Kushiel's Chosen

am nearly certain I saw Melisande's head bow fractionally toward me in a duelist's nod; I am certain that I saw her left hand move in a covert gesture, taken up by Marie-Celeste Stregazza and relayed to the Priestess of the Crown, who nodded in the direction of the antechamber. Easy to see, from above, for one trained to it; still, there was naught I could do. My lips shaped a warning shout, but already a nameless hand had slipped the bar of the great doors to the Temple of Asherat. "Rioters!" cried a high male alto from the antechamber, and acolytes and attendants began to fall back into the Temple proper as an onslaught of crudely armed workers and tradesmen poured through the wide-flung entrance doors.
    That was when the fighting began.
    I daresay 'twas not so great an influx as the conspirators expected. Now that the doors were opened, I heard the clash and roar of quarrel continuing in the Campo Grande and knew with a great surge of hope that Ricciardo had rallied the Scholae. Still, there was a determined core who penetrated the Temple, and 'twas enough to set violence erupting. Enemy or ally; who could say? I watched it all unfold from above, concentrating on Ysandre's Cassilines even as two sets of attackers stormed the balcony stairs below me.
    The first, rioters with clubs and homemade weapons, Joscelin and Ti-Philippe turned back easily. The second was the Dogal Guard, and not so easy to disperse.
    "Pirate!" Joscelin cried over his shoulder, dodging in narrow quarters and catching a sword-thrust on his crossed daggers. "Now!"
    With a whoop of exultation, Kazan Atrabiades led his Illyrians forth from concealment and they pushed their way past Joscelin and Ti-Philippe, bucklers and short swords carving a path down the curving stairs. Blood was flowing, spattering marble and stone. I heard pushing and shouting, the groans of the wounded. One of the Illyrians went down. Cursing, Kazan waded through the fray, shoving one of the Serenissimans and forcing him over the railing of the stair.
    And in the center of the Temple, a wedge of armed tradesmen drove steadily toward my Queen's retinue, Dogal Guardsmen loyal to Marco Stregazza falling back carefully before their onslaught. I marked the skill with which they fought and the well-worn swords they bore, and guessed that these were not bribed rioters, but mercenaries with orders to attack Ysandre's party.
    The attempt was coming.
    No one was watching, though it was happening in plain sight. Marco Stregazza was shouting, trying to make himself heard over the clamor, but my accusation had had its effect; support was beginning to ebb away from him and growing steadily around Cesare. "The Doge!" a voice bellowed, others taking up the cry. "Rally to the Doge!"
    Four Cassiline Brothers, a pair fore and aft, moving with uncanny fluid grace, a space around each where steel wove deadly patterns around them.
    I watched them fixedly and Joscelin joined me on the balcony, following my gaze while Kazan's men held the stairs. We both heard it the moment Marco cut his losses, gathering his breath and shouting loud enough to quell the fighting for an instant.
    "Serenissimans, we are betrayed! I have been deceived! Benedicte de la Courcel has betrayed me!"
    In the pause, the members of the Dogal Guard ceased fighting among themselves and exchanged uncertain stares, their sundered loyalties reunited by Marco's defection. It didn't take long. With grim resolution, the Serenissimans turned as one against the entourage of the Little Court and the surge of violence began anew.
    To his credit, Benedicte de la Courcel was no coward. He had been a hero, once, and a valiant warrior-eldest hero of the Battle of Three Princes, where his nephew Rolande had lost his life. I do not think he reckoned to fight again in his twilight years, but he did, wresting his ceremonial sword from its jeweled scabbard and wielding it courageously in defense of his people ... and his wife.
    Forgotten, the Illyrians lowered weapons on the stairs, catching their breath. Those rioters, the true sons of the Scholae with work-stained hands and bewildered faces, began to retreat or flee, sensing their cause abandoned.
    Not so with the mercenaries, who continued to fight. I do not think they were skilled or numerous enough to have taken Ysandre's guard. They didn't have to be. It wasn't the point. They were enough to press the D'Angelines, engaging them-even the Cassilines, who had not yet drawn to kill. They