Kushiel's Chosen

roared.
    I went, with Kazan close on my heels, buckler dangling at his back.
    It was the D'Angeline spokesman who helped me over the rails, and he gave me no greeting, stepping away quickly as though he were reluctant to touch me. Kazan came lip behind me, his free hand closing hard on my elbow. I saw why, then.
    On the deck of the galley, a dozen Illyrians held two-score armed soldiers at an uneasy standoff, their slighter numbers backed by those watching on the other four ships, weapons trained on the galley.
    The only D'Angeline things in sight were the spokesman, the Courcel pennant and me.
    It was a Serenissiman galley.

FIFTY-SIX
    1 whirled so fast I broke Kazan's grip, hissing at him, "You betrayed me!"
    His face was shuttered. "No. There was a blockade, at the Caerdicci point. Nikanor never got through it, eh? They caught him, and found the letter." For a fleeting moment, something altered in his expression. "I am sorry, yes. But they had my men, Phèdre. What was I to do, I?" And then his voice hardened again, and he wrenched me around, pushing me forward. "Here is what you want," he said curtly. "Take her."
    I stumbled, fetching up before a stocky Serenissiman in a Captain's helmet, a badge on his doublet worked with the familiar tower-and-carrack insignia of the Stregazza family.
    "This is the one?" he asked aloud, glancing at Kazan. Without waiting for a reply, he took my chin between finger and thumb, wrenching my face up toward him and scanning it. "A scarlet mote, by the Spear! And the markings?" Turning me, he gathered up my hair in both hands, peering at the nape of my neck where the finial of my marque was visible. "Sure enough. A damned waste of beauty." He released me, nodding casually to two of his men. "Kill her."
    My blood turned to ice and I stood frozen to the spot. Several paces away, Kazan's mouth opened in shock. His men, who had not understood the Caerdicci, shifted restlessly and looked to him for guidance.
    "Captain!" It was the D'Angeline spokesman, sounding as startled as Kazan looked. "I have orders to bring her to Prince Benedicte!”
    "Yes," the Captain said mildly. "And I have orders from my lord Marco Stregazza to make certain you do no such thing. This woman is a spy and an escaped criminal, and if your doddering princeling has some idiotic fear of D'Angeline curses for shedding her blood, be assured that Lord Marco does not. She dies here, guardsman, and let your Prince take it up with Lord Marco. For the good of the Serene Republic, I have my orders."
    "Kazan," I breathed; I had begun shaking. He stared at me, still dumbstruck. "Will you let them do this thing?"
    He made no reply.
    "Ah, right," the Captain said thoughtfully. "Your gold, pirate." He drew his sword, pointing at a pair of coffers sitting on deck. "Take it and begone, then, with our thanks. Though if I were you ..." He glanced meaningfully toward the distant island, where two war-galleys were easing into view around the curve of coast, single-masted biremes propelled by a double bank of oars. "I would go with haste, for our bargain ends the instant you take it. The girl's life is worth more than yours to the Serene Republic ... but not by much."
    "Kazan!" I cried.
    His head bowed as he averted his face. "Rachlav, Zaiko... take the gold."
    I stood in disbelief as the Illyrians moved to obey him, two men each on a coffer, under the watchful eyes of the Serenissimans. The others warded them, forming a line on either side of the galley as the coffers were handed down into the Illyrian vessels.
    "Good enough." The Captain was pleased. "If you move fast enough, you may even escape, sea-wolf, though Asherat grant you fail. You ..." he snapped his fingers at one of his men, "... and you. Do it now. It is to be done on the instant, Lord Marco says."
    They moved swiftly, doubtless hand-picked for discipline and loyalty. I struggled briefly, to no avail, and was forced to kneel on the deck. I heard a voice cry out a protest in Illyrian, quickly stifled; Lukin, I thought. And then a hand tangled roughly in my hair, dragging my head back to bare my throat for the sword. It was all happening so fast, I scarce had time to feel the terror of it until I saw a Serenissiman soldier move in front of me, drawing his sword back for the swing.
    I understood then that I was going to die.
    It is fixed in my mind, that moment; sunlight glinting off the edge of the blade, the Captain's impassive face behind my executioner, even the feel of