Kushiel's Dart

than a Cassiline Brother.
    "You work for Hyacinthe?" I asked them; they nodded. "Good. You." I pointed to the one who hadn't squeaked. "I need you to do something, and your friend's life depends on it. Find Hyacinthe, and bid him to come here. Privately. Tell him an old friend needs his help. If he asks who, tell him we used to eat tarts under the bridge at Tertius' Crossing. Have you got that?"
    He nodded again, rapidly. "Old friend," he said breathlessly. "Tarts. Tertius' Crossing. Yes, my . . . yes."
    "Good." I wouldn't have accorded me a title either, not in this state. "If you breathe a word of it, a word , mind you, or if anyone overhears, your friend will die. Do you understand?"
    "Yes!" His head bobbed so fast his forelock flopped in his eyes. "Yes, I swear it!"
    "Good," I repeated, adding ominously, "and if we don't kill you, you may be sure Hyacinthe will, if you make a mistake in this. Now go!"
    He was out the door like a bolt, and we heard the sound of his running feet in the street. Joscelin sheathed his word. "You're safe if he keeps his word," he said to the other lad, who stared white-faced at us. "Just don't think of following him."
    Hyacinthe's stable attendant shook his head in fervid terror.
    We waited, strung tighter than harpstrings. Ever since I'd awakened in the covered cart, it seemed, aching and soul-sick, I'd been listening for approaching steps. I knew these. I knew the sound of Hyacinthe's casual stroll, boot-heels scraping against the cobblestones.
    And then he entered the stable and closed the door, and any pretense of ease disappeared. He turned around, his expression strained with hope and disbelief.
    "Phedre?"
    I took two steps, and threw myself into his arms.
    It fell to Joscelin to guard the door, sword drawn once more, against both anyone seeking entrance, and escape by Hyacinthe's assistants. The boy we'd sent had slipped in behind him, and stood staring with his fist pressed against his teeth. To my shame, I was worse than useless, weeks'" worth of pent terror releasing itself in shaking sobs,' my face pressed to Hyacinthe's shoulder. He held me hard and made soothing noises, his voice trembling a little with astonishment. When I could, I regained my composure and stepped away from him, wiping the tears from my eyes.
    "All right?" Hyacinthe raised his eyebrows at me, and I nodded, taking a deep, shuddering breath. He beckoned to the boys, and fished in his purse. "Listen to me, you two. What you saw tonight, never happened.
    Understand?" Both nodded silent acquiescence. "Here." He gave them both a silver coin. "You did well. Take these, and keep your mouths shut. Don't even talk to each other about it. If you do, I swear, I'll call the dromonde upon you, and curse you so you wish you'd never been born. Understand?"
    They did. He dismissed them, and they ran, with fearful glances at Joscelin.
    Hyacinthe hadn't looked closely at him. He glanced over now as Joscelin sheathed his sword and blinked hard. " Cassiline ?"
    Joscelin smiled wryly, inclining his head. "Prince of Travellers."
    "Blessed Elua, I thought you couldn't draw your blade . . ." Hyacinthe shook himself, as if waking from a dream. "Come on," he said decisively. "I'll take you to the house. You were right, it's not safe for you to be seen."
    I closed my eyes. "Do they think . . .?"
    "Yes. You were tried and convicted in absentia," Hyacinthe said, his voice unwontedly gentle. "For the murder of Anafiel Delaunay and the members of his household."

FIFTY-SIX
    Hyacinthe lived still in the same house on Rue Coupole, but alone. To my sorrow, I learned that the fever of which we'd heard rumors had claimed his mother's life. She'd taken pity on a Tsingani family whose youngest was ill, and caught it from them; there were no tenants now, and Hyacinthe was grimly set against taking others until the sickness had run its course. It manifested first, we learned, with white spots on the back of the tongue; that was why the City Guard had examined ours, and had little interest in anything else.
    It was strange, to be in that house without the presence of Hyacinthe's mother, muttering over her cookstove. He used it to heat water for the bath, sending one of his runners to the Cockerel for hot food, with word only that he was entertaining in private that night.
    To be warm and clean and safe seemed a luxury beyond words. We sat around the kitchen table and ate squab trussed in rosemary, washing it down with a rather good red wine