Kushiel's Chosen

put our lives in his hands. We put Drustan's life in his hands."
    "I know." I sighed. "I know, I know! And Ysandre put the life of the entire realm in Percy de Somerville's hands, and he did not fail her. And yet ... oh, Joscelin, I don't know. If I could make sense of it, it would be easier to believe. Something's missing. The pieces don't fit."
    "Yes. Still." He looked soberly at me. "We need to go to Benedicte with this, Phèdre. You've done enough. He needs to know. And Ysandre. Whichever it is, whysoever they did it ... if she's planning on making the progressus, s he'll be leaving the nation. And unless she's given reason not to, she'll leave Barquiel L'Envers as her regent and Percy de Somerville in command of the Royal Army. Either way ...”
    "I know." I propped my chin on folded hands. "Let me talk to this Phanuel Buonard. He's the last link. If we can shed more light on this ... This is big, Joscelin. I don't dare go to Prince Benedicte unless I'm as sure as I can be. Not with this kind of supposition."
    After a moment, he gave a reluctant nod. "Buonard, and then straight to the Little Court. Whatever he tells us, even if 'tis naught. Agreed?"
    "Agreed." The sound of splashing and laughter in the canal outside caught my ear, and I glanced toward the window. Joscelin rose swiftly and went to the balcony, where his appearance was greeted with jeering shouts from below.
    He returned, expressionless, holding back the curtains. "Callers for you, my lady."
    Twisting my damp hair into a cable over one shoulder, I passed him to enter onto the balcony and gaze down. The Immortali's bissone rocked on the canal below as Severio stood unsteadily, fellow clubsmen leaning on their oars and shouting encouragement. Water rippled and their torches cast wavering reflections across it. In the prow, gilded Asherat's slender arms tilted to and fro with the rocking of the boat, as if the goddess reached to dip her hands in the Great Canal.
    "Phèdre, Phèdre, Phèdre!" Severio cried drunkenly. "You made me a promise, and four days have ignored me! Now my heart is like to break! Say you will come tomorrow for the War of the Flowers, or I swear, I will throw myself in the canal this minute and end it all!"
    His voice echoed across the water, bouncing off the elegant houses. Inside windows all along the canal, I saw lamps being kindled. "My lord," I called, "you will wake the whole Sestieri. If I promise to attend, will you go home quietly?"
    "For a kiss, I will!" Severio made to take a step forward and the bissone pitched wildly; I daresay he would have gone headlong into the water if a few of the Immortali hadn't caught onto the dagged hem of his doublet, dragging him back and laughing uproariously. "Phèdre, a man's heart and loins could starve on the crumbs you throw me here, where you spread a feast in Terre d'Ange! Pray, one kiss, and I'll be gone till the morrow, I swear it!"
    The curtains stirred behind me and I turned to see Joscelin leaning in the shadows of the balcony door. "Do you want me to get rid of them?"
    "No," I murmured. Severio and his comrades had begun to sing, loudly and off-key. On another balcony, someone shouted for them to be quiet, and I heard the unmistakable splash of a chamber pot being emptied in their direction, and threats and protests from the Immortali. Even in dim light, I could see the disgust in Joscelin eyes. "He's the best cover I have, Joscelin, and a Doge's grandson. Don't make trouble. All I need is one more day." Wordless, he went inside, and I turned back to the balcony.
    "Phèdre, Phèdre, come down!" Severio called, waving his arms. This time, a chorus of shouts along the canal begged him to be silent.
    I leaned over the railing. "My lord, you have my word. Now go home, lest I take it back." With that, I stepped back inside, closing the balcony doors firmly and drawing the curtains closed. The shouting lasted a few minutes longer, then dwindled into silence. I looked for Joscelin, but he was gone.
    There was no reason for me to break my word on the morrow and naught to be done before we could meet with the family of Phanuel Buonard on the glassblower's isle, so I took part in the War of the Flowers-and in truth, it proved one of the more charming Serenissiman customs I witnessed. 'Tis a mock battle betwixt the sons and daughters of the Hundred Worthy Families, held in a small fortified palace that perches on one of the lesser isles, across a broad waterway from the Temple of