal Commander's capable son. Lent discretion by my veil, I stared, trying to place their companion by virtue of shape, stance or demeanor, but he evaded recognition. Even his costume, an elaborately striped affair with puffed sleeves, parti-color hose and a long-nosed mask, defied placement. "Gaspar, who is that with them?”
"Ah." He smiled. "That, my dear, is Severio Stregazza, eldest-born son of Marie-Celeste de la Courcel Stregazza, grandson of the Doge of La Serenissima. Would you like to meet him?"
"Yes." I took his arm, resting my fingertips on his sleeve. "Very much, my lord."
Gaspar Trevalion was as good as his word, escorting me over forthwith. After exchanging fond greetings with Ghislain and making the formal acquaintance of his wife—I did not tell Bernadette that I had seen her sentenced to exile— I was introduced to the young Serenissiman lord.
"Charmed, Comtesse." Severio Stregazza's surly tone, in faintly accented D'Angeline, said otherwise. He tugged at the stiff ruff of lace at his neck. At close range, he had a sheen of sweat on his features, and he looked uncomfortable in his costume. Severio had been born and raised in La Serenissima. No more than a year or two older than me at best, he was clearly ill at ease in his surroundings and awkward at the evidence of his mixed blood at a D'Angeline fête. His hot, irritable gaze took my measure. "You're very beautiful," he said abruptly. "I suppose we're related somehow?"
"No, Prince Severio," I said, shaking my head. "My lord Anafiel Delaunay de Montrève of Siovale adopted me for mally into his household, and it is his title that I inherited. We are no kin, you and I."
"That's a relief." He tugged harder at his collar, scowling. "Damn nigh every noble I've met claims kinship to the throne one way or another. I can't keep it all straight in my head."
"It is not easy, cousin," Bernadette commiserated kindly. "I grow confused myself, trying to sort out the tangled threads of Blessed Elua's descendants."
Severio Stregazza gave her an ungracious glance. I could not blame him for his anger and discomfort, in truth; in this, of all gatherings, his coarse curls and the ruder cast of his features showed clearly the dilution of Elua's lineage, brought to La Serenissima in the person of Benedicte de la Courcel, great-uncle to Ysandre. "Your inheritance seems clear enough,
cousin."
