Kushiel's Chosen

wouldn't, in a Serenissiman temple, not without the Queen's order, unless her life was truly threatened. It was enough to maintain a cordon of safety around her.
    Ysandre's face was taut with fear and anger; mostly anger. Across the Temple, I stared at her, at her Cassilines. One by one I stared at them all, my gaze returning again and again to one in particular, in the forward left position, as I remembered an afternoon in the Hall of Portraits, where there hung the image of Isabel L'Envers de la Courcel, my lord Delaunay's enemy, the mother Ysandre so resembled.
    And there hung too a portrait of Edmée de Rocaille, Rolande's betrothed, the woman he would have wed if Isabel had not arranged an accident.
    My mother was responsible for her death, you know.
    I knew; oh, how I knew! That death had shaped my life in ways I could scarce encompass, forging Anafiel Delaunay, a Prince's beloved, into the man his enemies would name the Whoremaster of Spies; turning me, an anguissette raised to serve pleasure in the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers, into one of his most subtle weapons.
    One death; so many repercussions.
    I stared at Edmée de Rocaille's brother.
    If I had not been watching him so hard, I might not have seen it, the beginning of that fateful turn in the clear space that surrounded him, graceful and flowing, tossing his right-hand dagger in the air and catching it by the blade to make ready for the throw.
    "Joscelin!" I grabbed his arm with one hand, pointing with the other. "There!"
    Joscelin had spoken truly; a Cassiline Brother planning to assassinate his sovereign would indeed be prepared to die.
    David de Rocaille was performing the terminus.

SEVENTY-FIVE
    David de Rocaille!" Given from the balcony, Joscelin's shout echoed from the vaulted dome as he hurtled into motion, wrenching out of my grip and whipping past Kazan's startled Illyrians on the stair. At the far end of the Temple, the grey-clad figure faltered ... and continued onward with the terminus, setting the blade of the left-hand dagger at his own throat while his right arm cocked for the throw.
    Directly at Ysandre de la Courcel, the Queen of Terre d'Ange.
    She hadn't even seen the danger, gazing instead at the balcony with the frown of an embattled monarch, wondering what new threat the outcry betokened.
    At the sharp curve in the staircase, Joscelin leapt onto the railing, catching himself to balance above the fray, flipping the dagger in his right hand to hold it blade-first. David de Rocaille did pause then, and I think for an instant their eyes met across the crowded space. With a death's-head smile, the brother of Edmée de Rocaille looked at the Queen and made to cast his dagger.
    And with a prayer that was half-curse, Joscelin threw first.
    I do not think it is stretching the truth to say that Cassiel himself guided Joscelin's hand that day, for it was an impossible throw under impossible conditions. I cannot think how else he made it. End over end, the blade flashed over the heads of skirmishing guardsmen.
    Ready to die or no, David de Rocaille reacted on instinct, blocking the strike with one vambraced arm. Joscelin's dagger clattered against it and fell harmlessly to the floor. Slow to react, those nearest turned, uncertain what had happened. Closing his eyes briefly, David de Rocaille bowed and sheathed his daggers, reaching over his shoulder to draw his sword.
    With a wordless cry, Joscelin launched himself from the railing, scattering members of the Dogal Guard as he landed.
    I daresay he would have been slain then and there had he stood still for it, but he took them by surprise and, by the time they responded, he was already halfway through the melee. I stood rigid with fear as he forced his way through them.
    In the uncertainty, David de Rocaille attacked-but he had waited a heartbeat too long to seize his advantage. Shock and disbelief writ on their faces, Ysandre's other Cassilines closed ranks around her and faced their comrade.
    One died quickly, too slow to raise his guard, thinking somehow, still, that it was all a terrible mistake until David de Rocaille opened his chest with an angled, two-handed blow. The second fought better and might have lived longer if he had drawn his sword instead of trusting to his daggers; he went down when de Rocaille dropped to one knee and leveled a sweeping blow at his legs, finishing him as he fell with a quick cut to the neck.
    By that time, Joscelin had arrived, and his sword sang free of