Remy chuckled and rang the bell outside the astrologer's door. Presently it opened a crack, and a sallow face peered out. Weary eyes sized up our persons and our attire, and the astrologer's face took on a cunning look. "Adventurers from the Little Court, yes? Does the fair lady want her stars charted?" Magister Acco stepped back and opened his door wide. "Come in, come in!"
We entered the dark and frowsy interior of the astrologer's dwelling. He bustled around, lighting additional lamps. I gauged him to be some fifty years of age, lean, streaks of iron- grey in his black hair, atop which perched a fraying cap of velvet. The satin robes of his calling, decorated with celestial symbols, had been fine once, albeit unsubtle. Now they were stained with foodstuff and worn about the hems. Still, there were books and scrolls strewn about his rooms. One, obvi ously well-thumbed, was in Akkadian script, which I could not read. Obviously, he'd had some learning. I should have guessed as much, since he had been a friend of Maestro Gonzago's.
"Sit, my lady, I pray you." With some embarrassment, Magister Acco cleared the picked remains of a chicken leg from his worktable. Covering his shame, he asked in pass ably good D'Angeline, "Shall we conduct the charting in your maiden tongue, my lady?"
"Caerdicci is fine, my lord astrologer," I said politely, sitting opposite him, the table between us. Remy and Ti- Philippe took a stand on either side of me. "But I'm afraid—"
"Ah, yes, of course." Magister Acco steepled his fingers, nodding wisely. "My lady, have no fear, your coin buys my utmost discretion. I ask only that if you find my advice sage—and you shall, you shall!—you drop a kind word in the ear of Prince Benedicte. It is not meet that I should be without a royal patron, being trained to serve kings."
I leaned forward and held his eyes. "My lord astrologer, if you have the knowledge I seek, believe me, Prince Be nedicte will reward you. I seek not counsel, but informa tion." The astrologer drew back, a veiled look coming over his face. I smiled disarmingly, changing my tactic. "Forgive me, I did not mean to alarm you. You are a friend of the Aragonian historian Gonzago de Escabares, are you not?"
Magister Acco relaxed. "Yes, Gonzago, of course. Did he send you? I know he's ever had a fondness for Terre d'Ange and ..." he chuckled, "... its fair cuisine. Pray, send the old rascal my greetings."
"I shall," I said, and paused. "Magister, I know Maestro Gonzago visited you last year, and after he left, an acquaintance of his, Lucretius by name, came seeking him too late. You sent him on to Varro, whence the Maestro was bound, and gave him the name of a reputable inn in La Serenis sima."
"Yes." His dark eyes grew wary again. "I have some vague recollection of such a man. But I've no idea what became of him, if that's what you're seeking."
"No." I shook my head. "I'm looking for a D'Angeline noblewoman who contacted him at that very same inn, the following morning." I smiled, shrugged, spreading my hands. "She is an old acquaintance of mine, my lord, and gave him a gift for Maestro Gonzago to carry for me. Alas, she left no address, and I would thank her for it."
"I don't know what you're talking about." The astrolo ger's voice was tight, and even by the dim lamplight, I could see a sheen of sweat on his brow.
"Surely you would remember the Lady Melisande Shahrizai," Remy offered, giving his sailor's rowdy grin. "A face to make men weep for beauty, black hair like waves of the sea at night, eyes like twin-set sapphires and a nightingale's voice? I saw her at fifty paces, and have never forgotten it!"
Magister Acco gave a convulsive shudder. "No," he said hoarsely. "I've never seen such a person. If she found out Gonzago's friend, she must have gotten it from a servant. I'm sorry, I don't know anything about it."
Compulsive motions, perspiration, altered tone, repeti tion—he wasn't merely lying, he was lying out of fear. I spoke to him in my gentlest voice. "My lord astrologer, I did not jest with you. Prince Benedicte would pay dearly for this knowledge. And whatever you fear, I promise, he will take you under his protection." Though I had no authority whatsoever to make that kind of pledge, I was reasonably certain Benedicte would agree; and if he wouldn't, I'd summon Quintilius Rousse if I had to.
But 'twas to no avail.
"I know nothing," said Magister Acco, desperation making him bold. "Do you hear? Nothing! Not even if you were to offer me the post of Royal Astrologer to the D'Angeline Queen herself! Now get out and leave me be, and don't come back!" He trembled with mingled fear and anger. "Do you people think I can't chart my own fate? Do you think I don't see the thread will cut my lifeline short if I cross it? Get out, I tell you!"
"Magister Acco ..."
"Out!"
He screamed the word with corded throat, one shaking hand pointing at the door. There were veins throb bing at his temples, and I feared we'd give him a seizure if we stayed. I beckoned to Remy and Ti-Philippe, and we went quietly. The astrologer's door slammed behind us and I heard the sound of furniture being dragged within, something heavy thudding against the door.
We stood in the muck of the little courtyard and stared at one another.
"Well," Remy said thoughtfully. "There's a man that's tangled with Melisande, all right. Only what do we do about it?"
"We go to Prince Benedicte." The voice that spoke those words was so quiet and reasonable it didn't sound like Ti-Philippe. He met my eyes reluctantly, rubbing at his nose, which no longer resembled a fruit. "My lady, I'd follow you to the ends of the earth, whether you chased a will-o'-the-wisp or no, but if there's any merit to that man's fear, this business is too serious for us to handle alone. We've good reason to believe the astrologer knows somewhat about Melisande, somewhat that put the fear of Kushiel into him. It's a matter of state, and you gave the Admiral your word. Let Prince Benedicte handle it."
"You're right," I said slowly, and sighed. "I'd rather we had proof, a great deal more of it. But he won't talk of his own accord, and I don't think we can afford to let him go. Remy, if you'll stay and keep a watch, we'll go straightaway to the Little Court, and pray that Rousse's name opens doors there as quickly as he thinks it will."
"Aye, my lady." Remy saluted, taking up a post leaning against the wall outside the astrologer's door. "Elua grant you luck."
That was when we heard the second thud, and this one didn't sound like furniture.
It sounded very like a falling body.
Ti-Philippe swore and put his shoulder to the door, shov ing hard. Remy set to beside him, and between the two, they forced open the door, which was blocked by a large trunk. I would have gone inside, but they made me wait while they went first.
"It's safe, my lady," Remy called back, his voice disgusted. "But so much for going to Prince Benedicte. You may not want to look."
I went to see anyway, and found the astrologer's body lying in a pitiful heap on the floor of his pitiful lodging. His eyes were open and staring, and there was a little foam about his mouth. At his side lay a shattered phial. Magister Acco was very much dead. Ti-Philippe stooped and sniffed at his foam-spattered lips, touched one finger to the glass shards of the phial and sniffed that as well.
"Laugh at my nose all you like," he said, wiping his finger on his trousers, "but it smells just like the rat poison my Da used to set out, my lady."
"He poisoned himself." I pressed my hand hard to my breast, shaking. "Oh, poor man! And we drove him to it. I should have seen he was that terrified."
"My lady." Remy took my arm and urged me turn away. "I think mayhap he was a little bit mad," he said softly. "That business he spoke at the end, about crossing threads cutting short his lifeline? I think whatever fear he had of Melisande was jumbled in his mind with his expulsion from the Palace, and he drove himself mad with it rather than face his own guilt. The man nearly killed the Doge's wife. Surely it haunted him."
"Mayhap." My head ached. "But if he stood at the verge, Remy, I am the one who pushed him. I wonder if he knew what we meant to do."
"How could he?" Ti-Philippe asked rhetorically. "Lucky we didn't, now. I'd hate to have dragged out the Prince's Guard to visit a corpse. You can still tell Benedicte, and let him investigate it."
"No." I rubbed my temples. "There's naught to learn here, with the astrologer dead. Whatever else is true, he did violence by his own hand, and there's no one Benedicte could question that he hasn't asked before. It would only alert Melisande, if she's tied to him in any way. And if she's not, 'twould only embarrass us, and give away our game in the bargain. I'll go to Benedicte when I've proof, not speculation and bodies."
We made a cursory search of Magister Acco's lodgings, turning up naught but the tools of his trade, texts and charts. A few Serenissimans began to gather outside the door, and Remy went out somber-faced to report the news and send for the undertaker, telling them only that the astrologer had bid us leave in a temper, then suffered a seizure.
No one seemed surprised, and a few nodded solemnly, as if they'd expected no less. Magister Acco, it seemed, had a reputation for having an uncertain temper and occasional fits of raving.
He also had a reputation for unerring prognostication.
I thought about that, during the silent trip back to our rented house, the gondola emerging onto the Great Canal to glide softly over water tinted lavender by the setting sun, the boatman dipping his long oar in mesmerizing rhythm, singing absently to himself. I did not think the astrologer was mad, any more than I thought a tincture of sulfur would kill in small doses. If the Doge's wife had died, if Benedicte's chirurgeon had not intervened, Magister Acco would likely have been executed. Whether or not Melisande had done it, I did not know; if she had been in the Doge's Palace, and that close to his astrologer, someone else had known it, someone who had lied to Prince Benedicte — and it had never been her way to use her own hand. Mayhap it was different, now that she was more desperate.
One thing I did know. Magister Acco had seen her, and if he was not merely raving, he had seen in the stars that his death lay in crossing her. He had taken control of his fate in the only way he saw.
And I had led him to it.
THIRTY-SIX
Upon our return home, I found an invitation awaiting me. I had nearly forgotten Ricciardo Stregazza's promise, but he, it seemed, had not. I was invited to visit their country villa two days hence.
I daresay I might have politely refused, were it not that the invitation itself captured my attention. It was not from Ricciardo, but his wife, Allegra. It had a warm, open sentiment that surprised me, and in the note she spoke of her interest in hearing my perspective on Serenissiman society.
"Will you answer, my lady?" Fortun asked quietly. His manner was gentle; he had heard the day's tidings from Remy and Ti-Philippe.
"Yes." I sighed. "I should. For all I know, I might learn somewhat."
"I'll escort you, if it please you." It was a kind offer. He was steadier man the other two, and we both knew it. I wouldn't have replied as I did if I hadn't been weary and disheartened.
"I want Joscelin." It was a child's response, petulant and sulky; I saw the hurt on his face the moment I spoke, and would have bitten back the words if I could have. "Fortun, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that. It's only that it's iso lated, we'll be on the mainland, among folk I dare not trust, and he's trained best for it."
"Well, he's not here." Fortun flushed at his own blunt-ness, dropping to kneel beside my couch. "My lady," he murmured. "I know you miss him. I know how you have quarreled, we all do. If I could drag him back to your side by his heels, I swear I would do it."
I set aside the invitation. "Where is he? Among the Yeshuites?" I saw the answer in his face and gave a short laugh. "You know what he's doing there, don't you?"
"Yes." Fortun looked away. "My lady," he said, his voice scarcely a whisper. "Forgive me. But you heard the Unforgiven, as well as we. That night in Troyes-le-Mont, there was a Cassiline Brother escorting Persia Shahrizai. I know you would never suspect him, in a thousand years, but he keeps disappearing, and we talked about it, we three. It's not right, with him sworn to protect and serve you. We drew lots, and I got the short straw. I've followed him, more than once."
I passed my hands blindly over my face. "Joscelin Verreuil may be a poor excuse for a Cassiline, but he'd as soon dance naked for the Khalif of Khebbel-im-Akkad as con spire with Melisande Shahrizai. What's he doing?"
"Um." Fortun cleared his throat. "He's training Yeshuite lads to Cassiline arms."
"What?"
My voice rose.
"I told you, he's training them to fight like Cassilines." He glanced about to make certain no servants were near. "I asked about, in the taverns. I found one fellow willing to talk. Seems they've been trying to teach themselves, but it's unlawful for a Yeshuite to bear arms in La Serenissima. They're allowed a single temple; he trains them in the catacombs below."
"What are they going to do?" I asked wearily. "Storm the Doge's Palace?"
"No." He shook his head. "Go north, in accordance with some prophecy. There's rumor of a warlord, Hral, Vral, somewhat like that, has converted to the Yeshuite faith, and seeks to forge a single nation among the tribefolk of the northern wastes."
