Kushiel's Mercy (13 page)

“What does Rousse say about the risk?” she asked.

I shrugged. “He’s not worried. There are only six ships, lightly armed. He’s got half the Royal Navy holding them at bay. He’s willing to follow them up the Aviline, and recommended Ysandre bring the bulk of the Royal Army inside the walls of the City.”

“I still don’t like it,” Joscelin said.

“Be as that may, my love,” Phèdre observed, “we’re not the ones to choose. We can advise Ysandre to be wary, but Parliament has the final say.”

It was true, but it was also true that no one with a seat in Parliament—with the exception of me and Sidonie, who had gained a vote upon reaching her majority—knew about the Unseen Guild. I didn’t know if that mattered, if it should play a role in my own decision, and if so, what?

Phèdre and Joscelin spoke to Drustan and Ysandre in a private audience. Sidonie and I discussed the matter endlessly. After hours of talking, none of us were any the wiser.

Ysandre convened Parliament.

There were seventy-two members all told: ten hereditary seats for each of the seven provinces of Terre d’Ange, the Queen, and her heir. When a sitting regent didn’t have an heir of age, they were allotted two votes. A simple majority of those present would constitute a binding vote. If there was a tie, the regent’s vote decided the matter.

It was rare to have the full complement of members present when Parliament was convened, and if the matter was a delicate one, many members chose to abstain; but for that session, we very nearly did. Those unable to attend sent a properly authorized delegate. Word had leaked out across the realm that the Carthaginian tribute was impressive, and curiosity and greed made for a powerful incentive.

It was an open session in the Hall of Audience, every seat along the long, curved tables filled, and a throng of avid onlookers pressed together in the back of the hall. The place was buzzing like a beehive, but it fell silent when Ysandre, seated at the center of the table, raised her hand.

“An offer lies before us,” she announced. “Lord Admiral, will you present it?”

The Palace Guard cleared a path for the Royal Admiral Quintilius Rousse. He strode into the hall with a rolling seafarer’s gait, bluff and hearty despite the grey salting his ruddy hair. There was a chalice tucked under one arm. He swept a deep bow, then placed it on the table before Ysandre.

“Your majesty, august peers!” His voice boomed in the hall. “I bear greetings from Astegal of Carthage, Prince of the House of Sarkal, appointed General by the Council of Thirty. He wishes to pay tribute to Terre d’Ange on behalf of Carthage.”

Ysandre eyed the chalice. It was wrought of translucent red carnelian, the stem shaped like a pair of clasped hands, the base adorned with gold. “Why?”

Quintilius Rousse cleared his throat. “There is a letter. May I read it?”

She inclined her head. “Please do.”

I knew what it said; Ysandre had already read it, of course, and so had Sidonie.

“Since I was a boy,” Rousse read aloud, rather badly, “I have longed to see for myself the splendors of Terre d’Ange and its Queen famed for her beauty; and yet, the shadow of misfortune has hung between our two great realms, born of deeds carried out by people too low to mention. I come at the behest of the Council of Thirty, anxious to dispel this shadow and restore amity between us.”

“Keep reading!” someone shouted when he paused.

Rousse cleared his throat again. “For myself, it would suffice to gaze upon the fabled white walls of the City of Elua, and gaze on your face. I dare to present this small token, this chalice, in the hope that the clasped hands wrought thereon might prove emblematic of a restored amity between us.” He squinted, holding the parchment at arm’s length. “It in itself is a mere token, emblematic of the gifts the Council of Thirty wishes to bequeath to your majesty and her people, to evince the sincerity of Carthage’s desire. These gifts are as follows . . .”

In his resounding voice, Quintilius Rousse read a long litany of the tribute-gifts that Carthage offered. Gold, gold in abundance. Ivory and salt. Spices, exotic seedlings gathered from many places. Bolts of cloth dyed Tyrian purple. Furniture made of fragrant woods.

I watched the avid faces of my peers and felt uneasy.

“. . . and as your majesty’s horologists will doubtless have informed you, a great event is pending. With your permission, my own horologists will consult with yours to show you a great marvel,” Rousse finished.

Excited murmurs arose.

“Hold!” Ysandre said crisply. “What great event?”

There was a delay, then, while the Court horologist was sent for and found. I listened to the peers gossiping among themselves, stirred by the manifest Quintilius Rousse had recited. At length, the horologist arrived, bowing apologetically.

“Forgive me, your majesty—” he began.

Ysandre waved one hand dismissively. “No doubt you’ve informed me. I’ve been distracted. What event?”

He was a small fellow, sweating and anxious. “It is the belief among those of us who study the stars and the planets that in three weeks’ time, the full moon will pass through the earth’s shadow, and its light shall be dimmed.”

“She
has
been distracted,” Sidonie murmured beside me.

“Is this an omen?” Ysandre asked.

“No!” The horologist shook his head. “No, no, no. Merely a natural phenomenon, your majesty.”

“And what marvel might we expect to see?” she asked.

The horologist licked his lips. “Although I have not seen it for myself, it is said that the moon takes on extraordinary hues while it lies beneath our shadow. Beyond that, I cannot guess.” A scholar’s hunger surfaced in his features. “All knowledge is worth having. I would be eager to partake of the wisdom of Carthage’s horologists.”

Ysandre inclined her head. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, adding to Quintilius Rousse, “You may continue.”

Rousse read the remainder of the letter aloud: more fulsome compliments, nothing of substance. No indication that this visit was aught but what it purported to be, a grand diplomatic overture. I suppose that was to be expected, and the more subtle overtures would follow if Ysandre accepted Carthage’s tribute. Still, I couldn’t shake a sense of lingering unease.

A period of open discussion followed, but it was already clear that the promise of extravagant gifts and a marvel to follow had swayed the majority of the peers. There were a few who argued against accepting the offer, fearing it would suggest we meant to abandon our alliance with Aragonia, but others pointed out that, despite Aragonia’s fears, Carthage had not lifted a finger in its direction.

And there were a few—Barquiel L’Envers among them—who were deeply suspicious of Carthage’s motives.

“You know they want
something
for this, Ysandre,” he said, sounding remarkably practical. “Alliance, a promise of non-interference . . . or somewhat else.” His gaze rested briefly on Sidonie. “Why not send a delegation to meet with them in Marsilikos and find out what it is?”

“They’re bound to reveal their hand one way or another,” a Siovalese duchese observed. “Here or there, what does it matter?”

“I don’t know,” L’Envers muttered. “But I don’t like it.”

I didn’t either. For once, I was in agreement with Barquiel L’Envers. Somewhat in this offer didn’t sit right. But it held a promise for me far greater than any gilded treasure or celestial marvel—secret knowledge of my mother’s whereabouts, the ability to cut through the Gordian knot of her intrigues at a single, swift blow instead of spending torturous years trying to unwind it.

And then it would be done.

I would be free. Free of her taint, free of her long shadow. Free to wed Sidonie and spend the rest of my life with her without incurring suspicion and bitterness. And she would be free to spend it with me without having to endure the contempt of those who reckoned she was weak enough to have been seduced by the cunning blandishments of a traitor’s son, or an endless series of suits from foreign princes who reckoned her fair game.

So I voted to accept Carthage’s offer.

Sidonie did, too.

It wouldn’t have mattered. It wasn’t even close. There were only four votes against acceptance, and seven who abstained. By the time Ysandre cast her vote, it was merely symbolic. She hesitated, conferring quietly with Drustan one last time. Although the Cruarch of Alba had no vote in the Parliament of Terre d’Ange, he always sat at Ysandre’s side to counsel her when he was present. I saw him give his head a slight shake. Like the rest of us, Drustan had been unable to find sufficient cause to spurn Carthage’s overture.

Ysandre cast her vote for acceptance.

It was decided.

Carthage was coming.

Ten

A
bit over two weeks later, on a bright, sunny day, six Carthaginian tribute-ships sailed up the Aviline River to dock at the wharfs of the City of Elua, preceded fore and aft by D’Angeline war-ships.

It was a considerable spectacle. The Carthaginian ships had massive sails striped crimson and white, gilded figureheads in the shape of horse-heads, lions, and serpents. Even the railings were elaborately carved. Bare-chested rowers manned the oars, oiled skin gleaming in the sunlight.

“Slaves,” I murmured to Sidonie.

There was a tall fellow in the prow of the lead ship, clad in a scarlet tunic with a long cloak of Tyrian purple, a slender fillet of gold around his head. Even at a distance, I could see he had strong features. His thick black hair was swept back from his temples, and he wore a narrow beard dyed scarlet.

“And that, I suspect, would be General Astegal,” she commented.

The ships were docked. Sailors swarmed, securing their moorings. General Astegal bowed deeply in the direction of Ysandre and Drustan, but made no move to disembark. Instead, the rowers laid down their oars and set about unloading chest after chest of tribute.

The crew came from various nations. Many were olive-skinned Carthaginians. Others were a tawnier hue, and there were Nubians and Jebeans, too, with dusky skin and woolen hair. I touched my rhinoceros-hide sword-belt, thinking of distant places and old friends.

At last, when the wharf was heaped with treasure, a score of soldiers carrying gilded spears descended from the flagship, saluted the Queen and Cruarch, then formed a double line. Astegal of Carthage, Prince of the House of Sarkal, appointed General of the Council of Thirty, made his approach, sweeping another low bow.

“Well met, General Astegal,” Ysandre said. “We welcome you to the City of Elua.”

Astegal straightened and smiled. His teeth were very white. “I thank you for the honor, your majesty. Carthage thanks you. It is an honor merely to gaze upon you and your fair city.” His D’Angeline was accented, but excellent. He bowed again, this time toward Drustan. “It is a double honor to be received by the Cruarch of Alba.”

“Small as we are, Alba can but aspire to be the recipient of Carthage’s mighty generosity one day,” Drustan said wryly.

Astegal laughed. “I pray it may be so, your majesty.” He turned to Sidonie, offering yet another deep bow. “Surely you must be the Dauphine, with your mother’s beauty and your father’s eyes.”

“Well met, my lord.” Her tone was neutral.

“Ah.” He smiled at her. “So young to be wary of flattery, your highness! I did but speak the truth.”

“And in surpassingly good D’Angeline, too,” she observed.

He spread his arms as though to embrace the entire City. “It is as I wrote. I have long dreamed of this moment. I have worked and studied long and hard to bring my dream to fruition.” Turning to me, he gave another bow. “You, I think, are also a member of the royal family?”

“Imriel,” I said. “Well met, my lord.”

“Prince Imriel, of course.” Astegal put out his hand, his expression turning grave. “I hope that during my time here, I may make some atonement for the unconscionable acts of my ill-gotten countrymen. And once we have put the past behind us, perhaps you will do me the kindness of showing me your city’s fabled pleasures.” He winked, showed his white teeth in another easy grin. “You strike me as a young man of good appetite.”

He had a firm grip and his sword-hand was callused. For all his diplomat’s charm, I thought, this man was a soldier. He was a few inches taller than I, and some ten or twelve years older. Young and ambitious, the rumors had said.

“Of course, my lord,” I said politely, wondering if there was some hidden message behind the request. “I do not blame Carthage for the acts of a few miscreants.”

Astegal smiled. “Excellent!”

There was a grand procession from the wharfs to the Palace. Behind us, slaves continued to work at unloading the other ships, under the supervision of various Court officials who would attend to the other Carthaginian dignitaries and horologists disembarking, all of it taking place under the watchful eyes of a full contingent of the Royal Army. Commonfolk lined the streets, gazing in awe at the spectacle.

As we rode in an open carriage, Astegal offered a running litany of praise: for the gracious lay of the City, for the skill of its architects, for the beauty of its folk. Flattery, but it stopped short of unctuousness. He seemed sincere in his praise, glad to be here, at ease in his own skin.

I tried to read aught beyond it, and couldn’t.

When we reached the Palace, he fell silent a moment, gazing at it, then gave his head a little shake. “Lovely. Who would have thought a structure so vast could hold such grace. Mayhap your majesty will consent to send architects to advise ours.”

“Carthage comes courting Terre d’Ange’s
architects
?” Ysandre inquired.

“Of course.” Astegal smiled. “Among other things. Terre d’Ange has grown bolder and more adventurous under your rule, gracious lady, opening its doors to new friendships and alliances, creating strong bonds.” His gaze lingered briefly on Drustan. “It is my wish that Carthage do the same. There are many ways in which we may profit one another,” he added, and his gaze slid toward Sidonie.

It made my teeth grate.

Sidonie didn’t take his gambit. “Our horologists are eager to learn of this celestial marvel you promise.”