Kushiel's Chosen

the long reins, mocking Ti-Philippe as he perched in the driver's seat. Wrapping the reins about his wrist, my chevalier scowled and hurled a D'Angeline insult at them; one of the Yeshuites drew his sword and prodded Philippe's boot with the point of his blade.
    An anger I'd not known I was suppressing overcame me.
    "Gentlemen!" My voice rang out across the courtyard with an icy contempt I didn't know I could muster. I stood motionless, wrapped in my cloak, as they turned guiltily. "Let him be." Lest they were unsure, I added in flawless Habiru, enunciating each word with chill precision. "Leave him. Do you understand?"
    Swords were sheathed, the carriage abandoned. The young men walked past me, sullen. The last turned, his face full of loathing. "You would not speak to us so, in Adonai's country!"
    Mayhap he was right; I do not know. But this was Elua's country, and free by the grace of soldiers like Ti-Philippe, who had risked his life to beat back the Skaldi invasion. If not for him and ten thousand like him, we would all be equally on our knees, baring our necks for Waldemar Selig's yolk and offering praise to All-Father Odhinn. I thought these things, and did not say them. The Yeshuite glanced quickly from side to side, to be sure no one saw, and made a gesture, poking forked fingers at my face.
    "A pox on your witch-marked eyes!" he jeered, spitting at my feet.
    Men mock what they fear. I looked at him without answering, until his belligerence turned to unease and he shuffled, jerking away from me and hurrying to rejoin his companions, his walk turning to a swagger as they neared the yeshiva.
    Ti-Philippe came down from the driver's seat in a fury, swearing a blue streak as he yanked open the carriage door and threatening vengeance.
    "Let it be," I said wearily, climbing inside. "Yeshua's House is divided against itself; I will not add to their sorrows. I owe a debt to his children." Remembering Taavi and Danele, the Yeshuite couple who had been so kind to Joscelin and me in our dire flight, I wondered if they were caught up in this schism, and prayed not.
    I had money; I bought books, and read them, tracing with my finger the lines of Habiru text. I slept ill at night and tossed in my sheets, waking fevered from dreams I could not remember. I read, and studied, and learned, and came no closer to answering the riddle.
    Hyacinthe.
    Elua, but I missed him!
    I suppose that my rootless sorrow made me reckless, although it may have been in part the slow-wearing frustration that arose from my stalled inquiries. Whatever the source, it was recklessness that led me to accept an assignation with Nicola L'Envers y Aragon.
    It was in the Hall of Games that she approached me, where I watched Fortun engaged in a game of rhythmomachy with the Baronesse de Carvoile, whose mother had been an adept of Bryony House. It is a game for which I have no especial gift, being the province of those whose strength of wit lies in dealing with numbers; I can play it, if I must, but I do not do it well. Fortun, who had never once laid hand to the board ere becoming my chevalier, showed considerable skill at it.
    Back and forth they went, placing their different-shaped counters in varying progressions, according to varying mathematical formulae, until I was well-nigh lost. "Ah!" murmured a watching connoisseur, as Estelle de Carvoile laid down a sequence with surety. "A Fabrisian series!"
    I blinked, bewildered, seeing no correlation in the numbers she played; Fortun merely frowned and countered with something called a Tertullian set. I can see patterns in events, and behaviors-in mathematics, I follow slower. Still, I added my voice to those lauding Fortun's play.
    "A dull game," murmured a nearby voice, "for those who would rather dally with somewhat other than numbers." I turned to meet the violet gaze of Nicola L'Envers y Aragon, who gave me the lazy smile of a stalking leopardess. "Your chevalier is skilled, Comtesse."
    "Yes," I said automatically. "He is." I eyed her sidelong. "Where is your companion, Lord Shahrizai, my lady?"
    "Oh, Marmion." Nicola shrugged. "Sulking, no doubt. I told him I'd not divorce on his account, and he is wroth with me. It will do him good, in time. Meanwhile, I grow bored." She laid the tips of her fingers on my arm and smiled at me. "Do you know there is a term for your dalliances, Phèdre? Hunting hyacinths, they call it, those peers who have enjoyed your favors."
    "No." With an effort of will, I kept my