Kushiel's Scion (72 page)
"To Lucius Tadius da Lucca!"
Reclining on his couch, Deccus Fulvius raised his winecup, his broad face flushed. The rest of us followed suit.
"To Lucius!" we chorused.
"'And Helena," Brigitta added pointedly before drinking.
Word had come from Lucca; Gaetano Correggio had accepted Lucius' suit on behalf of his daughter. The date of the wedding was fixed, some six weeks hence. And Deccus Fulvius had resolved to throw a fete to celebrate, deigning to invite his wife's brother's disreputable scholarly friends.
It was a full-blown Tiberian affair, complete with dancing girls and boys; players from the belated pantomime I had witnessed. The atmosphere was raucous and indulgent, and if it hadn't been for Claudia Fulvia, I daresay I would have enjoyed myself.
But there was Claudia.
I hadn't had a chance to speak to her since my visit to the embassy, and nothing was resolved. One thing was certain—if I had any lingering doubts about the efficacy of her training methods, I lost them that night. I had no choice but to engage in the practice of duplicity. It was hard, damnably hard, to be under the same roof with her and pretend there was nothing between us. Wherever she was, I could feel the heat of her. I couldn't look at her playing at being the proper senator's wife without seeing her in all her naked glory, spread out like a banquet.
And yet I managed to keep any of it from showing. Truly, I'd learned a measure of control.
The fete was too large to be contained within the dining hall. It spread throughout the domus. There were a great many people I didn't know present—Tiberian nobles and politicians as well as students. I shook hands and made polite conversation, all the while aware of Claudia moving smoothly throughout the throng while her husband and brother held court. Her decorum was a marvel to behold. Whether by dint of long practice or inborn skill, it seemed effortless.
I'd almost forgotten, since that first night I met her. Now I watched her through different eyes, wondering how much of her skill at dissembling was that of a woman cuckolding her husband, and how much owed to the arts of covertcy. Here in Tiberium, mayhap there wasn't much difference to choose between the two.
Whatever the case, Claudia's skill made it easier to fall into my own role—Lucius' friend, the D'Angeline scholar. I laughed with my companions, drank wine in moderation, spoke respectfully to my host, and began to relax.
Which, of course, was when Claudia struck.
It was in the atrium. I had been conversing with a trade merchant who was curious about the Master of the Straits. Outside of Terre d'Ange and Alba, his existence is regarded with a measure of skepticism. The merchant, who was interested in striking up a direct trade relationship with the Cruarch of Alba, asked me if the legends were true.
"Oh yes," I said. "They're true."
"I mean, really," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "I'm willing to allow that there are dangerous currents, mayhap a pernicious maelstrom… but surely, young sir, you don't expect me to believe there's a sorcerer controlling the seas surrounding Alba?"
I thought about Hyacinthe with his strange, sea-shifting eyes, stepping from the crest of a wave onto the deck of Admiral Rousse's ship. "Believe what you like," I said, hearing an echo of Claudia in my words. "But he is real."
The merchant turned to his wife. "What do you think?"
"Excuse me," Claudia murmured graciously, interposing herself. Her fingertips rested lightly on my arm. "Imriel, a moment?"
Not wanting to make a scene, I let her draw me away. With a deft motion, she slipped into the lararium where the household altar resided, taking me with her.
A single oil lamp burned on the table, low and guttering. It was barely enough to illuminate the waxen masks and bronze figurines with which the altar table was laden. The room seemed close and stifling, smelling of stale incense. There in the darkness, Claudia kissed me with familiar animal urgency, her tongue seeking to duel with mine.
"Claudia!" I wrenched my head away, hissing her name. Beyond the open door of the lararium, revelers laughed and chatted, only a few scant yards away.
"The world is filled with unexpected dangers, Imriel. Are you scared?" She pressed close, sliding one hand between us to fondle me. I swore softly as I grew hard under her touch. Her lips curved. "You don't feel scared."
I bit my lip and stared over her shoulder. On the altar, the waxen death-masks of the patriarchs of the Fulvii stared back at me. In the guttering lamplight, shadows moved over their features, altering their expressions. Their dead eyes were filled with disapproval. A current of cold air stirred in the close quarters. I thought about Lucius and shuddered.
The lares of the Fulvii mean you no harm…
So Deccus had said to him, and mayhap it was true, but of a surety, I did not think his ancestors welcomed my presence here in their sanctuary, with his wife's tongue in my mouth and her hand on my groin.
"Not here," I said firmly, removing her hand. "No."
For an awful moment, I thought Claudia meant to persist and I didn't know what I'd do. But no, she stepped away, her gaze light and amused. "Later, then."
I waited until she had gone, then turned to the altar with a low bow. Since I had no idea how to properly address Tiberian household gods, I merely said, "Forgive me, for I meant no disrespect."
Feeling the dead, waxy stare of the Fulvii lares betwixt my shoulder blades, I departed their chamber. All my hard-won composure was shattered. Mayhap it was what Claudia intended, and mayhap there was a purpose to it.
But if this was another difficult lesson, I meant to dodge it. And until I could put an end to this entire mess, I meant to avoid Claudia altogether.
"Lucius, my friend." Without asking permission, I joined him on his couch and addressed him with unwonted abruptness. "Let's celebrate your betrothal and get blind, stinking drunk."
He gave me a startled look. "All right. Let's."
We did so with great, rousing success.
I awoke the following day with an aching head, a mouth that felt stuffed with cotton, and hazy memories of ending the night by stumbling through the streets of Tiberium with Eamonn, singing an Eiran drinking song. It made me smile until I remembered the tired, stoic face of the Fulvii servant who had accompanied us to light our way. Then I felt the weight of my own hypocrisy descend, and sighed.
Although I'd slept through Master Piero's class, I managed to drag myself to Erytheia's atelier that afternoon, reckoning it a sort of grim punishment. At least in my sorry state, it would be easier to confront Claudia without fear of being seduced into prolonging the affair. Erytheia took one look at me and rolled her eyes.
"Iacchos! You look like you were scraped from the bottom of a wine barrel," she said, then paused. "Perhaps that's not altogether a bad thing. Strip, and sit for me."
I obeyed.
I'd gotten good at it by now. I took up my grapes and sprawled in the chair, slinging my leg carelessly over the arm, and stayed there without moving. Truth be told, I liked watching Erytheia work. There was somewhat beautiful in it, that pure and utter absorption; and somewhat fearful, too. I watched her face as she painted, at once blank and rapt, a kind of sight beyond sight. I had seen that expression on Phèdre's face.
I'd seen it in Daršanga.
And I'd seen it on Kapporeth, when she'd walked out of the temple with the Name of God quivering on her tongue, an unbearable brightness on her.
I'd seen a flicker of it, fleeting and elusive, the morning I'd ridden home from Valerian House and quarreled with her. Caught her wrist, hard, and felt her pulse leap beneath my touch. Seen the scarlet mote on her iris, a tantalizing challenge.
For months, I had struggled to keep that memory at bay.
And yet now, strangely, it no longer struck me like a fist to the gut.
We are what we are, Imriel.
It was true. She had drawn away from it, and so had I. Granted, I had heaved the contents of my belly onto the floor, but I had done it. And Phèdre had understood, and so had Joscelin. Although I could not help my own desires, I was not held helpless in their thrall. I was free to choose. I understood that, now. And in a strange way, I had Claudia to thank for it.
Erytheia of Thrasos stepped backward and eyed her easel.
She nodded—once, twice, and thrice—and laid down her palette and brush. "It is finished," she said simply. "Will you see?"
I was lost in my own thoughts, and it took a moment for her words to make sense. Once they did, I rose, stiff-jointed, wrapping the purple cloth about my waist and coming to gaze at the panel on her easel.
"That's me?" I asked.
"Yes," she said.
It was strange—so strange!—to behold myself captured in paint. I cocked my head, gazing at the image. My own face stared out at me, indolent and predatory, all high cheekbones and languid eyes. A sensuous mouth, and firm brows. It was a compendium of contrasts. I felt at my face with my fingertips, trying to find the resemblance.
"Do you even know what you look like?" Erytheia asked curiously.
"No," I murmured. "I mean yes, of course, it's just…" I shook my head. "I don't look in the mirror very often. It's a long story."
The door rattled open to admit Claudia Fulvia.
"Lady Fulvia." Erytheia inclined her head in a formal greeting. "I am pleased to tell you that your commission is finished."
"Excellent." Claudia glanced at it. "Very nice. Magnificent. Will you keep it safe for me, Erytheia? I can't tarry." She caught my bare arm, and there was nothing playful or sensuous in the gesture. "Imriel, did you attend your lecture this morning?"
"No." I frowned. "Why? What is it?"
She sighed. "May we have a moment?"
The artist raised her brows, but made no comment, merely beckoning to her apprentice. The two of them stepped outside.
"Claudia, I need to talk—" I began.
"Listen." Claudia squeezed my arm. "I'm sorry, Imriel, but there's no time. I want you and your friends to stay off the streets tonight. It's not going to be safe in the students' quarter."
I stared at her. "Why?"
"Because," she said grimly, "one of Deccus' more hotheaded conspirators took it upon himself to call upon the Senate to enact a decree abolishing funding for the University this morning. And this afternoon, the consul of the citizen assembly stood up and agreed with him. The students are going to riot."
"They are?" I felt like an idiot. "We are?"
Claudia gave me an impatient look. "It's certainly going to look that way. Starting a riot's one of the easiest things in the world. Once there's bloodshed, the citizen assembly will back down. They don't have the stomach for it. Look, just heed my advice. Find your friends and convince them to keep their heads down and stay out of trouble." She gave my arm another ungentle squeeze. "And remember, I'm trusting you enough to warn you."
This was a different Claudia, one I'd never seen before, and she was deadly serious. I nodded and reached for my neatly piled clothing, with Canis' luck-charm sitting atop it. I strung it around my neck and began to dress. "I understand."
"Good boy." She gave me a swift kiss. "I'll send word to you later."
I managed to leave Erytheia's atelier without Silvio, which was a piece of irony. But I wanted to be able to move swiftly, and if trouble arose, I suspected he'd be more of a hindrance than a help. In the genteel neighborhood where Erytheia's atelier was located, all was fairly quiet, but by the time I reached the dense labyrinth of the students' quarter, I could sense the unrest.
All the wineshops and inns were full to overflowing. People stood around talking in knots, the way they had in the Old Forum when the pontifex and the aedile argued on the rostra. This was different, though. It had an ugly undertone, a low buzz of anger. I could feel it on my skin.
"Imriel!" Canis, perched cross-legged atop his barrel, called to me. "It is an interesting dilemma, is it not?" His brown eyes sparkled in his dirty face. "Myself, I have always found wisdom to be free, and thus there is no need for the state to sponsor its pursuit. And yet, where the purses of the few grow fat, the wisdom of the many is stunted. What think you?"
"I think mayhap you should roll your barrel into our courtyard tonight and sleep there, my friend," I said. "Canis, do you know if Gilot is here?"
"You worry on my behalf!" He beamed. "How kind. No, he departed for the market with his lady-friend and her daughter an hour ago. You're early," he added.
"I know," I said. "Do you know which market?"
He shrugged. "No."
With a curse, I plunged into the city in search of Gilot. Along the way, I stopped in every wineshop I passed, looking for Eamonn or Lucius, or anyone else worth warning.
All I found was a steadily rising buzz of hostility. Students debated in heated tones, some of them still wearing their scholars' robes. Mostly they argued with one another, but in some places they quarreled with shopkeepers and other workers—members of the Tiberian citizen assembly that had supported the call for a decree. Some voices were louder than others, declaiming their outrage with an orator's skill. The citizens responding were beginning to sound nervous and unsure.
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