Kushiel's Chosen

leave. One last thought struck me. "Bernard, my lady de Parnasse said the Queen visits the Archives, sometimes. Does she bring her Cassiline attendants, when she does?"
    "Of course!" His eyes widened. "Not that she'd come to harm, here, mind, but... she is the Queen. It is their sworn duty to protect and serve the scions of Elua."
    "Have any ever come alone?" I asked.
    Bernard shrugged. "Oh, once or twice, mayhap, the Queen has sent one of her Cassilines on an errand. One must make allowances for royalty, my lady; even the Archivist herself would not turn away the Queen's Cassilines!"
    Alas, his description of the Cassiline Brothers he had seen in the archives was predictably vague; of middle years, dour, grey-clad. In short, it fit nearly every Cassiline I'd ever seen, save for Joscelin. "So you do not keep watch over them," I said, discouraged.
    "No." He blinked at me, puzzled. "Why would we watch over Cassiline Brethren? They're ... Cassiline! They, they ... you know. Protect and serve."
    "Yes," I sighed. "I know."
    Since there was no more to be learned in the Royal Archives, I collected Remy from the wineshop where he was awaiting me and returned home in a pensive mood.
    "You're back," Joscelin said flatly. "I was worried."
    "If you're so damnably worried," Remy said, eyeing Joscelin, "you should have gone yourself, and left off your hang-dog sulking, Cassiline."
    Joscelin smiled tightly. "Should I not worry, then, that Phèdre nó Delaunay entrusts her safety to dice-playing sailors without the sense to remain sober when warding her?"
    Remy swore once, and swore again, with a sailor's eloquence, and threw a punch at him. Joscelin shifted his balance, turning at the waist, and Remy's fist struck the wall of the entryway. Cursing and shaking his bruised knuckles, Remy drove his left elbow backward into Joscelin's ribs, forcing him back a step. Catching himself against the wall, Remy turned to face him, spitting out an epithet. "Sour-faced, vinegar-sucking cleric!" He threw another angry blow. With the ease of long training, Joscelin slid out of its way, caught Remy's arm between crossed wrists, grating the small bones together, and with an effortless twist brought him to the floor, not disdaining to thrust a knee hard in his midriff on the way down. I stared open-mouthed, scarce able to credit the outbreak of violence within my own walls. When I gathered my wits, I shouted.
    "Joscelin!"
    He froze, and stepped back, raising his hands in surrender. Remy, swearing furiously, straggled to his feet, shaking his head like the dancer in the Aragonian bull-masque, ready to attack again.
    "Enough!" I was angry, truly angry. "Remy, I granted you the title of chevalier at your Lord Admiral's request; if you wish to hold it, act the part. Joscelin ..." Glaring at him, I rapped the daggers at his belt, then flicked the khaì pendant on his chest with my finger. "Live by one or the other, if you must, but don't break faith with both."
    He drew himself up at that, but I stood my ground.
    "This is my household," I said softly. "And I will not countenance violence within it, least of all from you. If you do not like it, you may leave."
    Joscelin muttered something-I could not hear it-and stalked off. And even as I watched, Remy gathered himself to follow.
    "Don't." I made my voice flat and emotionless. "Have I ever given you an order? I order it now: Let him be, Remy."
    He stared at me and shook his head, his auburn queue moving fiercely. "You're mad, my lady. I know you care for him, I do. But he'll break your heart, that one, grind it to bits against his cursed Cassiline pride."
    "Mayhap," I murmured. "And mayhap his pride will break first. It is between Cassiel and Naamah, who make our mortal flesh their battleground. Either way, let be."
    Remy paused, then bowed stiffly to me. "My lady."
    I would have spoken to Joscelin afterward, and told him aloud what I had whispered unheard, in the matter of Barquiel L'Envers' interest, had somewhat else not arisen. We learned of it in the morning, from the lips of a runner sent by Nicola L'Envers y Aragon, racing so quickly with the news that he needs must double over on my doorstep, breathing hard.
    "Comtesse," he gasped, trying to straighten. "My lady bids me ... my lady bids me tell you Marmion Shahrizai is charged with murder!"
    I ordered water brought him, and by the time he had the story out, Fortun had quietly made ready the carriage. It seemed that Barquiel L'Envers had wasted no