Kushiel's Mercy
Page 38

I gazed at myself in the mirror before I departed for her villa. What I’d told Sunjata was true; there was a resemblance between the prince and me, at least a bit. I remembered his face well, as it was so much the mirror of her ladyship’s. Mine was thinner, more aquiline. My eyes were blue, but I hadn’t inherited that deep, dazzling hue that marked so many of House Shahrizai.
I looked older than I remembered.
Older, and more . . . intense. I wondered if it strengthened the resemblance between us. And I wondered, if it did, could she ever come to love me in his stead?
I reached out and touched the mirror, bracing my fingertips against its cool surface. Gazed at my mirror-fingertips touching my own. “Blessed Elua,” I murmured. “I’ve been away so long, I scarce remember how to pray to you.”
Somewhat in my heart stirred. Memories of home. Of fields of lavender and bees buzzing under the golden sun. Drowsing on my belly before our household shrine, the scent of sweet-peas in the air. Elua’s enigmatic smile offered in loving benison.
Be worthy of her.
The words floated through my mind, and whether they came from the depths of my unconscious thoughts, or Blessed Elua himself, I couldn’t say. I only knew that my eyes stung. “I’ll try,” I whispered. “Whatever else happens, I will try.”
I presented myself at the villa as dusk was settling over the city. It was the first time the princess had invited me to dine with her. The steward escorted me to an inner courtyard. It was hung about with oil lamps providing a soft illumination, set with multiple braziers to chase off the evening chill. Sidonie was there, clad in the pale yellow gown in which I’d first seen her. She turned her head as I entered, and our eyes met.
I bowed to her. “Your beauty outshines the sun, Princess.”
The words hung between us, echoing strangely. Her eyes brightened as though with tears, and mine stung again. Worthy. I would try to be worthy. I watched her gather herself.
“If you flirt overmuch, I shall have to send you away, Messire Maignard,” she said in a cool tone.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the Amazigh positioned against a vine-decked courtyard wall, his robed and veiled figure almost invisible in the dim light. “I will try to restrain myself, your highness.”
She smiled slightly. “Then you may join me.”
We sat opposite one another at the dining table. Servants came and went, bringing wine and an array of dishes. Sidonie’s manner was guarded and careful in a way I couldn’t quite fathom. It was subtle and inexplicable, somewhat only a Guildsman might notice. I made innocuous conversation, speaking of Cythera’s fine wines, praising the dishes, inventing delicacies allegedly devised by my late father the chef and describing them in detail. She listened and made all the appropriate comments.
It looked and sounded like a perfectly normal, pleasant conversation. I couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t.
“Will you have a cordial?” Sidonie asked when the meal was finished and the last plate had been cleared. “There is perry brandy, imported from Terre d’Ange.”
“I would be delighted,” I said.
A servant approached and poured. “Astegal is thoughtful.” She swirled her cup, and a sweet, spicy aroma arose. “He saw to it that I enjoyed a few comforts of home. To be honest, I think he has a taste for it himself. I remembered today that there was a keg in the cellar.” She sipped her perry brandy. “Do you like it?”
I tried it. “It’s very nice.”
“It was distilled on the estate of Lombelon,” Sidonie said. “A very small holding owned by a minor lord. Maslin de Lombelon. He served as the second in command of my personal guard for a time.”
“It’s very nice,” I repeated, trying to steer the conversation away from Terre d’Ange. “On Cythera, there is a cordial made from the skins of grapes—”
Her gaze held mine, intense and compelling. “Do you know, Leander, I have been remiss over these past few days. I addressed you in Hellene as an emissary of Cythera. I never thought to inquire . . .” She switched to the D’Angeline tongue. “Do you speak D’Angeline?”
“Yes, of course.” I replied in kind, startled. “It was what we spoke at home.”
Her voice was light and careless, speaking D’Angeline. “Why do you discourage me from speaking of Terre d’Ange? And why is it, do you suppose, that my guards insisted on routing us around the slave-market yesterday? What did they fear I might see?”
There was a movement in the shadows. I glanced past Sidonie to see the Amazigh on guard lift one hand, his finger wagging in warning. I was not to speak words he did not comprehend.
“I cannot answer you safely.” I made myself stumble over the words in D’Angeline, then laughed and shook my head. “I’m sorry, your highness,” I said, returning to Hellene. “I know it’s my mother-tongue, but I’ve scarce spoken it since I was a babe. Do you mind overmuch if we continue to converse in Hellene?”
“Not at all.” Her gaze was perfectly steady. “I was merely trying to be polite.”
Oh, gods.
So that was what this was about, that was what she had heard. The guards had been careless, forgetting she was studying Punic. That was why Bodeshmun was worried about our excursion. Yes, I thought; Sidonie de la Courcel would be disturbed at the sight of Aragonian children for sale in Carthage’s flesh markets. And well she should be. Terre d’Ange did not countenance slavery, that was true. And she was in love with a man who’d been abducted as a child by Carthaginian slavers. Likely it would strike a chord within her.
Like the boy I’d seen.
Is he biddable?
I shivered.
“Are you cold, Leander?” Sidonie asked. “Forgive me, I forget you come from a warmer clime than I do.”
“No,” I said hoarsely. “Not cold.”
I wanted to tell her. I wanted to confess everything. Smash the glass. I didn’t dare, not in front of the Amazigh. I had to continue balancing on my high ledge. But everything had shifted. She knew. She knew I wasn’t what I seemed. Damned guards! I stared helplessly at her, willing her to understand. Fearful that she understood too much.
“I do not mean to bedevil you. Perhaps I should seek answers elsewhere,” she mused aloud. “My lord Bodeshmun is a clever fellow.”
“Yes,” I said. “And a busy one. I myself would not trouble him.”
Her quick gaze flicked to mine. “You advise against it?”
I was sweating. I felt my control lapse. I looked involuntarily in the direction of the Amazigh. Thanks to all the gods that were, he wasn’t a Guildsman. And neither was Sidonie, but she had been trained very, very well in the art of statesmanship. It might as well have been the same. She saw where my glance went.
“I do,” I said.
She inclined her head. “Then I’ll not trouble him.” She paused, her gaze searching my face. “My lord Astegal will send for me soon. No doubt all will be clear when he does.”
I gritted my teeth. “No doubt.”
So near, yet so far! Gods, it was infuriating. And exhausting, too. By the time I took my leave of her that night, I felt as though I’d run a distance-race. The only solace I could take from the encounter was that she was cautious. Very cautious. And right now, that was a damned good thing. Because once she started voicing her suspicions aloud to Bodeshmun or Astegal or anyone in their service, she was in danger of changing from unwitting pawn to hostage.
And I would be lucky to keep my eyes and tongue.
I slept very poorly that night.
Thirty-Four
It’s finished.” Sunjata handed me a suede pouch. “Take it. I don’t want it anywhere near me.”
I opened the pouch and withdrew a ring. Plain gold, shaped like an intricate knot. “Is it a good copy? Good enough to fool Astegal?”
Sunjata gave me a disdainful look. “What do you think? Of course.”
I kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”
He pulled away slightly. “You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve nearly convinced Jabnit to send me to New Carthage to establish trade for the House of Philosir. The old glutton’s rubbing his hands together with glee at the thought of the profit to be made on the back of a looting army.”
“That’s wonderful!” I was touched. “I didn’t think you’d go.”
He shrugged. “It was Hannon’s idea. He wants Guild eyes and ears on the ground there.” Sunjata smiled sourly. “Hannon’s a tool of the Council of Thirty, and there’s a slow-dawning concern among them that they might not be able to control Astegal once he seizes Aragonia. Not with Bodeshmun at his side.”
“Idiots,” I said absently. “What did they think? So Bodeshmun’s to go to New Carthage, eh?”
“Yes. You’ll have them all in the same place, for what it’s worth. Any progress?” he asked.
“Some.” I sighed. “Dangerous progress.” I told him what had transpired with Sidonie.
Sunjata whistled. “You’re walking a very, very fine line, my friend.”
“I know. I know.” I spread my hands. “I need to talk to her alone. But those damned Amazigh are always there.”
“You could disguise yourself as an Amazigh,” he suggested.
I blinked. “You know, that might come in handy.”
“I was jesting,” Sunjata observed.
“Even so.” I pointed at him. “It’s a potential tool. Never set aside any potential tool that comes to hand, right?”
He shook his head. “I should have kept my mouth shut.”
I ignored the comment. “What about Bodeshmun? I know he keeps the talisman on him, and I suspect I know where. Does he have any other weaknesses I might exploit? Wine? Women? Boys? Opium?”
“No, no, and no,” Sunjata said. “He’s vain, but he’s suspicious and rigid. And he’s not likely to be fooled by a disguise. Leander . . .” He fell silent a moment. “Leander, Bodeshmun’s dangerous. More than the entire College of Horologists put together, and more than Astegal. Hannon’s afraid of him, the Council’s afraid of him, I’m afraid of him. When you move against Bodeshmun, I think you’d best be prepared to kill him. And to fly like hell once you do.”
I frowned at him. “Why didn’t you say this before?”
“I thought you’d give up sooner,” he said flatly.
“Your confidence is touching,” I commented. “Or is it your loyalty I should question?”
“No!” Sunjata’s voice was low and fierce. “Her ladyship gave me my freedom. I would never betray her, no matter how much I doubt the merits of this endeavor.” He looked away. “Let us say that I didn’t expect you to fall in love at a single glance and become filled with noble purpose and determination.” His lips quirked. “Although mayhap I should have known better.” He looked back at me. “Ah. No denial this time?”
“No,” I said quietly. “What I’m feeling . . . I’m not ready to call it love. By the Goddess, I barely know her! But . . .”
“But there it is.” He wrapped his arms around his knees. “Are you seeing her again?”
“Tomorrow.” I laughed. “My good lord Bodeshmun’s arranged for a hunting party outside the city. I’m invited.”
“What?” Sunjata’s voice rose in disbelief. “A hunting party?”
I grinned at him. “I convinced him he’d best find a way to distract her, or she’d begin asking inconvenient questions. And the gods know that’s true enough.”
“Nothing like truth to leaven a good lie.” Sunjata unwound his arms and rose. “Good luck, then. I’ll see you anon.”
Jest or no, I thought Sunjata’s idea had merit. I summoned Ghanim and spun him a tale about wishing to obtain Amazigh garb, explaining that her ladyship kept some traditions of Terre d’Ange and celebrated the Longest Night with a masked fête. Ghanim listened without comment while one of the Carthaginians translated, his fierce gaze fixed on my face. Although I kept my features schooled to perfect sincerity, I had the strong feeling he didn’t believe a word of it.
But to my surprise, Ghanim agreed readily. “There are Amazigh come to the city to trade,” the Carthaginian brother translated. “If you give him money, he will obtain Amazigh garments for you.”
I gave Ghanim the amount he deemed necessary for barter, realizing full well as I did that there was little to keep him from wrapping the veils around his own face to disguise his slave-brand, and escaping.
He pocketed the money and bowed, both hands pressed together.
“I trust your honor,” I said to him.
Ghanim replied without waiting to hear my words in Punic. “Do not insult me,” the Carthaginian translated.
I returned the Amazigh’s salute. “Of course not.”
He was gone the better part of the day. Fortunately, I had no need of my bearers, as I was entertaining one of Lord Solon’s acquaintances within the city that afternoon: Boodes of Hiram, a doddering fellow who was the oldest member of the Council of Thirty. His wits wandered with age, although there were flashes of clarity that suggested why Solon had once counted the man a friend.
“Ptolemy Solon,” Boodes mused. “By the Goddess, he was an ugly lad! Is he still?”
“Not a lad, I fear.” I smiled. “But ugly, yes. Still, he’s a mistress any man would envy.”
The old fellow nodded; then his head slumped, face crumpling into his white beard. I was just beginning to worry when his head snapped upright. “Yes, of course. Your mother, is she not?”