Kushiel's Mercy (33 page)

“I see.” Bodeshmun resumed his pacing.

I refrained from interrupting him, watching him guilelessly. The Chief Horologist wore long black robes, dense and concealing. There was no way of telling where on his person the talisman Solon had told me about was hidden. At a guess, I’d venture to say an inner pocket. He’d want to keep it close. I wondered if he slept with it. I wondered what vices he had. It wasn’t going to be easy to get at him. I entertained a brief vision of Bodeshmun and I getting blind drunk together at a wineshop, of helping him stumble home, putting him to bed and undressing him.

Not likely.

“You present a dilemma, Leander Maignard,” he said abruptly. “I would prefer to send you away. Unfortunately, your appearance last night has piqued the princess’ curiosity.” Bodeshmun gave a tight smile. “Which is considerable and plaguing. Now I am of two minds as to what to do.”

I shrugged. “Oh?”

“It is imperative that she be kept content.” He unleashed another quelling stare. “Her willing presence here is key to confounding Carthage’s enemies. And I am unsure whether or not
you
would prove an amiable distraction or a dangerous goad.”

“Yes, I see.” I smiled. “Well, as to that, I cannot say. But if you wished to advise me on how best I might serve as a distraction, I would be pleased to comply. Our interests here are the same.”

“Except for Solon coveting my secrets,” Bodeshmun observed.

“Well, yes.” I laughed. “Except for that.”

More pacing. Bodeshmun’s robes swirled. Twice, he touched his chest absentmindedly. I marked it, wondering if that was where the talisman was hidden. Clever or no, I suspected he wasn’t a Guildsman if he’d given himself away like that.

“You must not speak of Terre d’Ange,” Bodeshmun said, coming to a decision. “She believes that all is well there. She believes that the war in Aragonia was provoked by an act of aggression on their part. And she believes that when it is concluded, in time, she and Astegal will preside over a vast and peaceable empire.” He smiled sourly. “And perhaps they shall when it is sufficiently subdued.”

“What of her former beloved?” I inquired.

“She has no memory of him,” he said. “None at all. It was necessary. And I will ask you not to speak of anything that might touch on it, including Solon’s mistress.”

“What mistress?” I said lightly.

“I am not jesting.” Bodeshmun’s face hardened. “I don’t care what tale you conceive that places you in Ptolemy Solon’s service without mention of Melisande Shahrizai, but you will do it.” He bent over me and took my chin in his hand. “Listen well, Leander Maignard. If you fail in any of these things, I will have your eyes put out and that flippant tongue torn from your head. Do you understand?”

My shudder was unfeigned. “Yes, my lord. I do.”

“Good.” He released me. “Remember it.”

I left the audience shaken, which was probably a good thing. Sunjata was right; this was a dangerous business. I was going to have to tread very, very carefully with Princess Sidonie. I had to find a way to reach her, but if Bodeshmun suspected what I was about, I didn’t have any doubt that he’d carry out his threat.

I was on my own here.

And if I failed . . . if I failed, Ptolemy Solon would be placed in a very difficult situation, forced to explain my actions to an angry Carthage. But me, I’d just be blind and tongueless.

Not a pleasant thought.

Thirty

T
he next day, I received official word from Sidonie de la Courcel, Dauphine of Terre d’Ange and princess of the House of Sarkal, that my request for an audience had been granted and that I might call on her on the morrow. It was written on thick vellum in a neat, tidy hand, the letter sealed with the hawk crest of the House of Sarkal.

I wondered if she’d written it herself.

I had one of the chambermaids polish the chess set with its ivory and onyx pieces until their jeweled eyes gleamed. I summoned Ghanim and one of the Carthaginian brothers—I had a bad habit of forgetting which was which—to translate and asked about the Amazigh who guarded the princess.

Ghanim spat on the floor.

“No friends of his, I take it?” I asked the Carthaginian brother.

There was a long exchange in Punic.

“No,” he said eventually. “They are men who betrayed their brothers for gold and promises. They are men who sold their honor cheaply. Ghanim was betrayed, too. His brother stole his wife and accused him falsely of murder. That is how he became a slave. He means to seek revenge once you free him.”

Well and so, there wasn’t much to be learned here. Ghanim stared fixedly at me, his eyes glittering. I felt an odd sense of kinship with him. After all, in a strange way, I was seeking to avenge another wronged man.

“Soon,” I promised. “I don’t mean to stay here forever.”

The day passed slowly. Patience, patience. I willed myself to be calm. The ledge I walked was high and narrow. On one side was Bodeshmun’s threat. I could still feel his strong fingers gripping my chin. And on the other side . . .

Sidonie.

I kept seeing her face in my thoughts, that dark, perplexed gaze. I wanted . . . gods, I
wanted.
I didn’t even know what. I wanted to hear what her voice sounded like. I wanted to know if Bodeshmun was right, if she had no inkling of what had been done to her. I couldn’t imagine it was true. Surely there must be bits of awareness in there. A haunting shadow, a sense that something was wrong.

Or perhaps not.

I took especial care with my appearance on the day of my audience with her. I brushed my hair until it gleamed, applied a pomade I’d discovered among the villa’s owners’ toiletries, plaited it in careful braids. The weather was growing a bit cooler, and I rummaged through my trunks, selecting a sleeved tunic of deep crimson silk and a pair of loose striped breeches. I decided the latter was too gaudy and abandoned them for a dark, more somber pair. Then I reconsidered, and put the striped breeches back on.

“Leander,” I muttered to myself in the mirror. “What ails you?”

My mirrored face gazed back at me without comment.

I blew myself a kiss. “Charming and harmless. For now, that’s the course.”

Sunjata paid a call on me before I departed. He regarded me with quiet hilarity, his nostrils flaring. “Did you bathe in a vat of perfume?”

“It’s a pomade I found,” I said. “Mine ran out. Too much?”

“That would be putting it kindly,” he observed. “And I fear it’s a woman’s scent, not a man’s.”

There wasn’t enough time to wash it out. I sighed and scrubbed at my hair with a clean linen towel, trying to remove the worst of the scent. It helped, but it rendered my careful braids frazzled. I unplaited them, gave my hair another rub, and started over. “Any news?”

“The good news is that you seem to have played Bodeshmun well,” Sunjata said. “To hear Hannon talk, he’s satisfied that you’re harmless and easily dealt with. Old Blackbeard’s quite tickled at the notion that he’s stymied Lord Solon.”

“What’s the bad news?” I asked.

“You may not have much time here,” he said soberly. “Astegal’s on the verge of having New Carthage thoroughly secured. The rumor is that he’s considering wintering there and sending for the princess.”

I paused mid-braid. “When?”

“A matter of weeks.”

“Well.” I continued braiding. “I’ll just have to work quickly and find a way to get myself invited to New Carthage. I need Astegal’s ring anyway. Have you begun creating a replica?”

Sunjata shook his head. “Not yet.”

“You’d better make haste.” After our first tryst, I’d asked him to create a replica of the ring he’d stolen from Prince Imriel, and I was rather irked to find that he’d not yet begun.

He was quiet a moment. “It’s a lot of risk, Leander. Bodeshmun’s talisman. Astegal’s ring. And you don’t even know what you’re looking for on the princess.”

“No.” I grinned. “But that will be the fun task.”

His voice rose. “It’s not a jesting matter.”

“I know.” I finished my braids. “Believe me, Bodeshmun impressed that on me quite strongly yesterday. I have no desire to lose my eyes and tongue, and if I’m jesting, it’s because I’m nervous inside. But, Sunjata, I have to try.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because . . .” I frowned. The reasons I’d set out with seemed distant and a bit childish now. A grand adventure, a chance to spread my wings at last. The desire to humble the brooding prince and expose his hypocrisy. Even the desire to make her ladyship proud. Instead, I thought of the Aragonian boy in the slave-market, his stricken face. The princess in the palanquin, fed a diet of lies. Terre d’Ange, land of my birth, teetering on the brink of civil war. “I just do.”

“Just be careful,” Sunjata said.

“So her ladyship bade me,” I replied.

“Yes.” His expression was unreadable. “She cares very deeply for you.”

“Do you think so?” I smiled. “It’s a nice thought.”

With that, I collected the pretty inlaid box that contained the chess set, summoned Kratos and the lads, and went off to my audience with the princess, wishing I wasn’t so damnably nervous and unsettled.

At the villa of the House of Sarkal I was met by a polite steward who escorted me into a sunlit salon that overlooked a garden. The scent of lemons wafted through the tall, arched windows, mingling rather unfortunately with the overly sweet floral odor of pomade still clinging to my hair.

“Please be comfortable,” the steward said, indicating an alcove with a low table and chairs. “I will inform her highness of your arrival.”

I sat and waited. Once, I heard footsteps and rose to bow, but it was only a maidservant bringing a cup of sweet mint tea. I sipped it slowly, waiting. Wishing I didn’t reek subtly of rotting roses. Wondering if the princess was playing some game, making me wait. Gods, I wished I’d taken the time to wash the pomade out of my hair.

And then she came, one of her Amazigh guards trailing behind her.

She wore a gown of pale yellow silk, a necklace and earrings set with canary-yellow diamonds. Her hair was coiled in a coronet, glinting in the sunlight. A golden girl, but for the shock of those black, black eyes.

I rose and bowed, my heart thudding.

“Messire Maignard, I pray you forgive my rudeness,” she said, speaking Hellene with a near-flawless accent. A light voice, cool and controlled. I had an immediate urge to know what it sounded like unstrung with passion. Instead, it took on a hint of amusement. “I fear I was in the midst of a lesson, and my steward chose to wait rather than inform me that my mysterious D’Angeline had arrived.”

I laughed. “Not so mysterious, I fear.”

Her brows rose slightly. “Do tell.”

I accorded her another bow. “As my letter indicated, I am in the service of his eminence Ptolemy Solon, Governor of Cythera.” I lifted the inlaid box and opened the lid. “He sends his congratulations to you and Prince Astegal on the occasion of your nuptials, and this small token of Cythera’s goodwill.”

“This is lovely.” She took a piece from the box, examining it. An onyx knight, his ruby eyes sparking. “You must convey my gratitude to his eminence. It is a thoughtful gift.”

“Do you play?” I asked.

“Yes, of course.” The princess smiled. Her lips were pink, the sort of shape that begs to be kissed. The spark of lively intellect in her dark eyes suggested it wasn’t something to be undertaken rashly. “But it’s a rare man thinks to gift a woman with a game of wits. And you continue to be mysterious, Messire Maignard.” She returned the knight to the box and gestured at the chairs. “Pray, sit and tell me. How
does
a D’Angeline come to be in the service of Cythera’s governor?”

I set the inlaid box on the table. “His lordship is a rare man.” I waited until she sat, then sat opposite her. Her Amazigh guard remained on the opposite side of the room, but he watched us with folded arms, his expression hidden behind the folds of his burnoose. Princess Sidonie ignored him. I cleared my throat. “My lord Solon is kin to Pharaoh of Menekhet. My father served as the master chef to the D’Angeline ambassador in Iskandria.”

She tilted her head. “Marcel de Groulaut?”

“No.” The question threw me off stride. I blinked, trying to remember the timeline for the tale I’d concocted and what I knew of Terre d’Ange’s presence in Menekhet. “Before him.”

“Ah.” The princess thought a moment. “That was the Comte de Penfars, I think.”

“How do you know that?” I asked stupidly.

Sidonie de la Courcel raised her brows, higher, this time. “Messire Maignard, since the day I gained my majority, it has been expected that I should be prepared to assume the throne of Terre d’Ange at a moment’s need. To that end, I am reasonably well informed about the workings of my own nation.”

I flushed. “Of course. Forgive me.”

Her lips quirked. “Rare men are . . . rare. But pray, continue.”

Gods, it galled me. I’d expected . . . what? A victim, a hapless pawn, easily manipulated. She wasn’t. Spell-bound and ignorant, yes. But still, disconcertingly self-possessed and acutely intelligent. I stammered through my tale of how Ptolemy Solon had come to dine at the Menekhetan ambassador’s home and grown enamored of his chef’s cuisine, wooing him away, thus establishing the Maignard clan on Cythera.

When I finished, I was sweating; and very much aware of the aroma of my ill-advised pomade hanging in the air.

“So you’ve never known Terre d’Ange?” the princess asked.

“No.” I shook my head. It wasn’t going to be easy to avoid speaking of Terre d’Ange when she brought it up herself. “No, but Cythera is beautiful. Mayhap you’ll visit one day.”

“I’m sure that would be very pleasant,” she said politely.

“Yes, indeed.” Hot and uncomfortably aware that I was failing at being charming, I fanned myself, waves of scent wafting from me. Her expression turned slightly peculiar. “Ah, gods!” I blurted. “My lady, forgive me. I fear I’ve doused myself in a most cloying pomade. Believe me, I regret it.”

She laughed.

It was an unexpectedly deep-throated laugh, rich and resonant. My heart rolled over in my chest, whispering the word “always.” Her black eyes came to life, sparkling at me. “And why did you do that, Messire Maignard?”