Kushiel's Avatar (Phedre's Trilogy #3)

Kushiel's Avatar (Phedre's Trilogy #3) Page 52

In all fairness, the following day dawned bright and cool, and I had to own that after league upon league of arid land, it was pleasing to see the rich flood-plains, cultivated mainly with wheat and barley, though it was off-season, now. There were roads, unpaved but smooth, and an elaborate system of irrigation ditches, siphoning water from the Great Rivers. We saw a good many more villages, too, and were able to purchase additional foodstuffs; milk and dates, and yearling kid. There were no inns, though, or at least none fit to entertain a company such as ours. Only in the cities, which were few.

And we had nearly reached Nineveh.

We saw it from the far side of the Tigris, a river twice as fast and half again as deep as the Euphrate—a solid city rising from the flood- plain, thick-walled and massive. One would not suppose a city built of red mud-brick to be impressive, but it was, a good deal more than it sounds. There is little else to build from in Khebbel-im-Akkad, and they have become surpassingly good at it.

For all that I doubted, our guides had spoken truly; there was a far better system in place for crossing the Tigris, a veritable floating bridge. It was built on the same principle, but much vaster, an immense platform of cedar planks, capable of holding a dozen horses and men at once. A complex system of ropes and pulleys was used to convey it from one shore to another. Why the Akkadians are so reluctant to span running water, I cannot say, but it worked well enough. We made the crossing in three trips and were deposited safe and relatively dry outside the gates of Nineveh.

"Right," said Lord Amaury, surveying his bedraggled company. "I think mayhap we should take lodgings for the night before presenting ourselves to the Khalif’s son."

And with that, I did not disagree.

THIRTY-EIGHT

ONE THING I will say; Nineveh did not lack for luxury.Amaury Trente saw to it that we were lodged in the finest inn, and it was very fine indeed. They had a dozen stablehands alone, and ample space to quarter our mounts. The rooms were generous, sumptuous with woven carpets and pillows, all wrought in intricate designs.

The only drawback was that the men and women were lodged in separate quarters.

"It could be worse." Renée de Rives, stripped down to her shift, flung herself on one of the overstuffed sleeping-pallets, stretching her arms indolently over her head. She looked at me under her lashes with a friendly smile. "And we could always entertain one another, Phèdre."

I smiled back at her and demurred. "Though you are kind to ask," I added.

"I'm not kind." Renée rolled onto her side, propping her head on one arm. "I'm dying of curiosity and insatiable desire, and it seems a shame to let these lovely beds go to waste. Is it because of Joscelin?"

I thought about it, sitting cross-legged on the pallet opposite her. "In part."

She made a face. "Phaugh! Why did you have to fall in love with a Cassiline, anyway? We're all the poorer for it."

I laughed. "Well, you may be sure, I didn't choose to. Did you choose in the matter of Lord Royce? It is always easier if one's beloved is unwed."

"And if I'd met him sooner, he might be." Renée laughed, too. "It's not the same, though, Phèdre. Everyone knows Joscelin doesn't care to share you. Royce, now ... if I had the chance to share your bed, Royce would gladly push me into it! And I would do the same for him.”

"Well." I rose, and stooped to kiss her in passing. "Mayhap he'll get his chance."

"Oh, unfair," she said, but she smiled as she said it, stretching and yawning. "Elua, you can't blame me for trying. If Joscelin is part of the reason, what's the rest? You never said."

"I didn't, did I?" I paused in the act of unpacking my trunk, holding up a creased gown and frowning. To be sure, it was a long time since I had engaged in casual dalliance, but I'd never denied its appeal. And if Renée was no one I would choose for a patron, it was hardly that she was undesirable. No, the lack of desire lay within me, a strange sense of waiting withdrawal. It was unusual, in a Servant of Naamah; in an anguissette, unheard-of. "I don't really know."

"Ah, well." Renée sighed, indolently. "I hope it passes."

Unwontedly fearful of what might follow if it did, I said nothing.

So it was that I spent the night chastely, and in the morning, Lord Amaury sent a letter of introduction to the Palace, addressed to Valère L'Envers, the wife of the Lugal Sinaddan-Shamabarsin. The reply came swiftly, an invitation fair blazing with eagerness. After some weeks in Khebbel-im-Akkad, I was hardly surprised. Luxury or no, Nineveh must seem like direst exile for a D'Angeline noblewoman. Visitors from home would be rare delight.

Our persons bathed, our attire cleaned and pressed, our horses groomed and gleaming, we rode in style to the Palace of Nineveh. Commoners in the street bowed low as we passed, touching their fore heads to the ground. I could tell the Akkadian nobles, even on foot, because they did not deign to notice us, looking only out of the corners of their eyes. We passed many temples of the lesser gods, and then the great ziggurat of Shamash, with the solar disk mounted at its apex. The god was represented as the Lion of the Sun, his leonine visage encompassed in a circle. Outside the temple stood a mighty effigy of Ahzimandias, three times again as tall as a mortal man. He gripped a spear in one hand—the Spear of Shamash, he was called—and his bearded face was filled with the same blank ferocity as the god's, glaring across the rooftops of the city.

I read the inscription as we passed, writ in Akkadian: "My name is Ahzimandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" It gave me a shiver. After the chronicles I had read of the destruction of Drujan, I regarded the House of Ur with a certain apprehension.

The Palace of Nineveh was protected by thick walls and a cordon of guards, clad in long tunics over full armor, turbans wrapped around their pointed helmets. Here, no one got in until all our arms had been surrendered, including Joscelin's, and we were given an escort of guards. While marble was in short supply, the palace was tiled inside, cool and elegant, though rather dark.

I saw a good many servants hurrying about their business, but most of them were men—or eunuchs, I guessed, from their beardless state. Akkadians seemed to favor beards for men. There were no women, and I found myself relieved that Renée and I were veiled. Whatever status it conferred, I was glad of it.

At last we were shown to a small reception hall, and our chief escort presented himself briskly at the door, announcing us to a plump eunuch in rich robes, a gold chain about his waist, who bowed deeply and looked askance at the men in our party. The guardsmen drew back the doors, and we were admitted.

"Her highness the Lugalin Valère-Shamabarsin," the eunuch atten dant announced in Akkadian, his voice high and resonant. We all bowed or curtsied low before the figure seated on the dais before us, glittering in jewel-encrusted robes, her face veiled and hidden.

And then the doors closed behind us, and the seated woman drew back her veil, reminding me, for a terrifying instant, of Melisande in the Little Court. But no; this woman glanced anxiously toward the door, making certain it was indeed closed, and I would have known her anywhere for a scion of House L'Envers, with those deep-violet eyes. "My lord Trente," said Valère L'Envers, descending from the dais to take his hands and offer the kiss of greeting. Beneath an elaborate headdress, her hair was the color of honey and she had her father's strong jaw, though prettier. "Well met!" Unerringly, she turned toward me, and I made a second curtsy, hastily pulling back my veil. "Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève," she said, smiling. "Our houses have a long history together. It is an honor to meet you."

"The honor is mine, your highness," I murmured, as she bent to kiss me.

"And Messire Joscelin Verreuil!" Valère clasped both his hands in hers with unalloyed pleasure. "You've no idea how many times I've listened to 'The Cassilines' Duel' in the Serenissiman Cycle. It's my favorite part. I'm so pleased you're here."

"Your highness." Joscelin released her hands to give his Cassiline bow, vambraces flashing. "I am pleased it has given you pleasure.”

"Indeed." Her smile turned rueful. "Though I fear it is not for my pleasure you have come, any of you. My lord Trente," she addressed Amaury. "Let us not stand on ceremony. I've enough of that. What brings you to Nineveh?" She saw him glance at the eunuch. "Burnabash is loyal to me, else you would not be here. Come, Lord Amaury. Out with it."

Taking a deep breath, Amaury Trente did. "As you are fond of the Serenissiman Cycle, your highness, you will remember that when we took possession of the Little Court of Benedicte de la Courcel, his infant son was discovered to be missing..."

He told the story in its entirety, or at least as much of it as he knew—Ysandre had told him only that I'd learned the boy had vanished from a Siovalese sanctuary and tracked him as far as Amílcar. Valère L'Envers heard it out in silence until he spoke of Drujan.

"Drujan!" She said the word like a curse, her expression hardening. "So that's why you're here."

"Yes, your highness." Amaury bowed. "I am here in the name of her majesty Ysandre de la Courcel, Queen of Terre d'Ange, to petition your aid in retrieving the boy from the Drujani, by whatever means you think best, whether it be trade or bribery or might of arms."

All traces of welcome and girlish pleasure had vanished from Valère L'Envers' features. Stiff in jeweled robes, she sat her throne like an effigy, only her lips moving as she said a single word: "No."

She raised one finger. "Hear me, Lord Trente. In the first place, I do not have the power to grant your petition. This is Khebbel-im- Akkad. I rule only over eunuchs and women in my quarters. I command no guard of my own, and have no authority to negotiate, save what counsel my husband will hear in private, and the fact that I am the mother of his sons. In the second place, I question the wisdom of this course of action you pursue. This boy, this Imriel de la Courcel, is a traitor's get twice-over, and the nearer he stands to the throne, the less I like it. And third ..." She smiled humorlessly. "What do you know of Drujan, my lord?"