Kushiel’s Dart

Outside the tent, on the beach, the sound of fiddles and a tambor sundered our depressed silence, punctuated by rhythmic clapping from the sailors. Hyacinthe stirred.

"My lord, we promised the Tsingani a great trade, for the horses they bring. They’ve done us fair service as disguise. It worked all the way to Morhban."

"Might as well." The Admiral grasped a handful of Akkadian treasure, long strands of rubies and seed pearls spilling from his brawny clutch. "I’ve naught better to do with this, it seems, and like to rest on the bottom of the Straits ere I come to spend it. We’ll set 'em back on the Long Road with something to boast of, eh?"

I am no gem-merchant, to gauge the worth of the wealth Quintilius Rousse bestowed on Neci’s family, nor a horse-trader, to guess at the value of what he got in trade. Whatever it was, it was enough that the Tsingani stretched their eyes to see it, and fell into their most obsequious manner, swearing to bless his name at every crossroads.

It had taken some time to get the wagon onto the beach and conclude the deal, and dusk was falling when it was done. The Tsingani would stay that night, and depart in the morning. They set up their camp with their usual efficiency, and I noticed Gisella doing a good trade in spices with the D’Angeline sailors, weary of bland fish stew. Joscelin entertained the children with one last Mendicant’s tale as the stars emerged, benign and distant over the vast, surging ocean.

Hyacinthe brought me with him to make his farewell to Neci.

"May the Lungo Drom prosper you, tseroman of Neci’s kumpania," he said, bowing formally. "You have been a good comrade on the way."

Neci stroked the tips of his mustache, twiddling them to elegant points. "And you," he added, and grinned. "Rinkeni chavo," He looked solemn then, with one of those quick shifts of emotion of which the Tsingani are masters. "Chavo, I don’t know if it’s true that you speak the dromonde or not. I do not care. When people say Manoj has no grandson, I will say it is untrue. I will speak your name and remember it. In my kumpania, your name will always be spoken."

"Thank you." Hyacinthe clasped his wrist, hard and firm. "And yours."

"The great trade of outermost west." Neci gazed at the sea, the waves breaking on the shore. "It is true. It will make our lav." He bowed to me. "And you, chavi, who was never born in a back alley, else I am a fool. We will remember you, too."

"Thank you." I kissed him, on the cheek. "Be kind to women without laxta, then, if you would remember me."

"I will remember you in my dreams." His white grin flashed, and he turned to stride back to his family, waving a last farewell.

"It’s not too late," I said to Hyacinthe.

He gazed out at the sea, rippling silver in the dusk. "What did Rousse say? Maybe he’s right. The Long Road doesn’t end where the sea begins. If anyone is to cross it, it should be the Prince of Travellers, yes?"

"Yes," I said, tucking one hand around his arm. We watched the sea together, endless and amazing, moving without cease. "If we’re not still here when de Morhban comes," I added, spotting the unmistakable figure of Quintilius Rousse pacing the shore, pausing and staring out at his fleet.

"No," Hyacinthe said certainly. "He’ll go. He has to. One ship; I saw it." He was silent a moment, then asked drolly, "And how was the dear Duc de Morhban, anyway?"

"You really want to know?" I glanced up at his starlit face.

He laughed. "Why not? I always did."

"Good," I said, looking back at the sea. "The Duc de Morhban was very, very good."

"I thought so. You had that look." Hyacinthe wound a lock of my hair around one finger. "I’m not afraid of it, you know," he said softly. "What you are."

"No?" I touched Melisande’s diamond. "I am."

We went back, then, to Rousse’s encampment, and I left Hyacinthe to go speak with the Admiral, still pacing the shoreline like an angry lion, wisely avoided by his men. A gibbous moon had arisen by that time, standing overhead to set a shining path across the sea, as if to show where the Long Road lay. "My lord," I said, kneeling near him. The sand was cool and damp beneath me. Quintilius Rousse turned on me, glaring.

"Ah, don’t waste your Night Court decorum on me, girl! I’ve a hard choice to make here."

"Yes, my lord," I said, remaining on my knees. "To obey the Crown, or not."