Kushiel's Chosen

family chose to take it as such. But my lord Delaunay always taught us to look twice. I saw it was but the palsy, and knelt before him.
    Deep in his hooded eyes, I saw a flash of approval.
    "Courage, and vision." The Doge laid his trembling hand against my cheek, and I felt the hard press of his signet. "You remember what I said. And come sing for me, girl! Benedicte doesn't send singers any more, since this idiot's quarrel. Do you sing?"
    "Yes, my lord," I said, confused.
    "Good." Cesare Stregazza leaned back, satisfied. "D'Angelines always made the best poets and whores. And singers. I want to hear a D'Angeline voice sing again, before Asherat's bitches prophesy me into my grave."
    "Uncle!" Marie-Celeste hissed, mortified.
    "I'm old," he retorted querulously. "And you're fighting over the throne before I've even left it. I can ask for what I want. Can't I?"
    Look twice, I thought, remembering the gleam in those sunken eyes. Whatever game he played, 'twas best I played along. I rose smoothly, inclining my head. "My lord, I was trained in Cereus House, First of the Thirteen Houses of the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers. It will be my honor to sing for you whenever you desire it."
    "That is well." The Doge waved one crabbed hand, gold signet flashing. "You are dismissed."
    "Shall we go, then?" Marco Stregazza inquired impatiently.
    I glanced at Ti-Philippe and Joscelin, my silent retainers; the latter's face had a mutinous set. Severio looked impatient, but obedient to his father's wishes. "Yes, my lord," I said aloud to Marco. "I'm sure my men will welcome the reprieve."
    The private quarters of Marco and Marie-Celeste Stregazza were generous, with an elegant mosaic inlaid in the floor depicting their purported ancestor, Marcellus Aurelius Strega, seated on an ivory stool and bearing the bundle of fasces, in much the pose his young descendant had once adopted. The rooms intersected a loggia which overlooked the mouth of the Grand Canal, a slice of the lagoon itself within their view. We sipped our wine and strolled its length, taking in the vista in the clear midday air.
    "Do you see that?" Marco Stregazza asked rhetorically, gesturing with his winecup at the hundred vessels working their way up and down the harbor. 'Trade! Lifeblood of the Republic!"
    "It is most impressive, my lord," I replied honestly.
    "Yes," Marco said. "It is." He beckoned brusquely for a servant to refill my cup. "Severio tells me interesting things about you," he said obliquely.
    I set down my brimming cup untouched and raised my brows. "Such as?"
    "Such as the fact that he spent twenty thousand ducats of my money on you," Marco answered nonplussed, "and never invested a penny wiser."
    The blood rose to my cheeks, but for Naamah's honor-and my own-I kept my voice level. "In D'Angeline society, what your son purchased was beyond price, my lord. It made his fame. Do you wish the money unspent?"
    "Were you listening?" Marco grinned, looking younger and boyish. "Not a copper centime! Our customs differ indeed. Here, we'd die of shame rather than let a courtesan hold title; but there, it bought him admirers and influence. In fact, one such reports that you have fallen out with the Queen, over a certain matter of the Cruarch of Alba. And yet my own reports tell me you shipped Alban lead and made a nice profit in the bargain." Setting down his own cup, he steepled his fingers. "What I am thinking, Contessa, is that Terre d'Ange will grow fat acting as middleman between Alba and the rest of the world. But such a thing need not be. Alba does not have a merchant fleet. La Serenissima does. If someone with, shall we say, entree, to the Cruarch himself were to arrange it, there is great profit to be made in trading directly."
    This was a repercussion of our staged falling-out I had never considered, though I had known well that overland couriers would bring news before my arrival, and mayhap gossip as well. I rephrased carefully, to make certain of it. "You wish me to approach the Cruarch regarding trade with La Serenissima?"
    Marco shrugged, picked up his winecup and sipped. "I wish you to consider it, no more. I admit, Contessa, I am ambitious. You have seen my father; he is a little mad, I think, and grows more so with each day that passes. Prince Benedicte is enamored of his war-bride and his pure-blooded D'Angeline son, and withdraws his support from our family, fearing we are tainted since Dominic and Thérèse's treason. It may pass, but well and