Kushiel's Chosen

dormant coils on the rich-toned carpet. "If you will not trust me, Phèdre, I will not do it for free, I think. Such are the lessons of intrigue I am learning. If I do as you ask, will you give me leave to question you about it? In a manner of my choosing?"
    I have bartered myself for aught other than money before; it was not the first time. I gave myself to the Duc de Morhban in exchange for passage across his land. I would like to say that I thought it over carefully, and weighed the gain; in truth, I followed her gaze and looked once more at those damnable ropes. "You may question me to your heart's desire, my lady," I murmured.
    "Oh, good," Nicola said cheerfully. "I was hoping you'd say that."

TWENTY-ONE
    Nicola's fête was considered a success all-round.
    My patron-fee was a considerable amount, though less than the twenty thousand Severio had paid. Still, it was enough to throw an outstanding gathering. I learned, in the course of the evening, that Nicola was renowned in Aragonia for her hostessing skills. I'd not have guessed it, ere that.
    The fête took place in one of the salons in the diplomats' wing of the Palace, and it had an Aragonian flavor, with a leisurely meal featuring course after course of spicy delicacies, and a goodly amount of hearty red wine poured with a free hand by servants in Aragonian attire. Afterward came music and dancers, fiddles and timbales marking the beat, while women danced in flounced skirts; I daresay among the guests, only Joscelin and I recognized a strong Tsingani influence.
    The highlight of the evening was a quartet of players Nicola had hired to stage a pantomime. Skilled performers to a man, they played out a D'Angeline version of the Aragonian bull-fight. It gave me a shiver, when the "bull" emerged; clad all in padded black, hose showing his well-shaped legs, but above the neck, a towering bull's head with long, wicked horns curving high into the air. The picadors in their gilt-threaded jackets danced with the bull, prodding and whirling away, setting their barbed picks in cleverly placed padding while the bull-dancer's steps grew slower and more deliberate, massive head lowering.
    And then came the matador, the death-bringer, carrying cape and sword, bowing and flourishing. I gasped along with all the others as the matador's blade flashed toward the bull's neck. The shining edge of the sword cut clean, shearing through the papier-mâché bull's head, which fell tumbling to the floor. Out spilled an abundance of candies and trinkets, and the player's own human head poked grinning from the truncated bull-neck of his costume. Everyone applauded, then, and skirmished good-naturedly for the spoils. Nicola smiled, and ordered casks of sweet, nutty Aragonian brandy to be breached and poured all around, and we laughed and toasted her cunning entertainment, while the players bowed to considerable accolades.
    Amid the dancing and mingling that followed, I nodded a cue to Joscelin, who nodded in reply and waited as I made my way to greet Solaine Belfours.
    Her demeanor had changed not a wit since I had first encountered her at Alcuin's debut; a little older, perhaps, but no less arrogant. Her golden brows arched, and she looked down her nose at me as I greeted her.
    "Phèdre nó Delaunay... de Montrève, is it? You've come a long way from scrubbing my floors, little Comtesse," she said coolly. I could not help but flush a little at that; she had always known, the Marquise Belfours, how to gall me. Among my old patrons, she was one I did not miss, and I was glad she had made me no proposals.
    "My lady," I said with all the sincerity I could muster, "we are both in service to her majesty Ysandre de la Courcel, and it does not become us, this ill will between us."
    Solaine Belfours gave a rather delicate snort of laughter. "I would be more like to believe you, Comtesse, if you had not counseled her majesty to replace me."
    At that moment, Joscelin joined us, tripping over someone's leg and staggering a little, sloshing the glass of brandy he held, his face open and guileless. I swear, if I'd not known better, I'd have believed him half-drunk. Somewhere, my Cassiline had missed his calling as a player of no little renown. Hyacinthe had guessed better than he knew, when he put a Mendacant's cloak on Joscelin Verreuil. "Forgive me, my lady!" he exclaimed, offering a sweeping cross-armed bow and spilling brandy on her shoe. "Oh, oh! Twice over, I beg your forgiveness!"
    Blessed