I glanced involuntarily at the silken cords lying coiled and harmless on the carpet. "Yes," I said, my voice rough-edged with desire. "You do ... you do tie a skillful knot."

"Good." Nicola took back the purse, the matter settled. "Ramiro likes to be tied. My husband," she added, catching my puzzled glance. "But it's not nearly so pleasing a sight. You're a great deal more fun, and considerably more skilled. Besides, I never have the slightest interest in knowing what he's thinking. And when you come to it, he's probably cost me more than you."

I had to ask. "My lady ... you didn't tie Lord Marmion, did you?"

"No." She laughed. "I can play Valerian as well as Mandrake, if I have to. Anything, to get out of Aragonia for a time," A non-D'Angeline wouldn't have known what she meant; I did. They are the houses of pain, in the Night Court. Where Valerian receives, Mandrake gives. "I'd rather the latter, but..." She shrugged. "I am interested by variety. And the Shahrizai are ... well, you know."

I knew. "I wondered," I said aloud.

"Yes, well." Nicola looked down, frowned, and met my eyes. "I'm quite sure he killed his sister," she said softly. "Why do you suppose he would do that, if he were innocent?"

I could have dissembled; I thought about it, an expression of shock at the ready. In the end, I didn't. "She wasn't," I said bluntly. "I think she played a part in Melisande's escape, and Marmion knew it. His mistake was confronting her. He didn't know who her ally was; I think she threatened him, and he killed her rather than call her bluff. Now he's well and truly isolated himself. He's right, to be frightened; I don't blame him for that. But he's an idiot to think it's me. I don't hold that kind of sway."

"Mmm." Nicola looked speculative. "I don't know about that. Ysandre rallied her nation for invasion and civil war, on your bare word-if Marmion thinks she'd trust your condemnation, he may not be wrong. Nonetheless ..." She chuckled. "You and cousin Barquiel, all at cross-purposes, suspecting each other. It's Anafiel Delaunay all over again, with him! Just think, if they'd made peace earlier. All they ever wanted was the same thing; Ysandre de la Courcel on the throne."

"Mayhap," I said slowly. "But there was blood between them, bad blood. Edmée de Rocaille was a friend of Delaunay's. And not even the Duc denies his sister Isabel was responsible for her death."

It was an old story, that one; a portion of the puzzle Hyacinthe and I had spent so many hours piecing together. I was not even born when Edmée de Rocaille died, who was betrothed to Prince Rolande. A hunting accident, it was said-but the girth of her saddle had been cut, and Edmée had a bitter rival in Isabel L'Envers, who bore no love for the Prince's poet-consort, Anafiel Delaunay. Edmée de Rocaille had been his friend since childhood. Although it cost him the favor of the court and nearly Rolande's regard, my lord Delaunay wrote a deadly satire about Isabel L'Envers, blackening her name. Since then, he and her brother Barquiel had been dire enemies. I was but a babe in arms when Rolande was slain in battle. As for Isabel, whom Rolande had wed in the end, I remembered her death; I'd been a child, in Cereus House.

It meant as little to Nicola as to me: She shrugged. "And your Delaunay's verses named Isabel a murderess on everyone's tongue," she concluded. "Well and so, it's naught to do with you, Phèdre, nor with me. What would you say, if I offered to help you? What would you have me do?"

It was tempting; Elua, it was tempting! "Why?"

"Because." Nicola frowned. "Because you're damnably good at what you do, so good that I daresay no one else within fifty leagues of the City even knows you're doing it. When this is over, Barquiel will ship me back to Aragonia, whether I will it or no, and my only hope of gaining stature lies in intrigue. That, and the fact that my cousin Ysandre de la Courcel retains her seat on the throne of Terre d'Ange. Is that reason enough?" She smiled, then, that heavy-lidded smile. "Besides, it may afford another occasion for dalliance. And that would please me for its own sake. So tell me, what might I do?"

I had been thinking, all the while she spoke. "Do you know the Marquise Solaine Belfours?"

'Tall and haughty? Secretary of the Privy Seal?" Nicola laughed. "I know her. Why?"

"I need occasion to question her, without her suspecting. If you were to hold a fête and invite us both ..."

"I can do that." Nicola cocked her head at me and jingled the purse with my erstwhile patron's fee. "With this. Will you tell me why?"

"No." I shook my head.

"Well, then." She glanced at the white cords, such simple objects, lying in limp and dormant coils on the rich-toned carpet. "If you will not trust me, Phèdre, I will not do it for free, I think. Such are the lessons of intrigue I am learning. If I do as you ask, will you give me leave to question you about it? In a manner of my choosing?"

I have bartered myself for aught other than money before; it was not the first time. I gave myself to the Duc de Morhban in exchange for passage across his land. I would like to say that I thought it over carefully, and weighed the gain; in truth, I followed her gaze and looked once more at those damnable ropes. "You may question me to your heart's desire, my lady," I murmured.

"Oh, good," Nicola said cheerfully. "I was hoping you'd say that."

TWENTY-ONE

Nicola's fête was considered a success all-round.

My patron-fee was a considerable amount, though less than the twenty thousand Severio had paid. Still, it was enough to throw an outstanding gathering. I learned, in the course of the evening, that Nicola was renowned in Aragonia for her hostessing skills. I'd not have guessed it, ere that.

The fête took place in one of the salons in the diplomats' wing of the Palace, and it had an Aragonian flavor, with a leisurely meal featuring course after course of spicy delicacies, and a goodly amount of hearty red wine poured with a free hand by servants in Aragonian attire. Afterward came music and dancers, fiddles and timbales marking the beat, while women danced in flounced skirts; I daresay among the guests, only Joscelin and I recognized a strong Tsingani influence.

The highlight of the evening was a quartet of players Nicola had hired to stage a pantomime. Skilled performers to a man, they played out a D'Angeline version of the Aragonian bull-fight. It gave me a shiver, when the "bull" emerged; clad all in padded black, hose showing his well-shaped legs, but above the neck, a towering bull's head with long, wicked horns curving high into the air. The picadors in their gilt-threaded jackets danced with the bull, prodding and whirling away, setting their barbed picks in cleverly placed padding while the bull-dancer's steps grew slower and more deliberate, massive head lowering.

And then came the matador, the death-bringer, carrying cape and sword, bowing and flourishing. I gasped along with all the others as the matador's blade flashed toward the bull's neck. The shining edge of the sword cut clean, shearing through the papier-mâché bull's head, which fell tumbling to the floor. Out spilled an abundance of candies and trinkets, and the player's own human head poked grinning from the truncated bull-neck of his costume. Everyone applauded, then, and skirmished good-naturedly for the spoils. Nicola smiled, and ordered casks of sweet, nutty Aragonian brandy to be breached and poured all around, and we laughed and toasted her cunning entertainment, while the players bowed to considerable accolades.

Amid the dancing and mingling that followed, I nodded a cue to Joscelin, who nodded in reply and waited as I made my way to greet Solaine Belfours.

Her demeanor had changed not a wit since I had first encountered her at Alcuin's debut; a little older, perhaps, but no less arrogant. Her golden brows arched, and she looked down her nose at me as I greeted her.

"Phèdre nó Delaunay... de Montrève, is it? You've come a long way from scrubbing my floors, little Comtesse," she said coolly. I could not help but flush a little at that; she had always known, the Marquise Belfours, how to gall me. Among my old patrons, she was one I did not miss, and I was glad she had made me no proposals.

"My lady," I said with all the sincerity I could muster, "we are both in service to her majesty Ysandre de la Courcel, and it does not become us, this ill will between us."

Solaine Belfours gave a rather delicate snort of laughter. "I would be more like to believe you, Comtesse, if you had not counseled her majesty to replace me."

At that moment, Joscelin joined us, tripping over someone's leg and staggering a little, sloshing the glass of brandy he held, his face open and guileless. I swear, if I'd not known better, I'd have believed him half-drunk. Somewhere, my Cassiline had missed his calling as a player of no little renown. Hyacinthe had guessed better than he knew, when he put a Mendacant's cloak on Joscelin Verreuil. "Forgive me, my lady!" he exclaimed, offering a sweeping cross-armed bow and spilling brandy on her shoe. "Oh, oh! Twice over, I beg your forgiveness!"

Blessed Elua, but he was good! I would have kissed him, if he'd have let me; as it was, I bit my lip and made a courteous introduction.

"Oh!" Joscelin said, widening his gorgeous summer-blue eyes at her and swaying on his feet. "You would know, then, my lady of the Privy Seal... my lady, I am writing a treatise on the history of the Cassiline Brotherhood and House Courcel, very interesting stuff, to be sure..." Swaying, he placed one hand clumsily on her arm and peered at her. "Pray, my lady, mayhap you would help me gather information?"

Solaine Belfours shook him off, profound irritation refleeted in her mien. "Love of Elua, man, ask the Royal Archivist if you've need of that hoary old history.' I've no time for CassieJ's nonsense."

"Pardon, my lady." Joscelin blundered backward a step, catching my eye for the merest second, a flicker of amusement come and gone so fast I might have imagined it. I would have held on to that flickering instant if I could; caught it and held it tight to me. "A thousand pardons.'"

Solaine stared after him as he went weaving into the crowd, shaking her head. "I never thought," she said unpleasantly, "that left to your own devices, your taste would run to dumb and pretty, Phèdre. Do yourself a favor, and root around in the archives, if you will, but stay out of politics."

Nicola was right; my patrons failed, time and again, to pay heed to what I saw, what I witnessed. And I had seen enough to know that the Marquise did not dissemble. Her irritation was unfeigned; howeversomuch I mistrusted her- and I did-there was naught she feared to have uncovered in the Royal Archives or the history of the Cassiline Brotherhood.

Still, she had been a patron once, and I could not resist pushing. "As my lady bids," I murmured, curtsying; she did, after all, outrank me. "I did not mean to offend."

"I swear, sometimes, you live to give offense." Solaine Belfours looked sourly at me. "But I will forgive your intervention with Ysandre, if you swear to leave well enough alone. As you say, our interests lie in the same sphere. All the same, you ought to have a care, Phèdre." A curl of contempt shaped her lips. "If you think all of Lyonette de Trevalion's secrets died with her, you're twice the fool I reckoned."

It was an empty threat, made for the sake of taunting; I'd have staked my reputation on it. I knew Solaine Belfours, and I knew it rubbed her on the raw that Delaunay had played her for a fool, and I the bait on his hook. Still, a threat is a threat, and I noted it well, bethinking myself of Gaspar Trevalion, who had stood surety for her.

He had disavowed all knowledge and escaped all blame, when Lyonette de Trevalion's plan to put her son Baudoin on the throne was revealed; and indeed, it was my lord Anafiel Delaunay who stood surety for him, then. If Solaine had blackmailed Gaspar into aiding her, surely it was to do with that. I put two pieces together and thought: Gaspar knew. He knew of the plot, and said naught, even to Delaunay. Once, then, Gaspar Trevalion would have been content to see his kinsman Baudoin crowned in Ysandre's stead. His loyalty did not run as deep as my lord Delaunay had believed.

Satisfied with my conclusions, I made her another curtsy and withdrew, finding Joscelin. He kept up his pretense well, unsteady on his feet with another glass of brandy. "They will be gossiping tomorrow about Phèdre's Cassiline," he murmured. "And Solaine Belfours knows nothing."

"Well, that in itself is something," I retorted. "And I have never known you to care for gossip."

Joscelin smiled wryly, swirling his brandy and lowering his head as if to drink. I daresay no more than a sip of it had passed his lips. "They talk about you, you know," he said into his glass. "They say you are somewhat taken with the Lady Nicola L'Envers y Aragon, so much that you refused her payment. Your friend Apollonaire de Fhirze was passing jealous." Raising his head, he gave a short laugh. "And of me." His lips twisted bitterly. "He thinks I am the most fortunate man alive, it seems."

"You would be," I said. "If you had his tastes."

"Or his sister's."

Why is there ever this perverse cruelty in humankind, that makes us hurt most those we love best? Mayhap there is time and world enough, in the blessed Terre d'Ange-that-lies-beyond, to play these games out to their conclusions, but for us, on mortal soil, there is so little time! And I, of all people, was the least equipped to answer this riddle; I, who even now, in a hidden part of my soul, savored the deep ache of the words Joscelin and I threw at each other, the pain of a lovers' quarrel magnified by the deliberate act of hurting each other. Who knows how long we would be bound to the wheel of life by these acts, doomed to live again and again in mortal flesh, until we freed ourselves to pass through Elua's Gate? Yet even so, we do it, time and again.