Kushiel's Mercy
Page 14

“I’m sure we will,” Sidonie agreed, and I had to stifle a laugh.
All throughout the day, the Palace bustled with activity. Tribute-gifts were carted and displayed in the great hall, dignitaries, horologists, soldiers, and slaves were lodged, tables were laid, harried servants hurried on endless errands. There was to be a grand fête that night with over a hundred peers of the realm, a handful of Cruithne, and all of the Carthaginian dignitaries and horologists attending. Astegal had expressed the hope that he and Ysandre would share a drink from the carnelian chalice, pledging one another’s health and toasting to the shared future of our nations. He had also promised one final tribute-gift, a surprise not listed in the manifest and kept veiled until the fête.
“Do you truly intend to prowl the Night Court with him?” Sidonie asked in the bath, as we began to prepare for the evening’s festivities, enjoying what was likely to be our last time alone together for many hours.
I grinned at her. “Jealous?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Curious.”
“I can play escort without partaking if need be.” I caught her arms and tugged her toward me. Water sloshed over the edges of the tub. “If he’s an agent of the Guild, it may be he’s seeking a private moment.”
Sidonie settled atop me. “What do you make of him?”
“I’m not sure yet.” I clasped her buttocks, shifting her to gain a better angle. She made a small, satisfied sound as I entered her. “You?”
“I don’t know.” Her hips rose and fell, slow and delicious. “I don’t dislike him. I expected to.”
“Just don’t agree to wed him,” I suggested.
Sidonie laughed and kissed me. “I won’t.”
Afterward, clean and dried and dressed in finery, we attended the fête. It was a gorgeous affair, albeit a chaotic one. Very few of the Carthaginians spoke D’Angeline. Punic was their native tongue, although all in attendance spoke Hellene, which was used as a common tongue among traders. Many of the D’Angelines spoke Hellene, but not all, and none of the Cruithne did.
As a result, conversations were difficult, and those of us who did speak Hellene were often forced to do double duty, making introductions and translating. My Hellene was good; one advantage of being Phèdre nó Delaunay’s foster-son was that I’d been taught to read and speak in a number of tongues. Still, it was exhausting, and I will own I felt relieved when a plump Carthaginian fellow hovering near the veiled treasure introduced himself to me in D’Angeline.
“I am Jabnit of the House of Philosir,” he announced with an exacting little bow. “And I have already learned you are Prince Imriel. Well met, your highness.”
“Well met, my lord,” I replied.
“Oh, no lord!” His black eyes twinkled. “Merely a well-connected merchant.” Jabnit patted his considerable belly. “Well-connected and well-fed.”
“Too well-fed,” a light voice said in amusement.
“Sunjata!” The merchant glanced around. “Come meet the prince.”
A young Nubian man stepped around him and bowed gracefully. He was of middling height and slender, with plum-dark skin and gently rounded features. “It is an honor, your highness.”
“Sunjata is my assistant.” Jabnit patted his shoulder with the same comfortable familiarity with which he’d patted his own stomach. “Tell the prince of our role in this venture. I spy a servant with a laden platter of delicacies.”
“Who will care for me if you stuff your belly to bursting, you old glutton?” Sunjata asked, but there was fondness in it. “Go, go.”
“Your role?” I asked politely as the merchant waddled away.
“The House of Philosir provided the gems for the gift to be unveiled this evening.” Sunjata looked at me under his lashes. “At a considerable discount, for the privilege of being part of this excursion. But surely you cannot be interested in that.”
Somewhat in his manner, in the smoothness of his skin, in the light timbre of his voice struck an old chord of memory in me. I had known eunuchs in Daršanga.
My reaction was subtle, but Sunjata read it. “Ah, yes,” he said with a seeming ease that didn’t quite belie the bitterness beneath it. “There is something we share in common, is there not? I too fell into the hands of Carthage’s slavers as a boy. Only in my case, the effects were more . . . lasting.”
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.
His slender shoulders moved in a shrug. “I don’t begrudge you your manhood. ’Tis no fault of yours that mine was taken. And I am a free man these past few years, insofar as I may call myself a man. Jabnit is a fair patron.” He gazed after the merchant, then back at me. “And I am rude and insolent,” he said, putting out his hand. “Thank you for your kindness.”
I took his hand. “Of course.”
He squeezed my hand, his thumb pressing on mine. I glanced down involuntarily. Sunjata sported a silver signet ring on his thumb, a lamp carved on the seal. “Perhaps we will speak again later,” he said, releasing my hand. With one deft, unobtrusive gesture, he twisted the ring, hiding the seal against his palm.
I met his gaze. “I would like that.”
For the balance of the evening, my thoughts were in a whirl. Exactly what I had expected of the Unseen Guild, I couldn’t say, but it wasn’t a eunuch in the employ of a gem-merchant.
And the night only got stranger.
A sumptuous meal was served, although I ate without tasting, distracted by my own thoughts and the sight of Astegal, several seats away, paying court to Sidonie in a manner light-handed enough to be inoffensive. She was being pleasant without encouraging him. Elua knows, it wasn’t that I was worried about her loyalties, but I was on edge, and it only made me edgier.
Fortunately, I was seated across from the Chief Horologist, who spun a tale compelling enough to prevent anyone from noticing my distraction. He was a kinsman of Astegal’s; Bodeshmun was his name. Another tall fellow, older, grave, and serious, with deep-set eyes and a long black beard. In a sonorous voice, he described the promised marvel, in which twelve silver-backed mirrors were to be placed around the walls of the City, and one great mirror in the very center.
“When the moon is wholly obscured,” he said, “the light is such that when one gazes into the great mirror, one sees reflected all that is hidden between the stars.”
“Why not simply gaze at the sky itself?” Tibault de Toluard inquired, knitting his brows in perplexity. He was a Siovalese lord with a considerable knowledge of science. “Why use a mirror? Surely a reflection is less true than the thing itself.”
Bodeshmun turned his head. “Silver has the quality of revealing much that is hidden. Have you not found it to be so?”
“Not especially,” the Marquis de Toluard said frankly.
The horologist smiled into his beard. “You will.”
“What may we expect to see, my lord?” Roxanne de Mereliot, the Lady of Marsilikos, asked with interest.
“Ah, no!” Bodeshmun laughed deep in his chest. “I will not spoil the surprise, my lady. Let the secrets of the cosmos reveal themselves.”
After the meal was concluded, at least one secret was revealed. Ysandre, good-natured, acceded to Astegal’s request, at least in part. They both drank to one another’s health from the carnelian chalice, although she stopped short of toasting the shared future of Carthage and Terre d’Ange. Astegal seemed pleased nonetheless. He called for the veiled treasure to be brought forth. The silk draped over the large square frame was whisked away to reveal what appeared at first glance to be a painting in a gilded frame.
A painting that glittered.
Not pigment, but ground gems in pure form, used with exacting care. It depicted a tall, black-haired man with a scarlet beard and a blonde woman, standing before a tree, their hands clasped in friendship.
“Thank you, my lord,” Ysandre said, sounding surprised. “It is surpassingly lovely.”
Astegal bowed. “As are you and your land, your majesty.”
I glanced down the table toward where Phèdre was seated. In the midst of this polyglot mayhem, I’d not had a chance to speak with her or Joscelin all night. Her head was tilted and she wore a faint, familiar frown, as though she were listening for the strains of a distant sound no one else could hear. But when I caught her eye, she merely shook her head, perplexed.
I knew the feeling.
The gem-painting was placed on an easel in a position of honor. The tables had been cleared of all plates and platters, but the wine and cordial flowed freely. And I found myself approached for a second time that evening.
“Prince Imriel.” A hawk-nosed Carthaginian I’d not met earlier approached. He bowed deeply, addressing me in Hellene. “I am Gillimas of the House of Hiram, magistrate to the Council of Thirty.” He placed a gilded, gem-studded coffer on the table. “It is our wish to present this small token to you in acknowledgment of the unpleasantness you endured at the hands of our countrymen.”
“Thank you, my lord,” I said.
He shrugged. “A small token. The wood is cypress from the isle of Cythera.”
“Cythera?” I echoed.
“The fragrance alone tells the tale,” Gillimas said.
I opened the coffer. The inner lid was also worked in gold, but the coffer itself was bare wood. The scent of cypress wafted out, and from the inside of the lid, the image of a lamp leapt out at me. Both caught at my memories. A barrel outside an incense-maker’s shop, Canis the beggar giving me a clay medallion with a lamp on it.
“Very nice,” I said slowly.
“Oh, it is nothing, nothing.” Gillimas made a dismissive gesture. “A mere token, fit for storing letters.”
I ran my fingers over the edge of the coffer’s lid, feeling for hidden messages. There were none. “It gives a pleasant aroma.”
“The cypresses of Cythera are legendary,” he agreed. “Have you been there?”
“To Cythera?” I shook my head. “No.”
Gillimas favored me with a careless smile. “Mayhap you should go.”
I closed the lid. “My thanks. I’ll think on it.”
His smile deepened. “Do.”
The evening wore on and on, into the small hours. I did my part, conversing pleasantly in several tongues with myriad people, trying to collect my reeling thoughts. Out of the corner of my eye, I kept a lookout for the eunuch Sunjata, but it seemed he had been present only to attend his merchant-patron. All along the edges of the great hall, Carthaginian treasure sparkled. Ysandre had pledged to divide it among the members of Parliament.
Everyone was happy.
My skin crawled.
I wanted . . . what? I didn’t know. I wanted a moment alone with Gillimas, with Sunjata, a chance to shake the truth from them. I got neither. I wanted to talk to Phèdre. Cythera. It made sense. A small isle, but it had been ruled in its time by many different folk. Hellas. Ephesium. I’d never been able to place Canis’ accent, his history. It had held somewhat of both.
Gillimas made sense as a member of the Guild.
So who the hell was Sunjata?
“So?” In her chambers, in the bed we shared, Sidonie propped herself on one elbow and regarded me, her unbound hair falling over her shoulders. “Did you learn aught this evening?”
“Sun Princess,” I murmured, running a lock through my fingers. “Yes and no. I’m confused.”
“Don’t worry.” She bowed her head, her hair trailing over my skin, her lips tracing a line of kisses along the pink scars that furrowed my torso. “Sleep. We’ll sort it out in the morning, you and I.”
Love.
Loss.
My fingers tightened on her. “Gods, I hope so.”
Sidonie yawned, settling her head on my shoulder, fitting her body to mine, where it belonged. “We will.”
“Please,” I whispered, wrapping her in my arms. “Ah, Elua. Please.”
Eleven
“Cythera,” Phèdre said. “Interesting.”
“Is it?” Joscelin asked.
“Ptolemy Dikaios’ wife was Cytheran,” she reminded him. “And we know Melisande was in league with him.”
Joscelin eyed her. “You do keep an ungodly amount of information stored in that beautiful head, love.”
“Precious little else regarding Cythera, I’m afraid,” she said. “Except that it’s an Akkadian holding. Mayhap the Khalif will prove willing to assist us.”
“Assuming my mother actually is there,” I said. “Elua! I wish these damned people would speak plainly.”
After talking with Sidonie, I’d sent a polite message to Gillimas asking if he could tell me aught more about the coffer’s history. I’d received a prompt, polite message in reply saying no, he was unable to tell me more, but if I wished, he would be honored to speak with me regarding any other matter. And I’d sent a message to Sunjata asking if I could meet with him regarding a commission of gem-stones, and received a polite reply saying that he and his employer were busy assisting the horologists with their preparations, but that he would be honored to meet with me after the spectacle, which was to take place three days hence.
It was enough to drive me mad.
“I’ll see what I can learn about Cythera,” Phèdre promised.
“Be discreet,” I said.
She laughed. “Aren’t I always?”
“Send Ti-Philippe down to the wharf taverns to sound out Rousse’s sailor-lads,” Joscelin suggested. “He’s always glad of a chance to drink and dice with sailors, and they trade gossip from ports all over the world. Since all of Terre d’Ange knows we’re trying to find Melisande, no one will find it suspicious, although he might want to get them good and drunk before he steers the conversation toward Cythera.”