Kushiel's Dart

grace." Joscelin bowed, a Cassiline bow, unthinking. "Harm her," he said under his voice, "and you will die. That I promise."
    "Do you?" De Morhban raised his brows. "But she was born to be harmed." At that, he turned, summoning his chamberlain. Joscelin grabbed my arm again, painfully hard.
    "Phedre, don't do this. I swear, I'll find another way-"
    "Stop." I laid one hand on his cheek. "Joscelin, you made Cassiel's Choice. You can't keep me from making Naamah's." Reaching into my bodice, I fished out Ysandre's ring, pulling the chain over my head. "Just keep this safe, will you?"
    I thought he might protest further, but he took it, his face changing, taking on the impassive expression I'd seen so often in Gunter's steading and then in Selig's, while he had to watch me serve as bed-slave to our Skaldic masters.
    But that had been slavery; this was not.
    De Morhban had not lied. He sent for a priest, who came in the black robes of Kushiel, unmasked, carrying the rod and weal. She was an older woman, whose look held all the terrible compassion of her kind. De Morhban treated her with respect, and I saw that he would honor our contract.
    For the most part.
    "And the signaled" he asked, courteously, pen at the ready.
    It took me by surprise; I'd nearly forgotten, after Skaldia, that such things existed. I started to reply, then caught myself. "Perrinwolde," I said. It did not seem right, anymore, to use Hyacinthe's name.
    Nor did it summon the safety it once had.
    De Morhban nodded, writing it down. The priest put on her bronze mask, taking on Kushiel's face, and set her signet in the hot wax to seal it.
    "You know I will ask questions upon your departure," de Morhban said, passing me the contract for my signature. "Our contract does not bind me from that. Nor from questioning Rousse and his men, who are on Morhban territory."
    "Yes, my lord." I wrote my name in a flowing hand. "But questions are dangerous, for they have answers."
    He looked curiously at me. "So Anafiel Delaunay taught you to think. I'd heard as much, though it was hard to credit. There was no thought in your pretty head the night / met you."
    No thought, at least, that wasn't connected to the lead in Melisande's hand. I flushed, remembering. De Morhban nodded to the Kusheline priest, who bowed and departed silently.
    "Are you Melisande's creature?" he asked me, musing. Reaching out, he took up the diamond that lay on my breast, drawing me to him. I stumbled a little, feeling my heartbeat speed. "I thought so, then. Now, I am not sure. What game is she playing? Tell me this much, at least; did she send you? Is this some strange ploy of hers, to see where my loyalties lie?"
    "No questions, my lord," I whispered, my head spinning. "You have pledged it."
    "Yes." He dropped the diamond. "I have."
    There are things that one can see in patrons, when one serves Naamah. I saw it in him, the fear that could cut desire. He had come to doubt, since his decision. He had the ill luck to rule a province that contained House Shahrizai, and all its wiles. I took a step back and made another choice, as rash as the first.
    "No," I said, and met his startled look. "One answer, my lord, and then you will honor our contract, or I will leave. No. If I am anyone's creature, it is Delaunay's. And if I am here, it is at his bidding."
    "From beyond the grave." He made a statement, not a question of it. "He honored his vow to Prince Rolande, I heard. To the grave and beyond." De Morhban laid both hands on the table, considering our contract. "If that is true, then you are here at Ysandre's bidding."
    I did not answer. "I am here to serve your pleasure, my lord," I said instead, nodding at the contract.
    "So you are." He drew his attention away from it and looked wryly at me. "It would please me, Phedre no Delaunay, to have you bathed and attired. I've no taste for Tsingani wenches, if you don't mind."
    "As my lord wishes." I curtsyed.
    The women of Morhban were kind enough to me, hiding curiosity behind their habitual silence; they are not a talkative folk, those who dwell in outermost Kusheth. I was led away to a bath that was fairly sumptuous, then waited, drying in silken robes, while a seamstress brought in an array of garments to determine what would best fit and suit me. For all its bleakness, Morhban did not lack for finery. We found a suitable gown, a rich scarlet with a low back, that showed to good advantage my completed marque.
    I confess, I admired myself in the