Kushiel's Mercy
Page 60

The council met at the same long table in the great hall, but this was an open meeting with the hall filled with onlookers, murmurs rising to the rafters. Serafin motioned for us to be seated facing the council, our backs to the throng.
“My lords, ladies, and gentlefolk,” he announced. “I am Serafin L’Envers y Aragon. In the abdication of Roderico de Aragon, the absence of ranking nobility and with the blessing of my father, I have assumed command here. Does anyone wish to gainsay this?”
No one did.
“Very good.” Serafin laid both hands on the table. “We are here to debate the merits of two grave issues. One is the possibility of assisting our kinswoman, the Dauphine Sidonie de la Courcel, in escaping Amíl-car and fleeing to Terre d’Ange. The other is the prospect of seeking an alliance with the Euskerri with her aid. I believe both issues possess the potential for desirable outcomes that outweigh the risks and costs. Here is my reasoning.”
Serafin made his case in strong, calm terms, better than I would have reckoned, explaining that unless the balance of power tipped, Amílcar would eventually be forced to surrender. That this was a long chance, but it was a chance. I’d called him intemperate, but he had some of his mother’s cool-headed competence in him. The crowd listened to him in silence.
After he spoke, one of the opposing members was given a chance to address the council and the crowd: Rafael de Barbara. He was an older Aragonian lord with a dignified bearing and a tutored rhetorical style. He spoke of Sidonie’s youth and lack of experience in terms that were at once disparaging and sympathetic, reminding everyone that with Terre d’Ange in disarray, its heir was in no position to negotiate with the Eus-kerri for safe passage over the border, let alone a major treaty.
“So send your own ambassador,” I muttered. Sidonie hushed me.
Rafael de Barbara held the floor for a long time, recounting the long history of animosity between the Euskerri and Aragonia, culminating in recent battles. He reminded them that when the most recent skirmishes had erupted, Terre d’Ange’s only concern was that it not spill over the border into Siovale. And he finished by urging them not to undertake a desperate measure that would destroy the very realm in the process of attempting to save it. At that, there was scattered applause.
When he had finished, Serafin’s father, Ramiro Zornín de Aragon spoke out in support of the plan, confirming his belief that other cities would seize the opportunity to rise up against Astegal. He wasn’t eloquent, but he was precise, with names and facts and figures at his disposal. I saw Lady Nicola smile with quiet pride.
After Ramiro, there was another opposing member, an undistinguished, mousy fellow who made many of the same points as Rafael, only with less skill. Still, I could hear murmurs of agreement in the crowd behind me. I wished I could turn in my seat and gauge their faces.
General Liberio, the grizzled veteran, followed him. He stood to speak. “What we are facing is a choice between a slow loss or a desperate victory,” he said bluntly. “In my opinion, this can be done. And we can use it to our advantage.” He pointed one thick finger at Sidonie. “What is the one thing we need to draw away some of Carthage’s forces? A bait Astegal cannot resist. His wife.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. I hadn’t considered that.
At my side, Sidonie met Liberio’s gaze without flinching.
She’d considered it.
The instant Liberio sat, the last opponent was on his feet, Jimeno de Ferrer, the youngest of the council. “Precisely,” he spat. “Astegal’s wife. Serafin, I know she is your kinswoman, but can you ask us to trust to this tale of madness and parlor tricks? If there’s an ounce of truth to it, it’s that an impetuous young woman agreed to an ill-advised marriage. Now she seeks to flee home. Shall we spend precious Aragonian lives to help her?” Jimeno shook his head. “I think not. And I think there is no more to the tale than that.”
He sat to mixed applause.
Serafin nodded at Sidonie. “You may speak.”
She rose and inclined her head toward the council, then walked to the corner of the table, turning so she could address council and crowd alike. “What is more likely, my lords and ladies?” she asked. “That I am a fickle bride, or that half of Terre d’Ange was plunged overnight into madness and betrayal for no reason whatsoever?”
There was a tense, waiting silence. Sidonie let it stretch until I could feel my heart thudding in my chest.
“I have spoken to the council of the spell that bound us,” she said at last. “Hear now of my first suspicion that somewhat dire was amiss. I had ventured out to make an offering at the temple of Tanit. As I returned through the streets of Carthage, I overheard my guards directing my bearers to turn aside lest our route take us through the slave-market. At that moment, I began to know fear.”
She swept her gaze over them, letting it rest last on Jimeno de Ferrer.
“Prince Imriel told me later what I would have seen there,” Sidonie continued. “What he saw. Aragonian folk taken as spoils of war at the sack of New Carthage, sold into slavery. A ten-year-old boy. There was a noblewoman looking for a pretty child to adorn her household. She declined to purchase him because he didn’t speak Hellene. There was no way to determine whether or not he was sufficiently biddable.”
There were hisses, but they were meant for Carthage, not her.
“That is the war you are fighting, my lords and ladies,” she said steadily. “That is the opponent you face. Amílcar has resisted Astegal. The siege has only just begun and your spirits are high. But there is no help coming from any quarter. None. And if none comes, week after week, month after month, your spirits will gutter. You will face the slow loss of which General Liberio spoke. Amílcar will be forced to surrender. When it does, Astegal will not be merciful.”
“What if we surrender now?” Jimeno challenged her. “Others have accepted his terms.” He smiled, thin-lipped. “And we’ve something to offer in exchange. You and your paramour.”
A gabble of comment arose. Sidonie waited it out until they fell silent once more, awaiting her reply.
“Yes,” she said mildly. “You could do that, my lord. It may even be that Astegal would be merciful for that price. And Aragonia as you know it would cease to be. You would become a Carthaginian vassal state, subject to Carthage’s laws, Carthage’s customs, Carthage’s demands for tribute. Astegal’s rule and whims. Is that your desire?”
There was a roar of protest.
“It’s no one’s wish,” Serafin assured her.
“Then what cost are you willing to bear for freedom?” Sidonie asked, raising her voice, clear and carrying. “Is the cost of a sovereign Euskerria too high? It is a minor territory that the Euskerri have inhabited time out of mind and will continue to do. Will Aragonia truly be destroyed if a small chunk of land is gouged out of its holdings?” She faced the council directly and let the silk shawl slip from her shoulders onto the floor. “I did not think so when I paid the price for my freedom.”
The crowd broke into pandemonium, stamping and shouting. Sidonie turned to acknowledge them, and I saw Serafin catch his breath. I twisted in my seat to see that she’d had the back of her gown cut low enough to reveal the still-raw wound, proof of her tale.
It was a long time before order was restored. Sidonie took her seat quietly. I retrieved her shawl, settling it over her shoulders.
“Enough!” Serafin finally succeeded in shouting the crowd silent. “Has anyone aught else to say?” he asked the council. No one moved. If any of the others yet opposed it, they weren’t willing to follow Sidonie’s performance. “Shall we vote?”
Another outburst erupted.
“We want a voice!” someone shouted.
“Give us a voice!”
Ramiro leaned over and whispered to his son, who nodded in agreement.
“Forgive me,” Serafin said in a low voice. “But this is an Aragonian matter, and I think it must be decided by Aragonians. It’s going to be mayhem if you stay. Let us have this debate, let the people have their say, and let the council vote. I will send word.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Sidonie rose, and I accompanied her.
“Wait!” Rafael de Barbara said sharply. “I note that you did not address my concerns regarding your fitness as an emissary, young highness.”
She met his gaze. “Did I not?”
He gave a sour smile. “That was a cheap theatrical gesture at the end.”
“Indeed.” Sidonie inclined her head. “I would not have resorted to it were there not urgent need. I would expect a man of your rhetorical skill to understand.”
We left the great hall unescorted; no one wanted to leave the debate. A guard closed the doors behind us, and we could hear a fresh clamor arise.
“Gods.” Sidonie shuddered. “What do you think?”
“I think you swayed the crowd. And I pray the crowd sways the council.” I cupped her face in my hands and kissed her. “I think you were splendid. Sidonie, if they fail to aid us, it can be through no fault of yours.”
“I did my best,” she murmured. “Cheap theatrics and all.”
“You were splendid,” I repeated. “And later, we can discuss this matter of serving as bait if they accede.”
She gave me a tired smile. “How else did you suppose Astegal might be persuaded to divert his forces?”
I sighed. “I hadn’t thought on it.”
“Pray we get the chance,” Sidonie said soberly.
Fifty-Six
There was no word forthcoming that afternoon or evening. We stayed awake late into the night, hoping to hear. The chirurgeon Rachel came to examine Sidonie’s injury, decreeing at last that it might be bandaged and covered, but she had no news. I fell asleep at length with Sidonie in my arms, waking briefly at the sound of her murmuring the word emmenghanom in her sleep.
Later I was told the debate raged late and long. After the commonfolk had given voice to their wishes and the council had voted, members were up until the small hours, hammering out details of the agreement they reached and laying the foundations of a plan.
We didn’t find out what it was until Serafin sent for us.
Along with General Liberio, Serafin received us in the quarters that had once belonged to the Count of Amílcar. His violet eyes were bleary for lack of sleep, his face looking creased and older. Liberio was the fresher of the two. As an old military hand, I daresay he had experience doing without sleep. Sidonie appeared calm, but I could sense the tension in her.
“Tell us what was decided,” she said. “Please.”
Serafin yawned. “Forgive me. In principle, everyone more or less came to agreement, with a notable exception or two. ’Tis too valuable a chance to waste. And yet, ’tis too desperate a chance on which to risk much.”
“What does that mean?” I asked warily.
He tossed a sheaf of paper at Sidonie. “Read.”
She skimmed it briefly. “It’s a charter granting sovereignty to Euskerria.”
Serafin nodded. “Of course, it’s contingent on their full support against Carthage. And my continued regency.”
Ambition, I thought.
Sidonie glanced up. “Will I be representing you as well as Terre d’Ange, then?”
“Therein lies the ‘more or less’.” Serafin smiled wryly. “Yes. All the necessary assurances are in the charter. We’ll do our best to give you a chance. What you make of it is up to you.” He gestured. “The both of you.”
“You sound as though you’re sending us off on our own, unaided and alone,” I observed.
Serafin and Liberio exchanged a look. “Nearly,” Serafin admitted. “You’ll be assigned a guide, of course.”
“Imriel, me, and a guide?” Sidonie asked flatly. “That’s all?”
General Liberio cleared his throat. “Your highness, I’d send an entire squadron if I thought they could protect you. I don’t. Astegal knows that you’re here and he knows you’re desperate to get to Terre d’Ange. The moment we send out a sortie, he’s going to be on the alert. This escape can succeed by only one of three means.” He ticked them off on his thick fingers. “Strength, speed, or guile. We don’t have the strength. He’s already routed this army once. If we had the numbers to meet him on the battlefield a second time, I’d have done it.”
“What about speed?” I asked, remembering what I’d seen atop the battlements. “Astegal’s got his cavalry pinned behind his infantry, trapped between two rivers. They’ll have to get through their own defenses to reach us.”
Liberio gave me an approving look. “True. However . . .” He reached for a sketch on Serafin’s desk. “There’s an embankment here, and defensive trenches here and here. The bridge across the Barca River lies here, between the trenches. Astegal’s cavalry will have to pass the embankment and a trench to reach it, but you’ll have to cross a trench, too. We’re still working out that part.”
I studied the sketch. “So we’ll not have much of a lead.”
“No,” he said bluntly. “And every mount in Amílcar’s been on siege rations for the past weeks. Unless I miss my guess, Astegal will send his Amazigh after you. Those desert-bred horses they ride are swift, hardy, and well-fed. I don’t like your chances in a foot-race.”
“So where does guile come into play, my lord general?” Sidonie inquired.
“Ah.” Liberio nodded. “We mean to capture and hold the nearest trench long enough to get a small mounted company across it and over the bridge. Half of them will scatter, bound for the cities Ramiro discussed. The other half, with you among them, will race northward.” He exchanged the sketch for a map and traced a line. “Astegal will expect you to make for the nearest pass. They will. But you’ll take your leave of them before his cavalry catches you and make your way secretly through the mountains to Roncal.” He tapped the map. “Here. It’s a Euskerri stronghold with a pass beyond.”