Kushiel's Chosen

so; I am Serenissiman, and I will woo my city in the manner to which she is accustomed. Yes, I seek trade, but on honest terms. You have the Queen's enmity. Like Benedicte's infatuation, it too may pass, but you have a life to lead, and it need not dance at the whims of D'Angeline royals. Will you not consider my request?"
    "My lord," I said slowly, "I will consider it. But there must be more in it for me than mere profit, to circumvent the interests of my own nation."
    "My son adores you," Marie-Celeste offered candidly, Serenissiman shrewdness in her half-Courcel face. "Phèdre, my dear, you may hold sway in your own nation, but in La Serenissima, courtesans do not marry into the Hundred Worthy Families. For free trade with Alba... exceptions may be made."
    I nearly had to bite my lip to keep from laughing, and made a show of swirling my wine to disguise it. I liked Severio well enough, but to wed him-Elua preserve me! Still, I appreciated the Stregazzas' naked candour, their ambition and the offer plain on the table. And I had an idea. "My lady," I said, inclining my head to her. "There is somewhat that interests me. I seek an old acquaintance, Melisande Shahrizai by name. I heard it rumored you had knowledge of her."
    "Oh, dear!" Marie-Celeste Stregazza turned pale. "I know that name. Father-Prince Benedicte-was looking for her too, not two months' past. Some sort of traitor to the nation, is she not?"
    How our concerns encompass us! It seemed astonishing to me that all the world did not know of Melisande's treachery-and yet, small wonder. I have ever known that Melisande played a deep game. She was convicted in an impromptu court in the garrison of Troyes-le-Mont, and those who witnessed it, I could count on my fingers. Of those who had proof... there was only me. I had seen the letter, in her writing, to Waldemar Selig of the Skaldi. No other trail existed.
    Now, I would use that to my advantage, and pray the Stregazza knew no more of my history than Severio had related.
    "So it is said, my lady," I replied cautiously; there is an art to phrasing matters just so, that listeners may hear what they will. "And, of course, it might be just the thing to retain my place in the Queen's good graces-" I cleared my throat delicately, "-whatsoever might happen with Alban trade. But she is an old acquaintance, and would see me, I think."
    "No." Marco shook his head forcefully. "Benedicte gave us a description, and there is no one fitting it in our knowledge. Believe me, young Contessa; trade is one matter, and court politics quite another. If I had any knowledge of a D'Angeline traitor within these walls," he said grimly, "I'd not hesitate to buy my father-in-law's gratitude with it."
    I opened my mouth to reply, but a ruckus at the entrance to their quarters cut me short. Even as I turned to look, a Serenissiman with the hooded Stregazza eyes, a neat dagger-point beard and a soft cap perched on his curly hair made his way onto the loggia.
    "Marco," he said peremptorily. "Why am I hearing about a ten-percent tax being added to the Saddlers' Guild on festival days? We had an agreement!"
    Marco Stregazza's lids flickered. "Ricciardo," he said briefly. "We have a guest."
    "Charmed." Ricciardo Stregazza offered dismissively, giving me a perfunctory glance, which changed quickly to a startled double take. "Asherat! What pretty fish do you have on your line this time, Marco?"
    "This," Marie-Celeste intervened, speaking in dignified D'Angeline, "is the Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève. Phèdre, my husband's brother, Ricciardo Stregazza."
    "Contessa." Ricciardo took my hand and bowed. "You are far too beautiful to be party to my sister-in-law's petty intrigues with the Little Court," he said cynically, straightening. "Pray do me the honor during your stay of accepting an invitation to dine, that my wife and I might show you that not all Serenissiman hospitality comes with strings attached."
    "The honor would be mine, my lord," I replied politely in Caerdicci.
    "Your wife!" Marie-Celeste gave an inelegant laugh. "A jest to the end, Ricciardo."
    His expression grew cold. "Whatever poison you spew, leave Allegra out of it, sister. Marco." He turned back to his brother. "The Scholae were promised there'd be no additional taxes after the Treaty of Ephesium was signed. This is an end run around our agreement."
    "If they don't want to pay the taxes," Marco said reasonably, "they needn't come to market on festival days."
    "And