Kushiel's Mercy
Page 29

“Have you questions?” she asked me.
I shook my head, chewing vigorously. “Have you advice?”
“Yes,” she said simply. “Be careful.”
I swallowed a mouthful of cooked eggs and smiled at her. “I will be. I will be the soul of discretion. I will be the perfect courtier, I promise. I will court the D’Angeline princess and make her love me. And I will ferret out all of Carthage’s secrets on your behalf.” I hesitated, glancing around. “Is he here?”
Her throat worked. “Imriel?”
“Yes.” I lowered my voice. “Your brooding son.”
“No.” Her ladyship Melisande Shahrizai de la Courcel shook her head. There were tears—tears!—in her glorious eyes. It made me want to kneel and comfort her. “No, we thought it best if he wasn’t here for this.”
I nodded. “Of course, my lady.”
When we had finished—which was to say, when I had eaten my fill—we departed for the harbor. Everything was in readiness. My mother, who ran her ladyship’s household, had seen to the packing of my things. All my garments were laid in a cedar chest, neatly folded. I embraced her fondly, resting my chin on her head. She returned my embrace awkwardly.
“Don’t be frightened,” I said to her. “All will be well.”
She avoided my gaze. “I’m sure it will.”
“Women, eh?” I said cheerfully to my father, clasping his callused hand. He gave me a grave nod.
“Have a care for yourself,” he murmured.
“I will.” I ruffled my sister’s hair. Darielle, fifteen years of age and deep in her ladyship’s training, wrinkled her nose at me. “You too, brat.”
“You’re the brat,” she retorted.
“No.” I grinned at her. “Today I’m a handsome young D’Angeline lord who happens to be in the service of the Governor of Cythera, and I’m off to pay tribute on his behalf to General Astegal’s poor, lonely young bride.”
We rode in procession down to the harbor, where the Wise Ape’s flagship awaited. Solon was there himself, looking uncommonly sober. I put on a solemn expression, mindful that this was a serious matter. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate the gravity of the situation—all the gods of Terre d’Ange and Cythera knew, one didn’t rise far in her ladyship’s estimation by being frivolous and careless. It was just that I felt like a hawk about to fly free of the tether.
I greeted Solon with a deep bow. “Good day, my lord.”
His apish eminence inclined his head. “Good day, Leander Maignard. I am pleased that you have consented to carry the congratulations of Cythera to Carthage’s young princess. Doubtless it will gladden her heart to see a fellow countryman.”
“I will do my best to convey your goodwill, my lord,” I said gravely. It was all for show, of course, but outside the veil of discretion that existed in her ladyship’s household, one had to be circumspect.
“Captain Deimos has orders to give you every assistance,” Solon said, indicating the man beside him, a tall, lean fellow with piercing eyes. The captain and I exchanged greetings. “The tribute has been loaded.” He smiled faintly. “I trust you will find sufficient funds, gifts, and bribes.”
“I’m sure you’ve been more than generous, my lord,” I said.
Solon handed me a packet of letters. “These are letters of introduction to various Carthaginian lords of my acquaintance. I cannot say of a surety which you will find in residence, and which will have joined Astegal’s campaign.”
“I’m sure it will suffice, my lord,” I replied.
There wasn’t a great deal more to be said. Captain Deimos’ sailors loaded my belongings. Solon glanced at her ladyship. “Have you words in parting?”
Her ladyship stood, tall and splendid as a goddess, and although she’d taught me to read faces, I couldn’t read hers in this moment. For the first time, it struck me—truly struck me—that this was a grave trust indeed. Cythera ran a serious risk in this scheme. If I failed, if I was caught, the consequences could be dire. I was leaving her to wait and worry, while her poor, besotted son chafed at his inactivity and I went off to attempt to seduce the woman he loved.
It made me feel strange in my skin.
“Be safe,” her ladyship said in a low voice. “Nothing more.”
“My lady Melisande,” I said to her, “I swear to you in Blessed Elua’s name that I will make you proud.”
She shook her head. “Just be safe.”
It was a peculiar moment. I took it to be a final warning against taking any unnecessary risks, probably one that was well merited, given my exuberant spirits. I noted it duly.
And then it was time to go.
I boarded the flagship, waving a final farewell to those gathered on the docks. Solon had moved to stand at her ladyship’s side, and though he looked smaller and more wizened than ever next to her, she had laid a hand on his shoulder as though to draw strength from him. It was curious, and it made me feel oddly melancholy.
Then Captain Deimos gave the order to raise the anchor and set to oars, and the ship began to move. Our prow nosed seaward and the harbor began to fall away behind us, taking my melancholy with it.
I was bound for Carthage.
Her ladyship needn’t have warned me against unnecessary exuberance. By the end of our first day at sea, my initial rush of excitement had settled into a more calm, calculating frame of mind. I examined the manifest of tribute that Solon had provided. He really had been generous. Gods above, the old ape doted on her ladyship! A lifetime of caution and restraint, and he was throwing it all to the wind, risking Carthage’s ire—and a considerable amount of money—in a mad scheme like this.
And to whose benefit? That was the part that made me shake my head. Terre d’Ange and its spell-beleaguered Queen, who had insisted on pressing for her ladyship’s execution. Her ladyship’s own son, who, until Carthage struck and he desperately needed her help, had seemed perfectly willing to see her executed if it meant he got to wed his princess.
Yet her ladyship and Solon were aiding him.
Love makes fools of us all, I supposed. Solon loved her ladyship. And she loved her son Imriel, and bore a strong measure of guilt in the bargain. I’d heard the tales of what he’d suffered as a child, and I had to own, it sounded awful.
One had to wonder about him.
I knew what slavery had done to Sunjata. It had made him bitter. And as much as I loved his caustic wit, there were times when I wondered what he would have been like if he’d not been taken. He’d come from a line of warriors. He remembered his father dressing for battle, tall and strong, laughing deep in his chest. Teaching him to throw a spear, to lift his heavy shield. I knew how much it hurt Sunjata that that had been taken from him. One skirmish gone awry, and his father was dead and he’d become chattel.
Imriel . . . Imriel was different.
Well, of course he hadn’t been gelded. Two quick cuts of a slaver’s knife, and good-bye to the ballocks. Small wonder Sunjata was bitter. He’d been eleven years old. But from what I’d heard about the mad ruler of Drujan, Imriel had cause of his own to harbor soul-twisting bitterness, ballocks or no. And I hadn’t sensed that in him.
Anger, yes. Of course he was angry. Either Astegal of Carthage had stolen his beloved, or he’d been unexpectedly thwarted in playing a very, very deep game to place himself on the throne of Terre d’Ange. I wondered which was true. If it was the latter, he played it very well.
But then, he was her ladyship’s son.
Such were the intriguing puzzles that occupied my mind during my voyage to Carthage.
I pored over the manifest, making notes in my mind about which items were suitable for what purpose. Good hard coin was always suitable for a bribe, and I’d need a fair bit of it to set myself up with a decent household. There were various baubles and trinkets that might suffice for lesser personages. I might need them to gain access. Access to the Dauphine Sidonie, access to the magus Bodeshmun. Access, in time, to Astegal himself. I went over the things that Solon had told me.
So much to be done.
There was a very fine chess set listed in the manifest, with jeweled pieces of onyx and ivory. That, I decided, was meant for the princess. It was an excellent opening gambit. Once the opportunity to present it was established, I could offer to match wits with her and enjoy a game together.
Sidonie.
My thoughts kept returning to her. I couldn’t help but wonder what she was like. Weak-minded, I thought. Surely, to fall so thoroughly under the influence of her ladyship’s son—and then to abandon him for Astegal—she must be weak-minded.
Well and good.
Weakness could be plied, most especially when it failed to know itself. In Astegal’s absence, I would ply her. I would woo her. I would find her fault-lines and break her wide open, gently turning her against herself—or at least against Bodeshmun’s spell. After all, it was for her own good, more or less.
Gods, that was an intoxicating thought.
And Imriel deserved it.
That was another thought I’d never dare voice in his presence—nor her ladyship’s. It was true, though. What manner of son sought his own mother’s life? Oh, I knew what she’d done, or at least what the world claimed she had done. They didn’t grasp the scope of her vision. And Melisande Shahrizai had kept her word, at least to the Maignard clan. The rest of the world couldn’t claim as much. When her ladyship gave her word, she meant it.
Always.
“I will make you proud, my lady,” I vowed aloud.
And to myself, I vowed silently that I would succeed on my own terms. I liked, very much, the idea of being the lynch-pin of this mad scheme. The thought of bringing down Carthage single-handedly made me shiver to the marrow of my bones. But too, I relished the thought of cuckolding Imriel de la Courcel. Of exposing him as a hypocrite, mayhap even excising her ladyship’s single weakness. Him.
Once I had ensconced myself betwixt the Dauphine’s thighs, that would do it. I’d strip her bare of Astegal’s token. I’d claim her, albeit temporarily, for my own. I’d plunder her to the core and make her mine. I’d been taught the arts of the bedchamber. I was of Kushiel’s bloodline, albeit not so pure a strain. I would make her crave me, bend her pliable will. I’d leave my own mark on her.
Of that, at least, I was sure.
The only thing I couldn’t fathom was why the thought made my heart ache.
That made no sense at all.
Twenty-Five
“Carthage!”
The cry came from the crow’s nest, was taken up aboard the ship. Captain Deimos flung out one lean-muscled arm, pointing the way.
“Carthage,” he echoed.
It was an elaborate harbor; and well it ought to be, since Carthage sought to dominate the western world. We showed our papers, and after they’d been examined for a long, hard time, we were granted passage and glided into the wide canal that led to the harbor proper, going to oars.
I craned my neck.
Carthage.
I’d heard the gossip. Carthage was a walled city, her earliest walls built to withstand a Tiberian invasion centuries ago, added to many times. I hadn’t credited the size of those walls. I had to own, I nearly goggled at the sight. They were at least fifty feet tall, and there were entire garrisons built into them. There were stables that housed elephants, by the Goddess. Astegal may have taken Carthage’s fleet and the bulk of its army overseas, but he’d hardly left her ill defended. I couldn’t imagine anyone assailing those walls.
“Big place,” Captain Deimos remarked.
“That it is,” I agreed. “I’ll need to take lodgings in the finest inn Carthage offers, at least until I can arrange for a proper household.”
He nodded. “I’ll speak to the harbor-master.”
What a pleasure it was to have so many of Cythera’s resources at my disposal! I leaned on the ship’s rail, gazing at the city, which spilled down a steep hill toward the sea. There were temples, an immense bath-house, an amphitheater. No great palace, merely villas that grew finer and finer the farther up the hill they were. Of course, Carthage was an oligarchy, lacking a single ruler; although as I understood it, Astegal’s appointment as General gave him a tremendous amount of power.
But Astegal wasn’t here.
I wondered which of the villas belonged to the House of Sarkal. I was eager to pay tribute to Astegal’s young wife, left to languish while her martial husband went off to conquer Aragonia. And I wondered how that venture was going.
Well, there was one way to find out. While Deimos spoke with the harbor-master, I disembarked and strolled the docks, getting used to the feeling of solid ground beneath my feet once more. There was a group of sailors dicing in the shadow of a Carthaginian ship.
“Greetings, lads,” I said to them in Hellene. I untied the strings of my purse and fetched out a silver coin. “What’s the news out of Aragonia?”
They glanced up at me with suspicion. “A D’Angeline asks?” one said.
I shrugged. “Not exactly. I’m a long-time exile in the service of the Governor of Cythera. We’ve got no dog in this fight.”
“General Astegal routed the Aragonian fleet at New Carthage,” the sailor said, putting out his hand. “He’s occupied the city.”
“Huh.” I put the coin in his grimy palm. “Any indication Aragonia means to surrender?”
“Nah.” The sailor shook his head. “Army’s withdrawn to the north. Looks like a long slog.”
“My thanks.” I fished out another coin. “What of Terre d’Ange?”