Kushiel's Chosen

now for anything but a deadly opponent. "He died through dabbling in the affairs of state when he shouldn't. Don't you make the same mistake."
    I made my voice mild. "My lord Delaunay was murdered by traitors plotting to overthrow the throne, your grace. Do you threaten me with the same?"
    L'Envers laughed harshly, wagging his finger at me. "Don't even think it, Phèdre. I have a great deal of forbearance for you, for what you've done, but it only goes so far. There are questions unanswered in my mind, and I hope, for your sake, you don't hold the answers." With that, he made me a curt, dismissive bow and stalked away, dangerous as a hunting leopard.
    Staring after him, I thought of the questions unanswered in my own mind.

SEVENTEEN
    You're sure." Joscelin frowned at me.
    "I'd stake my life on it. He's terrified."
    "Well," he reflected. "If Lord Marmion Shahrizai conspired to free Melisande, why should he fear her?"
    "He wouldn't." Chin in hand, Fortun sat staring at the two-story plan of Troyes-le-Mont spread and weighted on the table; markings indicating Melisande's room, the postern gate, the guards' positions. "Because he didn't." He looked up at me. "Does it make sense any other way?"
    "No." I shook my head.
    "Then why did he kill his sister?" Fortun contemplated the map again as if it held answers. "That guardsman Branion, I tell you, my lady, he was sure of it. Remy and Ti-Philippe made no mistake about it."
    Joscelin and I exchanged a glance.
    "There are two possibilities," I said, holding up a forefinger. "One, your guardsman is mistaken, Fortun. And since this is the simplest explanation, it is the likeliest. But two ..." I held up a second finger, "... 'Twas the other way 'round. Marmion killed Persia because she helped Melisande escape."
    "So?" Fortun frowned, puzzling it through. "If she did, and he learned it, why kill her? He gained the Queen's trust by betraying Melisande's allies, for Elua's sake. Why let this coin slip through his fingers? To kill his sister? He's torn House Shahrizai apart, with the rumor of it! Unless ..." He glanced up at us. "Unless he had no proof, that's why."
    "No." Joscelin leaned forward, folding his arms over his knees. He looked at me like in the old days, when our survival depended on our ability to think and act together as one. "That's only part. You're right, he's no proof of it, but there's still somewhat more. Marmion or Persia, either one, the same premise holds true. The guard at the postern gate would have given challenge. There's still the unknown ally, the trusted one. Whatever Marmion learned, if he threatened Persia with it, she would have threatened back, with somewhat he feared."
    "Melisande," said Fortun.
    "He's scared of Melisande now," I observed. "It can't be that. It's got to be someone whose reach is closer. Someone Ysandre trusts implicitly, whose mere word would be enough to condemn him. If Persia threatened him with that... well, mayhap."
    "If he knew who it was," Joscelin said simply, "he could tell the Queen."
    "But if he didn't," Fortun observed, "he'd be left with the choice of calling her bluff, or-"
    "Or killing her," I finished. "He doesn't know. If he did, he'd not suspect me. And he does, believe me. He warned me at the Masque, and he turned grey seeing me talking with Severio. I don't think he's playacting. He's feared for his life."
    "How does he know Melisande is in La Serenissima?" Joscelin asked reasonably. "We only do because ..." He eyed me sidelong. "That damnable cloak."
    "Which means a patron," I murmured. "If I knew which one, I promise, this would be much simpler. Well, if Marmion confronted Persia, who knows what she told him? Enough to know that Melisande is well protected, here and in La Serenissima. Enough to threaten him, so that he was moved to kill her. But not enough for proof."
    "Why would Marmion suspect his sister?" Fortun asked.
    I pressed my temples and stared at the plan of the fortress until it swam in my vision. There, marked with her initials, were Melisande's quarters on the second floor. So little space in Troyes-le-Mont, we all slept two and three to a room, except for Melisande. Ysandre had allowed her that much, on what was to be her final night on this earth: A room of her own. Thelesis de Mornay's voice echoed in my memory, repeating the words she had recorded when she interviewed Ghislain de Somerville about that night. By now, my father had emerged, and assumed command unthinking. He wasted no time in