Kushiel's Chosen

people.
    Pjètri Kolcei quarreled bitterly with him that evening, for he had it in mind to try his hand as the son of the Ban of Illyria, writing to the Little Court to request an audience with Prince Benedicte, thereby enabling him to deliver a message to Ysandre's entourage. Eventually Rossatos despaired of him, and the letter was sent; a reply came swiftly, arriving by morning. Prince Benedicte would be honored to grant his request... after the investiture of the Doge.
    I had no illusions about the source of these precautions. Marco Stregazza might well believe me dead, slain by the terrible storm that had driven our ship southward before watching Serenissiman eyes. Melisande would take no such chances, and she would ensure that the Stregazza didn't either. No Illyrian suit would be entertained until Ysandre was dead.
    I had reached La Serenissima, and the Ban of Illyria's aid had reached its limits.
    I needed the impossible.
    I needed Joscelin.
    "You are mad," Janàri Rossatos said irritably. "You are very beautiful, Contessa, and very easily recognized. If half of what you surmise is true, you place my position in grave danger, very grave indeed. No," he added, shaking his head. "I cannot countenance it, cannot countenance it at all. You must stay here, until the investiture is complete. Do you wish a message sent, I will lend my aid, but if you were to be discovered in the company of Illyrians ... I cannot be responsible for this."
    "I am sorry, my lord Ambassador," I said to him. "But I must go."
    "You must certainly not!"
    It was unwise, I daresay, for Rossatos to take such a forceful tone in Kazan Atrabiades' presence. Lounging in the doorway, Kazan grinned and fingered the 'hilt of his sword. "I almost think you gave an order, you," he said cheerfully. "It is a good thing I am a pirate, eh, and do not heed such things, I."
    Rossatos flushed with helpless anger, casting a glance at Pjètri Kolcei. "You're the Zim Sokalí's son, my lord- do something! We will all answer to Serenissima's wrath, if these lunatics are caught!"
    "Very well," Pjètri said casually, sauntering onto the balcony. Outside, he leaned over the balustrade and whistled sharply; an answering call came from below, and he returned, his grey-blue eyes light and thoughtful. "Pardon, my lord Rossatos, but I do not believe my father intended your discretion to encompass governing our guests' actions, and I judge this aid worth giving. Your gondola is ready," he added to Kazan. "It has a three-sided awning, ought to do the trick. If not..." He shrugged, and they clasped wrists in a warrior's grip. "Yarovit's grace on your blade, pirate."
    "And yours," Kazan replied. "Phèdre? Are we going to this, this temple of Yosua?"
    "Yeshua," I said. "Yes." I turned to the Ambassador. "I am sorry, my lord. Please know that I will deny your role if we are captured." He made no answer, and I crossed the room, pausing to address the Ban's middle son. To him, I said softly, "Thank you, my lord."
    Pjètri Kolcei smiled wryly. "I'd go with you, if I dared. I'm glad we got you here safely, at any rate. Rossatos is right, this is the most I can do, and a risk at that, letting you and the pirate roam at will. Good luck to you, my lady."
    Leaving the Ambassador's residence was the worst of it. Despite the deep-shadowed hood of my Illyrian cloak and the escort of Kazan and his men blocking me from view, I felt terribly exposed as I ventured into the chill light of dawn. The gondola was a humble affair, weathered but sound, with faded paint and a much-patched awning. Keeping my head low, I stepped onto it with care and settled myself on the burlap sacking laid beneath the awning, surrounded by tented walls. Kazan sat directly in front of me, hiding me further. Like his men, he had exchanged his mail and livery for rude pirate's garb.
    If anyone were to inquire, they were mercenary sailors out of work due to the strikes; 'twas plausible enough, for a number of Illyrians had hired on to Serenissiman merchanters, valued for their skill at sea and unable to find employ with trade strangled in Illyria. It would not hold up to close inspection, of course-Rossatos was right, I was hard to disguise-but there was no way around it.
    The Great Canal was crowded with ships despite the earliness of the hour; already patrols of the Serenissiman Guard roamed the streets. And beyond the arch of the Rive Alto, a tumult of activity was beginning on the waterways, gilded bissone belonging