Free Kushiel's Justice by Jacqueline Carey Page A

told me its meaning.
    Do no harm
.
    The chirurgeon’s credo, the Guild’s warning. It was Claudia who confessed that it meant a member of the Guild had placed me under his or her protection. The medallion was gone—I’d crushed it to bits in a fit of anger—but I had made a sketch of it, and I intended to have a silversmith craft its likeness.
    Exactly why, I couldn’t say, except that it was an unresolved mystery. I wanted to
know
. The Guild had done a good job of shrouding itself in secrecy. Like the folk of Alba, they left no written trail. Still, there was a human trail, and one never knew what inadvertent reaction one might provoke.
    The same held true for Alba.
    I hadn’t forgotten about Alais’ Maghuin Dhonn. I didn’t broach the subject again with Firdha—her withering glare stilled my tongue—but there were other Cruithne in the City of Elua. Not many, truth be told; the Albans preferred their green isle to our white-walled city. Still, there was the honor guard.
    Drustan had left half a dozen of his men to serve as Firdha’s honor guard while the esteemed
ollamh
tutored his daughter. They were all proven warriors among the Cullach Gorrym, and they made for a striking sight when one came upon them in the Palace, their faces etched with woad tattoos.
    I made it a point to seek out their company. At first they were reticent in my presence, until I had the very good idea of convincing them to accompany me to Night’s Doorstep. There was a tavern called the Cockerel there, and it had a long history. It was a Tsingani place, mostly, although young D’Angeline nobles still went there to fancy they were living dangerously. There was no danger for me. It was the place where Hyacinthe had told fortunes when he was still the merry young Tsingano half-breed I knew only from stories, and not the fearsome figure I had met. I had told the story of freeing the Master of the Straits from his curse there more times than I could remember. The owner Emile had been his friend, and he would defend to the death any member of Phèdre’s household for what she had done.
    “My prince!” he roared when we entered. “Our
gadjo
pearl!”
    I suffered his embrace, which rivaled Eamonn’s for bone-cracking strength. The Cruithne grinned. “Emile,” I wheezed. “These are the Cruarch’s men.”
    “Ah!” He let me go and clapped his meaty hands. “Ale! Ale for the Cruarch’s men!”
    There was ale, then, and a great deal of it. Emile and I toasted to Drustan and then to Hyacinthe, and the Cruithne drank, too. Other toasts followed, and I made a point of offering a toast to Dorelei, my bride-to-be.
    “You are a lucky man, you know.” Kinadius, the youngest of them, studied me. “You
do
know this, yes?”
    “Yes,” I said honestly. It was true, in its own way. “I do.”
    They exchanged glances among themselves. “Few of your countrymen would feel the same,” murmured their leader, Urist. He was old enough to have fought at Drustan’s side in the war of the Skaldi invasion, and I understood the Cruarch regarded him highly.
    I shrugged. “There are always those who fear change. Is it not the same in Alba?”
    “A great deal of change has come swiftly to Alba.” Urist took a deep draught of ale. “Some think too swiftly, yes.”
    “The Maghuin Dhonn?” I asked.
    Kinadius, startled, dropped his tankard. Several of the Cruithne cursed and leapt up to avoid the spreading pool of ale, and a barkeep hurried over with a rag. Urist folded his arms and stared at me. His features were hard to discern in the intricate patterns of blue woad that made a mask of his face, but his eyes were as black as stones. “What do you know of them?”
    “Only the name.”
    “It’s ill luck to speak it.” Kinadius shivered.
    “Why?” I asked.
    “Because they did a very bad thing long ago, and brought shame upon themselves and upon Alba.” Urist’s unblinking eyes held mine. “We do not speak of it. We do not speak of