Kushiel's Chosen

investiture, for it might afford an opportunity for Kazan and his men to get a message to Ysandre. We didn't know, though; not even Pjètri was certain of the protocol, and the exact date of the arrival of the D'Angeline progressus regalis was unknown.
    I wished I knew what Melisande was planning.
    For of a surety, no matter whose hand bore the dagger or the vial of poison, no matter whose mouth uttered the order, the mind that conceived it was hers ... although there would be no trail easily traced to her doorstep. Of that, I was equally sure. And Marco and Marie-Celeste Stregazza were canny, too; neither of them would risk showing their hands openly when it came to the death of a sitting monarch.
    An accident, then? It would have to be very, very well orchestrated-and a sure thing. A greased step, an overturned gondola; plausible, but uncertain. No, Melisande's plan would have to be foolproof. Which meant... what?
    It would be easy enough to do it in the Little Court. Poison, an assassin ... Ysandre's guards will be relaxed, not looking for treachery in Prince Benedicte's court. It was possible; but no, it would reek overmuch of suspicion. Gaining the throne was one thing; Melisande's ability to hold it-for surely she looked to long outlive Benedicte and establish her son as heir-depended on the D'Angeline people's acceptance of her blamelessness. Ysandre de la Courcel would not die under that roof.
    Then, where?
    A public place, I thought. A public place, where the eyes of all La Serenissima can see that Prince Benedicte and his lovely wife, as well as the new Doge, played no hand in the death of the Queen of Terre d'Ange.
    Melisande would conceive of something that brilliant, I was sure. The only problem was, I still couldn't guess what.
    Thus far did I get in my speculation, and no further. There were too many unknown variables, not least of which was the fact that, for all I knew, Ysandre's entourage had arrived and the deed was already done. When my thoughts began to chase themselves in circles, I let be and spent time with Kazan's men, listening to them swap tales with the Ban's Guard and improving my skill at dice. It had begun to rain on the second day at sea; naught to slow our progress, but a cold, relentless drizzle that chilled one to the bone and drove every hand not on duty below decks. Dank and close as it was, it was better than shivering in the open air.
    On the fourth day, the weather cleared and, by late afternoon, we passed La Dolorosa.
    I went to stand at the railing and watch as soon as I heard the sighting called; the Wailing Rock, they call it in Illyrian. Pjètri Kolcei ordered the ship's captain to steer a wide berth around it. None of the Illyrians would even look in the direction of the black isle. Whistling tunelessly as the sailors aboard the Darielle had done, they stared fixedly ahead or eastward, fingering amulets and making warding gestures in the direction they dared not look.
    I looked; I had to.
    And there it stood, much the same, crags of black basalt rearing skyward, waves crashing at its foot. The fortress where I had been held captive was still nestled atop the isle, stony and silent. I could hear, now that I knew to listen for it, the mournful, maddening winds playing over the crags.
    Not until we had almost passed it did I see that the bridge, the hempen bridge that spanned the deadly drop betwixt mainland and isle, hung loose and dangling against La Dolorosa's cliffs. It twisted in the wind, wooden planks being slowly battered to splinters by the rock. On the mainland, the watchtower maintained a hollow vigil. La Dolorosa was abandoned.
    Someone had cut the bridge.
    Joscelin, ï thought, my heart pounding madly in my breast.
    "Phèdre." It was Kazan's voice. He touched my arm, breaking my reverie. "It is time."

SIXTY-EIGHT
    In the hold of the Illyrian ship, lamplight played over the contents of the Ban's tribute-gift, glinting on masses of gold and amber. Two of Pjètri's men glanced at their leader for permission; he gave the nod to proceed. Working quickly, they emptied the trunk of its spoils, a heady pile of treasure. A layer of marten skins followed, soft, lustrous pelts mounded on the cabin floor.
    The false bottom of the trunk lay bare.
    Pjètri Kolcei knelt, drawing his dagger and working it alongside the seam. It was a tight fit; the Ban's carpenters had wrought well. Wiggling the blade, he pried upward. The false bottom gave way, raising a hairsbreadth. He