Kushiel's Chosen

emissaries arrived today, from Pavento."
    "Where are they housed?"
    "The Little Court," Rossatos said. "Where else? Prince Benedicte has been making ready for weeks. It is," he added thoughtfully, "a pity that his wife is said to be unwell, and perhaps unable to attend the festivities."
    I'd wondered whether or not Melisande would risk recognition, veiled or no. "I suspect it is an illness of convenience, my lord, in much the same way that I suspect the Doge's ill health has no natural provenance." I wouldn't put it past Marie-Celeste Stregazza to have dosed poor old Cesare with something that gave him a flux. "Can you gain access to the Little Court?"
    "No." Rossatos' voice was curt; no diplomat likes to admit to such failure. "Last week, yes; next week, perhaps. Today, tomorrow, the day after... no. You must understand, Contessa, that La Serenissima is in turmoil. A Doge stepping down before his time, a new Doge elected, the visit of the D'Angeline Queen ... all of this, and the city in arms over the riots. Security in the Palace and the Court is as tight as a drum, and it will remain so until Marco Stregazza has the Dogal Seal on his finger. He is taking no risks; nor is Prince Benedicte. It is not only an Illyrian embassy that would be turned away, for once. There is an Akkadian ambassador I know, who sought invitation to the festivities in the Little Court-even his suit was denied, and he ambassador to the Khalif, whose own son is wed to the Queen's cousin!"
    I blinked, thinking over his words. "Riots?"
    "Riots, yes." Janàri Rossatos gave a dismissive shrug. "Do you know La Serenissima, Contessa? The Scholae, the craft-guilds? Half of them are on strike, trade ships sit empty in the harbor, and there is violence in the streets. Even the market in the Campo Grande has been closed, since five days past. The salt-panners wrought havoc there, overturning the stalls of all who dared sell goods. There was a brawl, and two young men whose names are writ in the Golden Book were killed. At night, the Chandlers' Schola sets fires, throwing lighted tapers into the homes of the Hundred Worthy Families."
    "Riots," I said again, touching my fingers to my lips in thought. "What does Ricciardo Stregazza say about this?"
    "Ricciardo?" Rossatos looked at me in surprise. "It is all his fault, Marco says. His brother has roused the Scholae to strike, in petty revenge for his defeat. Until his investiture, when Marco may hear out the grievances of the leaders of the Scholae, Ricciardo has been confined to house arrest."
    "Ricciardo wouldn't rouse the craft-guilds out of vengeance," I said absently. "He had a true care for their concerns. How many of the Scholae are involved?"
    "Rumor says a dozen or more," Rossatos said. "Proven?" He shrugged. "At least seven are striking. As for the violence, the Serenissiman Guard has caught members of the salt-panners, the chandlers and the saddlers guilds engaged in acts of civil disturbance. And those young fools from the nobleman's clubs, willing to brawl at the flicker of an eyelash, do but add fuel to the fire."
    "Phèdre," Kazan said curiously. "What are you thinking, you?"
    He and Pjètri had sat patiently throughout our exchange, listening and offering little or no comment. I glanced at him. "If I were going to stage a public assassination," I said slowly, "I would ensure there was a measure of confusion, that my agent might strike undetected therein. A riot would be the very thing. My lord Ambassador, where does the ceremony of investiture take place?"
    "In the Great Temple of Asherat," Janàri Rossatos replied. "With a progression across the Campo Grande, where the newly invested Doge plights his troth to Asherat-of-the-Sea."
    I sat unmoving, hearing the surge pressing on my eardrums, the deep, steady thrumming of the current around La Dolorosa that had born me aloft on the waters and saved my life. I had a promise to keep, and I knew, in the marrow of my bones, where I must keep it. "It will be there," I said, hearing my own voice come hollow and echoing, as if from a great distance. "With Ysandre de la Courcel in attendance and a thousand people pressing into the Square, too many to keep at bay. It will be there."

SIXTY-NINE
    It was a frustrating thing, to be so near and so far at once, so sure and so unable to prove it; and even if I could have, there was no merit in it. The Illyrian Ambassador had stated the truth. He had no means of gaining access to Ysandre, nor any of her