Kushiel's Chosen

ashen-grey garb of his former brethren, he wore sober livery of black and green, the Montrève crest wrought small over his heart, and hung about his neck, a khai pendant on a silver chain.
    No one, though, would mistake him for aught but a Cassiline. It was not only the traditional arms he bore-twin daggers low on his waist, the longsword at his back and steel vambraces buckled on his forearms-but the sternness of his mien, the odd combination of rigid dignity and fluid grace that marked members of the Brotherhood. In Montrève, he'd all but lost the habit of stiffness. It had returned, here.
    Idiot, I thought, and felt guilty at it.
    As the grandson of the Doge, Severio had brought a retinue of Serenissiman servants, and I was ushered into his quarters with respectful greetings and sidelong glances. Ýsandre had granted her cousin fine lodgings indeed, I thought, gazing around. I did not wonder at it, for Severio was the first emissary from her Serenissiman kin to acknowledge her since her coronation; due to the intervention of war or the bad blood between her uncle the Duc L'Envers and her great-uncle Prince Benedicte's descendents, I could not say, although doubtless the latter played some part in it.
    "Contessa." A servant in Stregazza livery bowed low to me, speaking in softly accented Caerdicci. All the city-states of Caerdicca Unitas speak the Caerdicci tongue, but it varies from place to place, and in La Serenissima, the faint, fluid accent of the ancient Phoenician seafarers who founded her endures. "Master Severio will receive you presently," he said, taking my cloak and folding it over his arm. "Does your man wish aught while he awaits?"
    They did not call him Prince, then; his own servants. I marked that as worth remembering and glanced at Joscelin, who declined the offer courteously. Serenissiman or no, as a direct descendent of Benedicte de la Courcel, Severio was a Prince of the Blood in Terre d'Ange. It seemed his status as the Doge's grandson, while noble enough, meant somewhat less in La Serenissima.
    Strange to remember how little I knew, then, of Serenissiman politics.
    Another servant, higher-ranking to judge by his chains of office, entered the antechamber and bowed. "Master Severio will see you now, Contessa."
    He did not meet my eyes, and I wondered what awaited me. Well, I would know, soon enough. I commended myself to Naamah's grace, and turned to bid Joscelin farewell. "Be at ease," I said softly. "I will return anon."
    Joscelin nodded briefly and bowed, vambraces flashing. "I will abide, my lady." His jawline was taut and there was misery in his gaze. "Elua keep you."
    Taking a deep breath, I turned back to the servant, "Lead on," I said.

FIFTEEN
    What I had expected of Severio Stregazza, I cannot say; in truth, I had too little knowledge of the Serenissiman to hazard a guess. If I had, though, I daresay it would have been wrong.
    He wore the guise of an ancient Tiberian magistrate.
    It should not have surprised me, when I reflected later, from the benefit of greater knowledge; the structure of governance in La Serenissima dates back to the glory days of Tiberíum, indeed, prior to the empire. It is the pride of La Serenissima even now that she is the sole republic among the monarchic city-states of Caerdicca Unitas. If I had known then what I know now of her, it would not have startled me in the least that this son of hers chose to remind a D'Angeline courtesan that La Serenissima was a civilized nation while we were living in thatched hovels and scratching cheerfully in the dirt. Until Elua and his Companions set foot on D'Angeline soil and called it home, bringing ichor in their veins and arts and sciences ransacked from Heaven, we were no different than the Skaldi.
    Well, I did not know, then, the envy that other civilized nations held toward Terre d'Ange, although I had learned well enough the covetousness of barbarian realms. But I am Night Court-raised and trained by Anafiel Delaunay, and I do not need to be told to follow a patron's cue. When I beheld Severio Stregazza seated in an ivory chair, wearing a Tiberian toga and a laurel crown on his dark curls, I bowed my head and knelt.
    "Come." His voice was resolute, hiding only a trace of uncertainty as he gestured with the fasces he held, a bundle of birch rods bound with a scarlet thread. I knew it, from my readings, as a symbol of the authority of Tiberium. "Approach the dais and kneel, supplicant."
    He had had a length of