"The tooth or the bath?" I inquired.

"Both," Canis said. "The attendant scubbed very hard."

I laughed. "Canis… you can't go on living in a barrel. Why don't you let me ask about lodgings at the insula? I have coin, I'd be glad to „ pay.

"Oh, no!" His brown eyes widened. "Please, don't."

"Why ever not?" I asked him.

He looked away, his jaw working unconsciously as he probed at his missing tooth with his tongue. "Because it would take away my freedom," he said at length. "And I like it, Imriel. I like it very much. I live upon the kindness of others, and every day I see and learn so much. And yet I am beholden to no one, and no one is beholden to me. My life is my own, and I carry it with me." He looked back at me, guileless as a child. "Haven't you ever wanted to be free? To shed your name, to shed your very self?"

"Oh, once or twice," I said wryly.

Canis beamed at me. "Then you understand!"

"Yes." I sighed. "And no." I clapped a hand on his shoulder. "No mind. I'm glad you're well. I was worried."

"You're very kind," he said obligingly.

I thought my recent expedition into the art of blackmail and extortion. I thought about Claudia and our violent lovemaking; and about the shadows that lay behind it. Valerian House, and Sephira in bonds, jerking as the whip kissed her skin. Saying farewell to Sidonie, and gripping her arms hard enough to bruise. Phèdre; the look in her eyes when we recognized one another for what we were, in that single heartbeat before I thrust her away. Ah, Elua! Wanting, always wanting. And acting, heedless and impetuous. Gilot, his sword drawn to defend me on the outskirts of Night's Doorstep, where I'd nearly run down an angry nobleman's party. Gilot, seasick; Gilot, frightened and estranged on the dockside in Ostia, a foreigner far from home. Gilot, lying in the temple of Asclepius, battered and broken, a victim of my stubborn pride.

"No," I said. "But I try."

Canis tilted his head, considering me. An errant shaft of sunlight caught his face, turning it momentarily into a gilded mask. His thick black hair was curly with washing, no longer lank and greasy. Dust motes sparkled in it. His sun-shot pupils shrank, no longer guileless.

"What more can we do?" he said softly. "Perhaps it is enough to try."

I shrugged. "Let us hope."

Chapter Forty-Five

Life in Tiberium resumed its normal pace.

Or almost, at any rate. The number of Master Piero's students dwindled. I wasn't sure, not at first. He kept imperfect records, and attendance was betimes spotty. But within a few days, we learned. We had lost Akil and Vernus. They had transferred their allegience, going to study with other Masters; ones who might prove more useful to their future careers. It surprised me, a little. Not Akil; I had known he was discomfited. But Vernus surprised me, for I thought he had valued Master Piero's lessons.

And it surprised me that despite everything, Lucius Tadius stayed.

One evening, in the wineshop, I told him so.

"Why?" he asked, swaying a little in his seat. He was drunk; we were all drunk. His hazel eyes glinted. "Why do you say so?"

I shrugged. "You're more serious than I reckoned on first meeting, that's all."

"I am serious." Lucius pointed at me. "Serious as death, Montrève. In less than a month's time, I'm off to be wed and assume my duties in Lucca. I mean to make the most of my time in Tiberium. What did I tell you? I told you Master Piero was the purest natural philosopher since the Hellene Sokrates. I believed it then, and I believe it now. Don't you?"

"Near enough," I said, thinking of Canis.

"Oh, near enough, is it?" Lucius scoffed. "And you question me!"

"Peace, lads," Eamonn rumbled in his deep voice. "It's not a contest." He sat at his ease, one brawny arm slung over the back of Brigitta's chair. For better or for worse, it seemed they were a pair. She was still prickly, as prickly as ever. Only now, Eamonn seemed exempt from her distrust. Although it wasn't, it felt like a betrayal.

"No one said it was," I said pointedly. "We're just talking."

Lucius nodded. "Mind yourself, Prince Barbarus."

We chuckled, both of us, as Eamonn shot us a significant look and rose to see to the refilling of our empty winejug. I liked Lucius a great deal. The better I knew him, the more I liked him. Betimes I wished I could have grafted his nature onto Claudia's form, the way gardeners do with plants to create a new strain, combining the best of elements.

"What about you?" Lucius asked when Eamonn returned. "Brigitta's right, you do ask a lot of questions. But when all's said and done, Montrève, you're a bit on the reticent side when it comes to talking about yourself."

"Oh, there's not much to tell," I said.

Across the table, Eamonn snorted.

Lucius raised his brows. "Now that," he said, "I find hard to believe. I know how you came to find Master Piero, but what brought you to Tiberium in the first place? When so many D'Angelines have turned away from the University, what made you come?"

I traced the rim of my cup, thinking how best to reply. "Lots of things. Eamonn. I wanted to study with him; we talked about it during his time in Terre d'Ange. And I wanted to follow in Anafiel de Montrève's footsteps and learn more about him."

"I remember," Lucius said. "The arts of covertcy, wasn't it? You said something about it at Deccus' dinner party. Did you ever find out?"

A hot flush suffused my face, and I found myself grateful for the poor lighting in the wineshop. With the memory of the dinner party came uncomfortable thoughts of Claudia. It seemed like a long time ago that I had spoken so rashly of matters concerning the Unseen Guild. "No," I said shortly. "Like as not, it was just a family fable."

"Pity," he mused. "It would have been interesting to know." Lucius regarded me. "So what is your family like, Montrève? The gods know, I've told you enough about mine, ghosts and all." He laughed. "What familial responsibilities are you shirking?"

Eamonn stirred. "Lucius—"

"No." I held up a hand to forestall him. "It's all right. It's just… Lucius, there are some things I'd rather not discuss."

The silence that followed was uncomfortable. "Fine," Lucius said at length, sounding puzzled and hurt. "I'll stop troubling you with unwelcome questions." He pushed his chair back and stood. "You know, Montrève, I'm glad of your friendship, but I'd appreciate it more if you'd let me reciprocate it."

With a courtly bow, he took his leave. I drained my cup and sighed. Once again, I'd managed to be hurtful and unfair to someone who meant me only good; a guilt compounded by the knowledge that I'd been carrying on a torrid affair with his sister, whose motives were suspect at best and mayhap downright dangerous.

"Sorry," Eamonn muttered.

I shook my head. "It's not your fault."

"Was it a lovers' quarrel?" Brigitta asked with interest. "Lucius likes men."

"I know," I said. "And no."

"Because Eamonn said in Terre d'Ange—" she persisted.

I raised my voice. "Will you please shut up!"

Rather to my surprise, she did. A few other patrons stared, then looked away. What had happened to all the polite D'Angeline niceties that Phèdre had taught me? Once upon a time, I'd had manners fit for an adept of the Night Court. Now it seemed all I could do was blunder about, causing damage to those I cared for. Master Piero wanted us to learn to be compassionate and wise, and I couldn't even help a beggar on the street.

Claudia's lessons and the Guild's scheming had had their effect. I'd been so proud of myself for using their tools to solve my own problem, so pleased with my success. And now it seemed I'd become better at plotting, lying, and dealing with thugs like Ruggero Caccini than engaging my friends. We spoke a great deal of virtue among ourselves, but there was precious little of it in my life.

"Imriel," Eamonn said gently. "Go home and sleep. With all that's happened, and worrying about Gilot, and… whatever it is, you're worn ragged. Go."

He was right and he was worried. I could see it in his eyes. He was a friend; my one true friend. Phèdre said that about Hyacinthe, and I was coming to understand its value. I'd already confided in Eamonn once, and he'd trusted me enough to aid me without demanding answers. I wanted to stay, wanted to pour my heart out to Eamonn and tell him everything. But there was Brigitta beside him, her ire dampened to a low glower. And there was Claudia's threat hanging over me, backed by the menace of the Unseen Guild, capable of inciting riots. Mayhap its tentacles did not reach so far as Alba, but here in Tiberium, it was real. I'd learned that much.

I went.

On the morrow, I elected to miss Master Piero's lecture, and instead escorted Anna to the Temple of Asclepius.

Gilot's condition was improving, which was one shining spot of hope in my life. The swelling around his eyes had receded and the bruises were fading to unlikely streaks of greenish yellow, as though he sported a strange, sickly domino. He was able to hobble about on foot, though his chest hurt whenever he took a deep breath.

His hand… well. The priest said it would be weeks before the splints could be removed, and there was no telling what we would find. But he was better, or at least parts of him were.

"Name of Elua!" Gilot grimaced, trying to shove a twig beneath the bindings on his hand. "It itches."

Anna batted gently at the twig he held. "Leave it, Gilot."

"It itches!" he repeated plaintively.

"You're as bad as Joscelin." Perched on a stool beside his bed, I smiled at him. "When the chirurgeon examined him in Nineveh, after his arm was broken, he gave Phèdre a salve to use once the splint came off. She had to hide it, or he'd have torn off the splint and slathered himself night and day."

"Joscelin." Gilot smiled back at me. "Wish he'd been there, eh?"

"Ah, well." I thought about Daršanga, the Mahrkagir's festal hall, and the circle of bodies rising, rising ever higher, Joscelin at its center. "I don't know, Gilot. There were innocent people out there, caught up in the rioting. He might have wreaked an awful lot of Cassiline havoc."

"Still." Gilot drew a breath, then coughed and winced. "It worked, this salve?"

I nodded. "It helped, I think. But it was a Tiberian chirurgeon who set the arm in the first place." It wasn't, not really. Phèdre had done it, following the mortally wounded Drucilla's instructions; both of them weeping, Joscelin pale and sweating, cursing in terms no Cassiline Brother should know. Remember this, Phèdre had said to me. Remember her courage. Remember them all.

I did.

But I didn't think Gilot needed to know.

I told him another story, about how Phèdre had suffered broken ribs after falling from the cliffs of La Dolorosa into the ocean. A Tiberian physician had tended her, too; a Hellene, actually, a former slave. But he was trained in Tiberium, and it made Gilot feel better.

"So I have somewhat in common with them both," he mused.

"You do," I said, touching his good hand. I didn't tell him that Phèdre had never mentioned a persistent, stabbing pain when she sought to draw breath, or that it had been Joscelin's left arm that was broken and not his sword-hand. Anna's gaze dwelled upon my face, shadowed and somber. She knew, the way women do. "Have a care, Gilot. I'll be back."

I sat in the sunlight-drenched grotto, thinking. The effigy of Asclepius gazed across the isle, his shadow pooled at his feet in the burbling spring, pierced with golden glints from the coins that had been thrown there. I propped my own foot on the ledge of the fountain. The swelling in my ankle had gone down, and it was turning the hues of Gilot's face. Asdepius' serpent coiled the length of his staff, whispering counsel in his ear. Votive-offerings hung all around. For a while, I'd been able to pick out ours, but already it was hard. New offerings eclipsed the old. The paint on the fired clay was fading, turning muted.

I unstrung Canis' medallion from around my neck, pondering it.

Wisdom. What was wisdom?

"What is it you have there?"

I looked up to meet the priest's gaze. "A luck-token, my lord," I said, handing it to him. "A gift of a philosopher-beggar, who may be more than he seems."

"A Cynic," the priest acknowledged, seeing the crude lamp stamped on the clay disk. He sat beside me, turning the medallion in his long, clever fingers. He paused, frowning. "Who gave this to you?"

"Canis." I felt silly, saying it. "He lives in a barrel."

"Canis, the dog." The priest bowed his head, his bearded lips moving in a smile. "Here," he said. "Feel."

I nearly pulled away; I still didn't like to be touched without my leave. But I relented, and suffered the priest to grasp my hand and guide it. With my fingertips, I felt a series of notches etched into the rim of Canis' medallion.

"Once," said the priest, "there was one such as me, a healer, a priest sworn to the vows of Asclepius. But his eyesight failed as he grew older." He gave me a sidelong glance. "Still, he believed in his calling. And he continued to treat his patrons, experimenting with different treatments. He devised a system of notation that he might read with his fingers. His notes have all been transcribed, of course, but I saw one of his tablets once. My teacher showed it to me. On every tablet, he began with this inscription."