Free Kushiel's Justice by Jacqueline Carey

“Mignon!” I said her name sharply and she glanced up involuntarily. I smiled at her. “I have learned somewhat about myself this night, and that is a valuable gift. Thank you.”
    She gave me a shy smile in return. “You are welcome.”
    Afterward, in the carriage, the other three compared their experiences. Mavros, as usual, was pleased with himself, and the Trentes had found it a great lark.
    “Oh, the way he
blushed
!” Colette laughed. “I bade him take off his shirt, and he went red all over. It was sweet. Did yours blush, Julien?”
    “I don’t know,” he admitted. “She begged me to blow out the lamps, and I did.”
    “Silly boy,” Mavros said. “That’s part of the fun.” He studied me. “And you, Imri? You didn’t care for it?”
    I shrugged. “Not as much as you did.”
    My Shahrizai cousin grinned. “That’s true of a great many things.”
    That night I lay awake for a long time, thinking about Alyssum House, wondering what manner of patron went there as a matter of course, whether they went to purge their own shame or to revel in that of the adepts. Whether Naamah appreciated the reverence done to her there. I supposed she must. Desire, like love, takes many forms.
    And I thought about Sidonie, too.
    Jasmine House. I wondered if it were true. Somehow I didn’t doubt it.
    Well, well.

F IVE
    D IOGENES,” I SAID FIRMLY .
    Favrielle nó Eglantine clamped her jaw so hard the crooked little scar on her upper lip turned white. “Can you not talk
sense
into him?” she spat at Phèdre.
    “Why not Diogenes?” Phèdre replied. “Can we not do a Hellene theme?”
    Due to the distraction of Lucca’s siege and my uncertain return, we were late in commissioning costumes for the Longest Night; truly late, and not just in terms of Favrielle’s reckoning. That wasn’t why she was angry, though.
    “Rags!” She loaded the word with contempt. “You want me to adorn a Prince of the Blood in
rags
.”
    “And a lamp,” I added.
    “Why?” Favrielle demanded of Phèdre.
    “I’ve no idea,” she said tranquilly. “ ’Tis Imriel’s fancy. And after what he’s been through in the past year, I’m minded to let him have his way.” She paused. “If you’re unwilling, we can always go elsewhere . . .”
    Favrielle merely glared at her. It was a bluff, but it was one she wouldn’t call. It was ever thus between them. In the end, Favrielle conceived of a notion that pleased her well enough. I would portray asceticism in the persona of the Cynic philosopher Diogenes, and Phèdre would portray opulence in the persona of the D’Angeline philosopher Sarielle d’Aubert, who was renowned in her lifetime for travelling with a retinue of attendants prepared to cater to her every whim.
    “I reckon that would be me,” Ti-Philippe observed.
    There was a reason for my choice. The Cynic’s lamp was a symbol of the Unseen Guild, and I was minded to serve notice that I knew it. I’d been caught up in my Alban studies and personal affairs, but I hadn’t put the Guild altogether out of mind. It would be interesting to see if anyone reacted to the sign of the lamp. There was a risk, but not a great one. The Guild knew I was aware of its existence; they had sought to recruit me in Tiberium through Claudia Fulvia. In the end, I had refused. Still, I was curious to know if it operated within Terre d’Ange.
    We hadn’t learned much since my return. Ti-Philippe had paid a visit to the Academy of Medicine in Marsilikos and brought back a copy of the system of notation devised by a long-ago priest of Asclepius who lost his vision; a complicated series of notches and strokes intended to be read by touch. Members of the Guild used it for secret communication. My mysterious protector Canis had given me a clay medallion in Tiberium that bore the Cynic’s lamp on its face and a hidden message etched on its edges. It was mere chance—and Gilot’s ill luck—that had led me to the temple of Asclepius, where a priest