Kushiel's Chosen

admit a tall adept in his mid-thirties, with merry eyes and a handsome, mobile face. "Where's my three-layered cloak for the Troubador of Eisande? I'm commissioned for Lord Orion's fête tonight, and the Dowayne promised him a private performance!" Catching sight of me, he stopped and swept an elaborate bow. "Forgive me, gentle lady ..." His resonant voice trailed off, and the merry gaze turned sharp as it swept up the length of my marque. His eyes met mine in the mirror, looking for the scarlet mote. "My lady, indeed. Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève, if I am not mistaken."
    "Roussillon no Eglantine." I smiled. His satires were famous in Night's Doorstep; I'd heard him declaim, once. "Well met."
    "And me without an ounce of doggerel!" He made a dismayed face, then struck a pose. "Waldemar Selig was a warlord," he declared. "Waldemar Selig had a big sword. But his plan fell apart, thanks to Kushiel's Dart, and Waldemar Selig got Isidore'd."
    Across the room, Fortun gave a snort of repressed mirth. He had been there, on the battlefield, when Isidore d'Aiglemort slew Waldemar Selig. It cost him his life, but I reckoned Terre d'Ange's greatest traitor won his redemption in destroying her greatest enemy.
    Still, it was good to be able to laugh.
    "I'm not done," Roussillon said mildly, and cleared his throat. "Mighty Selig turned his back, when he divulged his attack, to the men of his barbarian horde. His loins, how they burned! Too late, Selig learned, a skilled anguissette is not safely ignored!"
    I laughed aloud, clapping my hands; Roussillon swept me another bow, and Favrielle muttered in disgust. I winced as a carelessly wielded pin scratched me.
    "The trim needed stitching," she said crossly to the satirist. "I'll have it sent to your room on the hour. Now get out, and stop distracting me with your wretched verse!"
    He mimed fear convincingly, and I was hard put to keep from laughing again. "Thank you," he said then to Favrielle. Catching up her hands, he kissed them despite her best efforts to swat away his grasp. "You are a very angel of clothiers, precious one, and I shall light a candle to your name." Releasing her, he smiled at me, this time without any artifice. "May I say that it is an honor to meet you, my lady. Naamah's Servants are in your debt."
    "Thank you." I returned his smile gravely. He laughed, gave one last swirling bow, and departed.
    "Blathering jackass!" Favrielle muttered, picking up a dropped pin and driving it hard through the silken fabric. The fine stuff gave easily, and she buried the pin nearly an inch deep in the flesh at the base of my spine. I barely had time to gasp.
    Pain, fiery and radiant, burst outward in concentric circles, pulsing and contracting. It washed over me in ripples, acute at the core, sweet as it spread. A red haze occluded the vision in my left eye, blurring my reflected image. Somewhere, behind it, I sensed the bronze visage of Kushiel, rod and flail crossed on his chest, stern and approving.
    When it cleared, Favrielle knelt staring up at me in blank astonishment, holding the pin she had withdrawn. She blinked and closed her mouth. "That must be ... inconvenient."
    For once, her voice held no censure, just a certain wry sympathy. I drew a long, shuddering breath. "Yes." I released my pent breath. "An anguissette is not exactly a convenient thing to be." Through long discipline, I made my tone match hers. "It doesn't mean I like you any better."
    Against her will, Favrielle no Eglantine laughed.
    When I returned home, I found Joscelin agitated and the Rebbe's solemn pupil awaiting me. He rose as I entered the room. "It is suitable for the Rebbe to see you now, Comtesse," he said. "Will you come?"
    I sighed. "He really means when he summons me, doesn't he? All right." I brushed the front of my gown; it was a finespun blue wool, less drab than what I'd worn before. "Give me a moment to change into something the Rebbe would find suitable. Fortun, tell Benoit not to unhitch the team."
    The Rebbe's pupil gave a slight smile. "Your attire is fine, Comtesse. You mustn't take everything he says to heart. He may disapprove of Servants of Naamah, but I believe he was having a jest."
    I made a face, which was probably not an appropriate response for a peer of the realm. "The Rebbe's humor leaves somewhat to be desired."
    "Perhaps." The Yeshuite ducked his head, hiding another smile. "But he is a very great man, and he has earned the right to his small jests, I think. Shall