Kushiel's Chosen

"You've no idea how much I've longed to see you. Promise you'll speak with me afterward?"
    "Of course, my lord."
    "Good." He straightened, adding, "Father would like to meet you, too. He's a mind to discuss trade or some such thing. But I thought perhaps I could show you the city."
    "That would be lovely," I said politely, and Severio's brown eyes lit at my reply. I should not have, but I stole a glance at Joscelin, who stood impassive, strangely vulnerable without his daggers and sword, clad in mute grey. Even so, there was no mistaking him for aught but what he was: a pure-blooded D'Angeline from one of the oldest families. I sighed inwardly and smiled up at Severio Stregazza, resting my fingertips on his velvet-clad arm. "Shall I be presented to your grandfather the Doge, my lord?"
    "By all means," Severio said gallantly, sweeping his free hand before us.

THIRTY-TWO
    1 was received in the Room of the Shield, where a great fireplace roared even in the heat of summer, and on the opposite wall hung the arms of the reigning Doge's family, the familiar tower and carrack of the Stregazza.
    Beneath them stood the throne, a modest wooden affair, and in it sat the Doge.
    Rumor had not lied; Cesare Stregazza had the shaking-sickness. His flesh was frail-seeming and sunken, and his entire body trembled with the palsy. The ancient dome of his skull looked vulnerable beneath the peaked crimson cap he wore, silk earflaps covering thinning wisps of white hair; terrible and strange to see. The hair of D'Angeline men does not diminish with age, as I have noted with other peoples. Mortality is more pronounced in other lands.
    "The Contessa Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève, grandfather," Severio announced.
    I curtsied and sank to kneel before the wooden throne, gazing with lowered eyes at the Doge's slippered feet. Cesare Stregazza's hand descended to rest on my head, tremorous and gentle but for the weight of the signet it bore. "I have heard your name, child," he said in quavering Caerdicci. Startled, I glanced up to meet his eyes, dark and canny behind hooded, wrinkled lids. For all that his head bobbed perceptibly, those eyes were steady. "Benedicte sent a harpist last winter, with the latest D'Angeline lay. The Battle of the Skaldi. You brought the Alban army."
    "Yes, your grace," I said simply.
    "That's good." The Doge withdrew his trembling touch, folding his hands in his scarlet-robed lap. The dogal seal flashed gold, a signet bearing the Crown of Asherat in relief. "We need young people of courage, even mere girls, to fight something more than each other," he added in his thready voice, looking past me to Severio, and I saw a flash of somewhat in those dark eyes. "The Serene Republic!"
    Contempt and frustration; I am trained to read voices. Severio flushed, but before he could reply, another man came forward-of middle years, handsome in the Caerdicci fashion, with the same dark, hooded eyes as the Doge. "Contessa," he said in smooth intervention. "Well met. I am Marco Stregazza, Severio's father." He took my hand and drew me to my feet, bowing as I rose. "And this," he added, turning, "is Marie-Celeste de la Courcel Stregazza, my wife."
    "My lady," I said, curtsying to her.
    "Oh, don't!" Marie-Celeste said impetuously, grasping my hands. "Phèdre, I'm so glad you're here! I've been fair dying to hear the latest gossip and styles from the City, and I've scarce seen a D'Angeline face since I quarrelled with Father. Promise you'll tell me everything, do!"
    "Of course, my lady," I said, faintly bemused. Benedicte's elder daughter-who was, indeed, niece and daughter-in-law alike to the Doge-was attractive in her own right, plumply rounded, in the fullness of her years. I could see traces of House Courcel's lineage in her dark-blue eyes, the graceful curve of her brow.
    "I have tried to explain," she said confidentially, leaning toward me, "about Naamah's Service, and what it means to a D'Angeline. But you understand, they are all provincial here."
    "Customs differ," I murmured. "La Serenissima is not the City of Elua."
    Severio muttered something under his breath.
    "Come," Marco said expansively, opening his arms. "Phèdre, I pray you, take a glass of wine with us! Severio, surely you and your madcap Immortali can entertain the Contessa's men for an hour or two. Father, if you've naught else to say ... ?"
    I glanced instinctively at the Doge. The motion of his head could have been taken for a shake of denial; certainly his