I went then to Micheline de Parnasse, who was the Royal Archivist. She had ten years on Ignace d'Avicenne if she had a day, but her mind was as sharp as Cassiel's dagger. She peered at me and spoke a few sharp words to one of her assistants, a lanky young Siovalese lordling who grinned when she wasn't looking, and treated her with the utmost deference.
One might expect dust and disarray in the Royal Archives, where the records of a thousand years of D'Angeline royalty are housed, but the place was spotless, smelling of sweet beeswax and organized within an inch of its life. Micheline de Parnasse's assistant followed her orders unerringly; and halted, stock-still, in astonishment.
"It's not here, my lady," he said. "The pages are missing."
Her brows beetled furiously, "What! You must be looking in the wrong place. Let me see." Moving with the aid of a cane, she came to scan the shelf. He passed her the hidebound ledger he'd withdrawn, and she examined it carefully, tilting it to and fro in the lamplight. At length, she looked soberly at me. "He's right. Three pages have been excised." Balancing the ledger, she showed me the sharp edges buried in the spine where the pages had been cut. "Five years of Cassiline Brethren attendant on House de la Courcel, recorded there. Someone's taken them out."
Oh, Joscelin! With an effort, I kept my voice level. "My Lady Archivist, who has access to these records?"
"Directly?" Micheline de Parnasse frowned, absently stroking the ledger as one might comfort a wounded child. "Myself, and my two assistants, who'd sooner murder a babe in the cradle than tamper with the archives! The Queen, of course. And the Secretaries of the Privy Seal."
I had been out of the City too long. "Who holds those posts?"
She gave me three names, and I startled at the third.
"Solaine Belfours? I did not know she held the honor still." Hastily, I gathered my wits. "My Lady Archivist, it is needful that these records be complete."
"Yes." Distraught, she held the ledger close to her. "Yes, I will write to the Prefect of the Cassiline Brotherhood, and ask him to supply the information. Rinforte will know, they keep records of their own. 'Tis a grave thing, to desecrate the Royal Archives!" She scowled, and I'd not have liked to be held accountable for the crime. "Rinforte will know. Do you want me to send notice when it conies, young... Phèdre, was it?"
"Yes, my lady," I murmured. "If you please."
I wrote out my name and address for her Siovalese assistant, who held the bit of parchment on which I'd written like it was a precious thing, and grinned at me. "Don't worry," he said. "We'll find it."
So I left them, the Royal Archivist muttering in a fury, and her smiling assistant.
I had learned a great deal in the pursuit of knowledge that eluded me.
EIGHTEEN
Gaspar Trevalion heeded my invitation shortly thereafter, paying a visit.
A confederate of Delaunay's from the beginning, he was the closest thing to an uncle I had ever known. I received him warmly, and bid Gemma fetch out our finest wine to serve. After I had poured for him and we were seated, after he had suitably admired the bust of Delaunay that ever watched over my sitting room, I asked him the question that had been burning in my mind.
Gaspar Trevalion, the Comte de Forcay, frowned into his wine. "Ysandre kept Solaine Belfours on because I interceded on her behalf, Phèdre."
Sipping my wine, I nearly choked. "Why?"
It is a vivid memory for me, kneeling forgotten in a corner at Solaine's country estate, while the Marquise paced the room with gleaming eyes, switching her riding crop, and deciding to accept the offer of the Lioness of Azzalle to commit high treason and put the imprimature of the Privy Seal on a forged letter to the Khalif of Khebbel-im-Akkad.
"Because she begged me to." Gaspar met my eyes firmly. "Yes, I know. She was Lyonette's creature, and nearly acted treasonously on her behalf. But it never happened, Phèdre. You know it and I know it. Solaine knew it wouldn't when she asked Baudoin's escort as surety. Lyonette de Trevalion would never have risked her son thusly." He spread his hands. "Lyonette was her sponsor, and a powerful one. What could she do? She dared not risk a flat rejection. So she said, and I believe her."
I stared at Delaunay's marble face and wondered what he would have thought.
"Phèdre." Gaspar's voice was gentle. "She was less complicit than my own cousin in Lyonette's scheme. I convinced Ysandre to reinstate Marc as Duc de Trevalion in all but name, with his grandson's inheritance clear. I would have been remiss if I'd let Solaine bear the punishment House Trevalion evaded. She was fostered at Trevalion, do you understand?"
"Yes." I did, though I didn't like it. The ties of noble fosterage were complex and binding, second only to marriage; and maybe not even that. The bonds of matrimony could be dissolved easier than the bonds of childhood debts and loyalties. "I understand."
"Good." His expression cleared. "Now, why is it that you ask?"
This, at least, I could answer honestly without throwing suspicion on the present. "She was one of my patrons, my lord. And Delaunay did not trust her, but bid me watch her carefully. He stood ready to intercept that letter to the Khalif, you know, had it been sent."
"I know. And I stood with him. But it wasn't." His tone put an end to the matter, and we turned our conversation to more pleasant topics. I put a good face on it, talking lightly of affairs of the Palace. But I could not shake my deep unease, as I did not think it was conscience that had moved Solaine Belfours.
I did not know if it was conscience that had moved Gaspar Trevalion.
That night, I told Joscelin all that I had learned, and his face grew tight and drawn, the white lines forming. He paced the room like a caged tiger, splendid in his wounded anger. I sat quiet and watched him. Whatever I thought of the letter of Cassiline vows, I respected their nature. Joscelin, outcast and anathema, in violation of the vows of obedience and chastity, had never, in his darkest hours, violated the central precept of Cassiel: To protect and serve.
When at last he sat down and buried his face in his hands in despair, I stroked his hair, the wheat-gold strands that fell loose and shining over his strong hands where they covered his face.
"Don't," Joscelin muttered, shuddering hard. He lifted his face, taut with rage and anguish. "Phèdre, don't. I can't bear it."
Neither could I, so I did the only thing I could, and left him alone.
I was drowning, and no hand would reach out to clasp mine. I slept ill, and dreamt, plagued by nightmares, waking with a stifled cry, my mouth half-stopped with gasping fear. I do not know what my lord Delaunay did at such times, when he was cast adrift in a sea of intrigue, bits of information all around like flotsam and jetsam, but none he could grasp, none that would bear his weight, no vessel to assemble. I was Naamah's Servant and Kushiel's Chosen. I cast myself on their mercies, and accepted another assignation.
It has never been my wont to service more than one patron at a time, but I suppose I could not help thinking of the Twins, Eamonn and Grainne, when I accepted the proposal of the joint rulers of the Marquisate de Fhirze. What might it have been like, had the Lords of the Dalriada shared me? Would it have balanced them all the same? I did not know; I had never even wondered, before then. And I would never know, for Eamonn was dead, slain on the fields of Troyes-le-Mont, and his sister had carried his head home to Alba, preserved in quicklime. Well, and they were barbarians, but all the same, noble in heart and deed.
Apollonaire and Diànne; no idle jest, the Hellene masks of sun and moon, but a play on their names, a long history in House Fhirze. They were not twins-Diànne was elder by a year-nor barbarians, but quintessentially D'Angeline. The de Fhirze estates lay in Namarre near the Kusheline border, where the blood of their House had mingled freely with that of Kushiel's scions, but they were creatures of the Palace and wintered in the City of Elua. It was a tall, narrow house with many stories, and multiple windows on every one, so peering sun and moon alike could illuminate its interior.
One story entire was given over to their pleasures, and in truth, it was as well stocked with toys as any seraglio of the Night Court. There was a flagellary with whips and crops and tawses, pincers and feathered ticklers, trasses and trapezes and suspension harnesses, and aides d'amour sheathed in leather and carved from ivory.
And all of these things Apollonaire and Diànne de Fhirze used on me, trading off in a well-orchestrated game, so that I must needs please the one while the other tormented me nearly beyond bearing. It was she who commanded the game, I quickly discerned, but she reckoned on him to carry it, for though he seemed quiet and bashful beside her, his stoic strength and endurance and prodigious endowment were near as obdurate as rock.
Well, I am what I am, and after many hours, Apollonaire de Fhirze sank trembling and exhausted to the cushions strewn about the chamber, his handsome face slack and empty, small muscles jumping in his strong thighs.
"No more, Diànne," he murmured, his once-awesome phallus damp and limp against his groin. "Enough."
"Elua!" His sister jerked hard on the pincers clamped to my nipples, joined with a leather thong; a fresh wave of pain lanced through my body, doubled and suspended as it was. "Do you say it is enough?" she asked ominously, trailing a pinion-feather along the soft skin of my inner thigh, between my legs, parting my damp and swollen nether lips with the tip of it.
One would think, after hard usage, the nerve-endings would grow dull to such finesse. Mayhap it is true with others. It is not true with me. I whimpered and closed my eyes, breathing the words of my response. "As you wish ... my lady."
"Pfaugh!" With a disgusted sound, Diànne de Fhirze tossed aside the feather and loosed the catch on the pulley that held me suspended; I dropped with a soft thud onto the cushions. "You disappoint me, Apollonaire," she said, going matter-of-factly about unfastening the leather shackles that bound my wrists and ankles, and the pincers as well.
Recumbent on cushions, he smiled at her with sweet contentment. "Do I?"
She ignored him, laughing and toying with my hair. "You, though ... No one, man or woman, has ever outlasted my brother. No wonder the Dalriada went to war for you!"
Catching my breath a bit, I drew myself up to kneel and compose myself. "The story is somewhat exaggerated, my lady."
"All the best stories are," she said idly, reclining and eyeing me. "Tell me, Comtesse, what will you choose as a patron-gift? We have thrown open the coffers of Fhirze for this assignation, but I would not slight the traditions of Naamah." Diànne gestured with one languid arm. "Anything you wish, in this house, is yours. Only you must name it. It is something indeed, to ride Apollonaire de Fhirze to exhaustion."
I gathered up my tumbled locks, raising my arms to lift my bare breasts, tossing my hair back so it fell dark and serpentine down the length of my back, obscuring my marque. "If you would honor Naamah in my name," I said, "make a gift to her Temple. For myself..." I smiled, "... I will bear the marks of your remembrance on my skin."
"Is it true that you were a spy?" Apollonaire asked suddenly. "Even in Naamah's Service?"
"Yes." Sitting on my heels, I looked gravely at him. "It is true."
He leaned on one elbow, face alight with interest. "What would you do, then, if you were spying on us?"
"Well, my lord." The question amused me, coming from a patron I had chosen wholly without regard to the arts of covertcy; which is likely why I answered it honestly. "I know of no intrigue coming out of Fhirze, but you are well-placed at the Palace, and like to hear gossip, especially since there are the two of you, and no doubt you mull over each day's gleanings together. If there was somewhat I wished to know, like as not I would sound you out."
"Such as what?" Diànne looked as interested as her brother. I had never reckoned, till now, the erotic potential my former-for all they knew-calling held for my patrons. I smiled and shrugged, turning my hands palm-up on my thighs.
"Nicola L'Envers y Aragon," I said casually. "Her interest in Marmion Shahrizai is passing strange, is it not? He set himself for the Queen, but she has turned his head."
"Nicola!" Diànne and her brother exchanged glances, and she laughed. "She hasn't a centime to her name, did you know it? It all went to her husband, through Aragonian law, and what he's not drunk, he's squandered. Whatever she's about, the Duc L'Envers put her up to it, and no mistake. 'Tis rumored that he's invested heavily in the tin trade everyone says will come out of Alba. It's in his interest to keep the Queen and her Pictish King sweet, with no scheming Shahrizai between them."
If I thought Barquiel L'Envers' schemes boiled down to mere commerce, I'd have slept easier at night. "Coin for her, and tin for him. Well, then, I would have learned somewhat." I shrugged again, and smiled ruefully. "But it would take my lord Anafiel Delaunay to make sense of it."
"I could tell you somewhat." Apollonaire sat up cross-legged, heedless of his own magnificent nudity. "Though I knelt demurely, I could not help but eye him. I had chosen well, with these two. "The Comte ... the Duc, that is, Percy de Somerville, is not so happy as he seems with the Queen's trust in the Unforgiven. I overheard him quarrelling with Ghislain. He is not so inclined as his son and the Queen to trust in the loyalty of the Black Shields!"
"My lord Delaunay would have found that interesting," I murmured. It was interesting. Would Ghislain plot with the former Allies of Camlach? Would Percy plot against them? Or was it naught but father-son rivalry? Ghislain had ridden with Isidore d'Aiglemort, the consummate traitor and ultimate hero of Troyes-le-Mont. So had I. Percy had not. It was interesting. So was the Marquis de Fhirze, who beamed at me, proud of his revelation, his sizeable phallus beginning to stir to life.