Kushiel’s Dart

And with that, she left.

Chapter Twenty-Two

You may be sure I related the exchange to Delaunay. It was never my practice to tell him everything that occurred in an assignation; there were things, I had learned by then, best left unsaid. He saw the marks, and knew enough. Of the things which left no marks, I did not speak. But I never failed to disclose any piece of information or careless conversation which might be of interest to him.

In this, I was not mistaken. He frowned and paced, pondering what I had told him.

"Baudoin thought it was a Skaldi war cry?" he asked. I nodded. "Did he give any sign that the words Waldemar Selig meant aught else to him?"

"No." I shook my head, sure of it. "He spoke in jest, and meant nothing by it. But it meant somewhat to Melisande."

"And he gave no sign of knowing that you were a…what did she call it? A farewell gift?"

I shook my head again. "No, my lord. There was no hint of it in his manner, and Melisande was careful to speak of it only when we were alone." I gazed at him, and thought of how he had brought her to see me, when Delaunay’s anguissette was no more than a well-kept secret. "Every artist craves an audience, my lord, and she has chosen you. Whatever is to occur, it is her desire that you know she is its architect."

Delaunay gave me one of his deep, thoughtful looks. "You may have the right of it," he said. "But the question remains: What is to occur?"

We found out in less than a week’s time.

It was Gaspar Trevalion who brought the news, stunned into dismissing any thoughts of a quarrel between himself and Delaunay.

The clatter of many hooves rang on the paved courtyard with unmistakeable urgency. I had known the Comte de Fourcay since my earliest days in Delaunay’s household and, even during their disagreements, I had never heard him so much as raise his voice. This day, it echoed off the courtyard walls. "Delaunay!"

If anyone doubted that the household of Anafiel Delaunay was capable of moving quickly, they would have been hard put to prove it that day. Delaunay was out the door in a trice, pausing only to snatch up his seldom-used sword where it hung in his study. Guy appeared from nowhere, twin daggers in hand, shouldering two liveried servants out the door ahead of him, and Alcuin and I were but a few steps behind.

Surrounded by ten men-at-arms, Gaspar Trevalion sat his black horse, oblivious to our presence and the sword in Delaunay’s hand. His mount, lathered and blown, snorted and shifted its weight; Gaspar tightened the reins and gazed down at Delaunay, a terrible look on his face.

"Isidore d’Aiglemort has just accused House Trevalion of high treason," he said grimly.

Delaunay stared and lowered his sword. "You’re joking."

"No." Gaspar shook his head, his dreadful expression unchanged. "He has proof: letters, addressed to Lyonette from Foclaidha of Alba."

"What?" Delaunay was still staring. "How?"

"Messenger birds." The black horse danced under him; Gaspar quieted it. "They’ve been corresponding since the Cruarch’s visit. Delaunay, my friend, what do I do? I am innocent in this matter, but I have a home and a family to think of in Fourcay. The King has already sent his fastest riders to the Comte de Somerville. He is mustering the royal army."

Behind Delaunay’s face, the wheels of thought began turning. "You swear you knew nothing of it?"

Gaspar’s spine stiffened in the saddle. "My friend, you know me," he said softly. "I am as loyal as you to House Courcel."

"There will be a trial. There will have to be a trial." Delaunay rested the tip of his sword on the paving stones and leaned on it. "Send your three best men to Fourcay," he said decisively. "Tell them to turn out the guard, and admit no one unless they bear orders in the King’s own hand. We’ll draft a letter to Percy de Somerville. There’s time to intercept him before he can make the border of Azzalle. He knows you, he won’t move against Fourcay without orders from the King. It’s Lyonette who’s at the bottom of this, and not House Trevalion. The King won’t take after your whole line."

Some of the stricken quality eased in Gaspar’s expression, but not all. "Baudoin has been implicated."

I drew in my breath sharply at his words, and Alcuin’s fingers closed on my elbow. I glanced at him and he shook his head, cautioning silence. Delaunay, frowning to himself, gave no sign that he had heard it.

"You’d best come in," he said to Gaspar, "and tell me what you know. Get your men en route to Fourcay. We’ll devise a letter to de Somerville, and you’ll petition the King for an audience. Ganelon de la Courcel is no fool. He will hear you."

After a moment, Gaspar nodded curtly, and gave the orders to his men, tossing them a purse for the journey. We heard the sound of their mounts' hoofbeats recede through the streets of the City. In the distance there was shouting as the news began to break like a wave through the D’Angeline populace.