Kushiel's Chosen

tribute.
    How long it lasted, I cannot say; an eternity, it seemed to me. When a Serenissiman guard reached into the trunk to remove the last of the marten-skins, his knuckles rapped the wood directly above my ear. It felt as immediate as a blow and I could not imagine that he was insensible Of my presence, so acutely aware was I of his.
    They will see, I thought; they will look inside the trunk, and they will look outside of it, and they will see there is a foot of space missing.
    This thought ran through my head, over and over, while a methodical voice counted out the goods of the tribute-gift in Caerdicci and a quill scratched against parchment. It took on a rhythm of its own, beating in my mind; they-will-see, they-will-see, they-will-see. I fought to keep from saying it aloud, fought to keep my limbs from shivering, fought to keep my breathing quiet and steady.
    I was still concentrating on it when I heard the captain of harbor's muffled voice. "This gift is tallied to the last coin and pelt, Illyrian. If it's short in the Treasury's reckoning, it comes out of your hide."
    "It will arrive as you have counted it," Pjètri Kolcei said coldly, his Caerdicci precise and fluent. "If your Treasurer is a thief, I will not be held accountable."
    The captain made some reply, lost to me in the thump of marten-skins being tossed carelessly back into the trunk. This time, I could have wept with joy at the sense of stifling weight returning. Piece by piece, the Ban's gift was replaced. Someone slammed the lid of the trunk, and the crash of it fair split my skull. I didn't care; it was music to my ears. Footsteps retreated, the cabin door closed. Within the trunk, I let out a long-held breath and gave thanks to Blessed Elua.
    If my terror was lessened by a measure, my discomfort only increased. We had reckoned it wisest if I were to stay in concealment until the trunk could be safely unloaded and brought into the Ambassador's residence, and so I remained, cramped and stifling in darkness, while the Ban's ship made its way across the harbor and proceeded up the Great Canal.
    I daresay they went as swiftly as they might, but unlike Kazan's vessels, the tribute ship was not built for speed in close quarters and there was a good deal of sea traffic in the harbor and canals. I lay quiet, ignoring the twinges of pain in my contorted limbs, counting my own breaths to time the journey and imagining in memory the sights we passed: the Arsenal; the Palace of the Doge alongside the Campo Grande, where the statue of Asherat-of-the-Sea looked out on the harbor; the Temple of Baal-Jupiter; and, oh, yes, the Little Court, proudly flying the standard of House Courcel. Other houses of the Hundred Worthy Families lined the Great Canal, and then the mighty Rive Alto bridge, and beyond, the warehouses and banking institutions and residences of foreign ambassadors....
    And we were there. I heard the oars jostle and splash as the rowers maneuvered the ship into position, the thump of padded bolsters thrown over the side to cushion her against the dock, and the deep plunge of the anchor dropped into murky green waters. The myriad sounds of sailors striking the sails and making fast the ship followed, and then, mercifully, the opening of the cabin door and Illyrian voices, soldiers moving swiftly under Pjèíri Kolcei's command.
    It took four of them to carry the trunk, heavy on its own and heavier still with my weight added to the tribute-gift. A terrifying feeling, to be thus trapped, lifted and swaying in midair. My panic returned, sweat trickling between my shoulder blades as the trunk rose, jolted awkwardly and began to move. Every time it tilted, my stomach lurched in fear; out of the hold, down the landing plank and, worst of all, up a steep stairway and into the ambassador's residence.
    There, at last, they lowered the trunk with a bone-jarring thud. I heard voices, familiar and unfamiliar, exchanging formalities and hurried explanations, and then Kazan's voice cutting through it all. "Pjètri, the key. Get her out now.'"
    A key fidgeted in the lock and the lid was thrown open. For the third time that day the Ban's tribute-gift was unloaded, gold coinage and chunks of raw amber dumped in an unceremonious pile as Kazan's men scooped it out by the armload, hauling the pelts after. I coiled my body tighter, shivering as someone wedged a dagger-blade into the seam very near my unprotected head, prying up the false bottom. It was Kazan; I heard