Kushiel's Scion (62 page)
I bowed. "My thanks, Master Piero. I will ask him."
He gave me one of his hawkeyed looks. "You know how to thank me."
I went that afternoon to seek an audience with Master Strozzi, accompanied by Eamonn. He was curious, and still chagrined that he had forgotten his promise to Phèdre.
Unlike Master Piero's tiny study, Master Strozzi's quarters were quite fine. We were met in an antechamber by a soft-voiced servant. He laid a finger to his lips, hushing us. "My master is resting his thoughts," he murmured. "He is not to be disturbed."
Eamonn grinned. "He's sleeping?"
The servant permitted himself a slight smile. "Return in an hour, my lords."
We spent an hour idling. There was a stationer's shop near the University, and I purchased supplies there; a pot of ink, a handful of quills, sealing wax, and a dozen sheets of pressed paper. I had been in Tiberium for over a week, and I had not yet written a letter home to assure Phèdre and Joscelin that Gilot and I had arrived safely. I felt guilty at it, for it might take weeks for a missive to arrive, and I knew they worried.
Afterward, Master Strozzi received us.
The soft-voiced servant ushered us into his presence. Master Strozzi was awake, sitting upright and erect on one of those infernal Tiberian stools. He was a formidable old man, well into his eighties, with a crisp white beard and the bald pate that seems strange to a D'Angeline eye. We may not be a hirsute folk in some ways, but what we grow, we keep in abundance.
"Imriel nó Montrève," he said, rolling the syllables of my name over his tongue with relish. "Prince Eamonn of the Dalriada. What seek you?"
It was not for nothing, I thought, that Master Strozzi had taught rhetoric for over fifty years. He had the portentious voice of a trained orator. I bowed. "Knowledge, Master."
"Aye," Eamonn echoed. "Knowledge."
"Knowledge!" Master Strozzi laid his wrinkled hands on his knees. "I could teach you to sway men's souls with the edge of your tongue, to move their hearts and minds, to leave them panting like dogs after your every word. But no." He shook his head. "You would sooner moon over that fool Piero, chasing pigeons in the Forum, gabbling over nonsense." His spine straightened further. "So be it. Speak."
We told him about Anafiel Delaunay—Anafiel de Montrève—and the arts of covertcy.
"Covertcy!" Master Strozzi's wrinkled eyelids creased. He drew his bearded chin against his breast, regarding us with distaste. "I assure you, young scholars, such a thing has never been taught at the University of Tiberium. It is the virtues we pursue in these hallowed halls, not the seditious craft of sneaking and spying."
"Yes, my lord," I said apologetically. "But he learned it somewhere, and I thought mayhap you would—"
"Not here!" Master Strozzi thundered. "Not in my University!"
Eamonn and I beat a hasty retreat.
"Dagda Mor!" he said outside the University. "He's a right old bastard, isn't he?"
"He is that," I said. "And he's lying, too."
"What?" Eamonn stared at me. "You think he taught Delaunay? Why?"
"I don't know." I shook my head. "A tell-tale around the eyes, and too much bluster. Mayhap he didn't teach Delaunay himself, but he knows more than he's saying."
Since our inquiry had come to naught, I spent the balance of the day composing a letter to Phèdre and Joscelin. I touched briefly on my futile search to uncover Delaunay's history, and wrote mostly about Master Piero and his students, and the sights and sounds and smells of Tiberium. I mentioned Lucius Tadius and his ghosts, omitting any mention of his sister.
I told them about Gilot and his budding romance. I wrote about our philosopher-beggar, too, living in his barrel in the street outside our insula, although I neglected to mention that a man had been stabbed to death there.
On the following day, I rose early and went to the wharf to hire a courier. I left Gilot sleeping and went alone, which would irritate him, but there was something pleasant about being awake while much of the city yet slept. A light mist hovered above the Tiber, its waters burnished and bronze in the dawn light. Through the mist, I could make out the small island that jutted from the waters and the Temple of Asclepius on it, dedicated to healing. I wondered if Drucilla, the Tiberian chirurgeon who had died in Daršanga, had made an offering there.
I watched the courier's barge draw away, bound for Ostia, and thought how it would cheer them at home to hear from me. I could picture Phèdre in her salon, cracking the wax seal, smiling as she scanned my words, while Joscelin read over her shoulder and others in the household—Ti-Philippe, Hugues, Eugenie—waited impatiently for news.
It made me at once glad and lonely.
I missed them. I missed them a great deal. I would have given a lot to spend a single hour in Phèdre's company, pouring out my worries and petty concerns, listening to her counsel. I would have gladly endured any awkwardness or discomfort it entailed. But this was the path I had chosen, and I would have to find my way on it alone.
Squaring my shoulders, I went to attend Master Piero's class.
We were planning to meet that day in the Old Forum outside the University, but for once, the rostra was occupied. Two men stood upon it, speaking in turns. A throng of students milled in the square, some listening and a good many others gossiping excitedly.
I caught sight of Eamonn's bright head above the rest and made my way to him. "What passes?"
It was Lucius who answered. "That's the pontifex maximus," he said, indicating the taller of the two men. "He's denouncing Deccus' pantomime on the grounds that it diminishes the imperium of our noble city. The aedile who sanctioned its performance is defending it."
"What imperium?" one of the other students muttered.
Lucius shrugged. "The princeps of Tiberium doesn't care for the play. He suspects it is a Restorationist ploy to feed the fires of disrespect."
"Is it?" I asked, remembering how Deccus Fulvius had queried me.
"Who knows?" Lucius gave me a tight smile. "But my sister's husband has departed for his country villa. I understand he plans to entertain a select handful of senators this evening. Oh," he added, "and that old stick-in-the-arse Strozzi has announced his retirement from the University." He nodded at a handful of merry students. "That's his lot. They plan to go out and get vilely drunk in celebration. Do you want to join them? I plan to."
A cold finger of suspicion made me shiver. "Next time, mayhap."
Since we could not meet in the Forum, Master Piero herded us into the lecture hall. We held a distracted conversation on tyranny versus democracy and the rights of hereditary rule. From time to time, the word sedition floated up from the rostra below. Almost everyone was nervous at the conversation, even Master Piero. Only Brigitta and Eamonn held forth with assurance, unperturbed by the shadow of Tiberian politics. Both of them argued in favor of leadership by strength of arms and surety of purpose.
"Oh, what would you know about it?" Aulus sneered. "Barbarians!"
Color flared in Brigitta's cheeks. "What would you know?" she retorted. "Your Tiberian princeps cowers in his castle and wrings his hands over a pantomime! What else have they done in living memory? At least Skaldia produced a leader that made the world tremble!"
The hall grew quiet in the wake of her words. A few people glanced at me, wondering how I would react. I wasn't sure myself. Mercifully, Eamonn saved me the trouble.
"Yes," he said in a thoughtful tone. "Waldemar Selig was a powerful leader and sure in his purpose. But perhaps we should consider the nature of a ruler's purpose, and whether or not it is virtuous." He gazed at Brigitta. "I am named for my uncle, who died on the battlefield facing Waldemar Selig. He died bravely. I do not believe he trembled."
She looked away, biting her lip. "I did not mean to give offense."
"Enough," Master Piero said mildly. He favored all of us with a long, grave look. "We have all agreed to lay our personal quarrels and our national politics aside in the pursuit of truth. It seems we find it difficult today. Let us adjourn, and make a new attempt on the morrow. We will meet at the Fountain of the Chariot, and hope its rushing waters lead to cooler heads."
He dismissed us without lingering, retreating to his study. I followed, hovering in the doorway until he looked up.
"Yes, Imriel?"
"I heard that Master Strozzi announced his retirement today," I said. "Is he… is he well?"
"He's fine." Master Piero looked puzzled. "I spoke to him myself early this morning. It's not wholly a surprise; the man is over eighty years old, and he's been talking about it for some years. Why, did he seem ill when you saw him yesterday?"
"No, no." I backed away. "I'm sorry to trouble you, my lord."
In the lecture hall, Eamonn and Brigitta were immersed in conversation. Her arms were folded and she wore a stubborn look, but she was listening to him. I waited a moment, and Eamonn made a familiar gesture, one he used to give me during the summer we spent in Montrève when he was courting girls; a half-smile and a slight cock of the head, warning me to keep my brooding self at a distance. Brigitta noticed, following his gaze with a scowl.
I put up my hands and left him to it. I suspected Eamonn mac Grainne had met his match in that one, but I had underestimated his charms before.
The rostra was empty and the crowds in the Old Forum had dispersed, only a few knots of students standing around debating. By this time, the day's heat was at its zenith. I thought of the baths with longing, and decided to return to the insula to apologize to Gilot for vanishing this morning and see if he wished to accompany me.
Outside the insula, a powerful fragrance hung in the air, amplified by the midday heat. The incense-maker must be working hard at his trade. Canis the beggar poked his head out of his barrel as I drew near.
"Good day, young sir!" he called cheerfully. "Do you smell the myrrh?"
"I'd be hard put to miss it," I observed. "And my name is Imriel, by the way."
"Im-ri-el." He said my name slowly in his strangely accented Caerdicci, committing it to memory. "What does it mean, this name you bear?"
I shrugged. "Not much, I fear. 'Tis an old D'Angeline name." It was true, or almost. In Habiru, my name meant "eloquence of God," or so Phèdre had told me. Why my mother chose it, I have no idea. "Canis, where are you from?"
"From?" He looked surprised. "Why, I was squeezed out of my mother's loins, bloody and squalling. Where are you from?"
"Never mind." I shook my head at him, amused, and made for the gate.
"Wait!" He scrambled out of his barrel, his wooden begging bowl in one hand. I fumbled for my purse. "No, listen," Canis said. "Smell." He inhaled deeply. "There was a man once born of a tree," he said craftily. "Myrrha, the daughter of Kinryas, bore him. Her mother boasted of her beauty, and Aphrodite grew envious. She put a curse upon Myrrha and made her desire her own father, tricking him to her bed. When she got with child and he learned it was his, he tried to kill her."
My skin prickled. "That sounds like a Hellene myth," I said, striving to keep my tone light. "Are you from Hellas, Canis?"
He pointed at me. "The gods took pity on her," he intoned. "And they turned her into a myrrh tree. Ten months later, the bark was peeled away, and the boy-babe Adonis emerged." He gave me a gap-toothed smile. "And you know what happened to him!"
"Yes," I said. Memories descended on me; the banners of the Cruarch of Alba waving, the Black Boar of the Cullach Gorrym depicted on a red field. A scraping hoof, a looming shadow, the rank odor of pig and the rich scent of loam. Sidonie, trapped beneath me, laughing a full-throated laugh. I shuddered. "He was killed by a boar."
"Oh, the boar!" Canis waved a dismissive hand. "No, I meant the goddess of love, who made him her consort. Watch out for her, young Adonis. Betimes the gods take sides against one another, and we mortals are caught between them."
"Imriel," I said. "Who is this goddess of love, Canis?"
"Right." He nodded, ignoring my question. "Imriel." He held out his begging bowl, watching me place a few brass sestertii in it. "So tell me, pray. What was it like in the tree's womb, young Adonis? Did you find it a sticky place?"
"Canis!" I grasped his shoulders, exasperated. I was beginning to wonder if he wasn't a bit touched in the head after all. He stood steady beneath my grasp, blinking at me. His frame was unexpectedly sturdy. "My name is Imriel nó Montrève. And I was not born of a tree."
"Well, of course not!" He held himself with dignity. "That all happened a long time ago, didn't it? It's only the scent of myrrh that brings it back." He nodded toward the incense-maker's shop. "There was a messenger came for you, earlier today. He left a note with Master Ambrosius, I think."
I uttered a curse and let him go, banging on the incense-keeper's door.
He had closed his shop against the day's heat, but he opened it for me, peering through the gap with a dyspeptic look. "What do you want?"
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