Kushiel's Chosen

lose a third of their trade?" Ricciardo tugged at his curling locks with one exasperated hand. "As well tell them to throw half their goods in the river! I gave them my word, Marco."
    "Take it up with the Consiglio Maggiore," Marco said wearily. " 'Tis their legislation, and they passed it."
    "At whose behest?" Ricciardo asked dangerously.
    "Not mine." Marco shrugged, and spread his hands. "Ask, if you don't believe me, brother. You courted Sestieri Scholae, not I. If they're like to lynch you for making promises you can't keep, I cannot help it. The problem is yours."
    It is never a comfortable thing to find oneself in the midst of a family squabble, and all the less so when political intrigue is involved. Murmuring something innocuous, I withdrew to gaze out over the lagoon, while Ricciardo Stregazza struggled to get his temper in check.
    "We'll speak of this later," he said shortly, and then, to me; "My lady Phèdre, you swim in dangerous waters when you dally with the Stregazza, but I pray you, remember my invitation kindly. My lady wife -" he cast a venomous glance at Marie-Celeste, "-would be pleased to speak with one such as yourself."
    With that, he made his exit, and Marco Stregazza sighed, passing his hands over his face. "Forgive the intrusion, Contessa," he apologized. "My brother... is rather intemperate. So it has been since our father declared him a disgrace to the family. He courts the Scholae out of desperation, and makes rash promises to these rough tradesmen, then needs must fear their anger when he cannot deliver." He shook his head ruefully. " 'Tis an ill match if ever there was one, but Ricciardo is determined to contest for our father's seat. I would do what I could to protect him, if I did not fear he'd repay me with treachery."
    Marie-Celeste fanned herself and sipped her wine, making a face. "It's gone warm," she complained. "Marco, send them for a fresh-cooled jug." When he had left to summon a servant, she leaned in confidentially. "Ricciardo has the D'Angeline sickness, I'm afraid. It didn't sit well with his father when the scandal broke."
    "The D'Angeline sickness?" I repeated, feeling foolishly ignorant.
    "You know." She raised her brows. "He likes boys."
    "Ah." One undercurrent of their bitter exchange suddenly came clear to me. I turned my empty winecup in my hands, looking across the busy lagoon. "You name this a sickness, in La Serenissima."
    "Yes, well, I told you, they are all provincial here." Lowering her voice, she added, "I do not say this to Marco, for when all is said and done, he loves his brother, but if I were to seek out someone with ties to a D'Angeline traitor, I would start at Ricciardo's doorstep. His ... proclivities ... have led him to stranger places, and he has no love for the Little Court, whereas we still hope to make peace." Marie-Celeste patted my arm in a motherly fashion as Marco returned, exclaiming in a different tone. "Come inside and sit, my dear! I must know who made your gown. Are such plain lines the fashion this season?"
    Still pondering her comments, I thought of Favrielle nó Eglantine and wondered what she would make of Marie-Celeste Stregazza's attire, which, from what I had seen, was the height of Serenissiman style-a long, sleeveless overdress gaudily adorned with appliques and cut-outs, bound beneath the breasts with gold net and worn over a fine silk tunic with tight-fitting sleeves. The whole ensemble, dreadful to my eyes, was topped with a gauze turban and finished at the bottom with a pair of wooden-soled sandals-pattens, they are called-a full four inches in height.
    "Not exactly, my lady," I said diplomatically. "My seamstress is very particular."
    "Well." Marie-Celeste de la Courcel Stregazza smiled, "You must tell me everything."

THIRTY-THREE
    It was late afternoon when Severio returned to usher me out of the Doge's Palace, and the Square was awash in golden sunlight. I left Marie-Celeste with sufficient advice to ensure that her knowledge of current D'Angeline fashion was competitive with the Little Court-not that I saw her inclined to take it-and Marco with a final promise that I would consider his proposal.
    The Immortali were waiting, and Ti-Philippe and Joscelin with them. I would have preferred a chance to speak privately with my retainers, but it was not to be, not yet.
    "My lady Phèdre," Severio said gallantly, extending his arm. "Shall we promenade about the Square? It is a most pleasant afternoon for strolling."
    "Of