Kushiel's Mercy (36 page)

“As you wish,” I said.

We sat in silence in the palanquin. Gods, I wanted to touch her so badly. Cut through the banter, cut through the spell that bound her. And I couldn’t. Not here, not in public, not with guards watching. I needed to get her alone somehow, and I couldn’t think how to do it.

I was pondering the problem when the palanquin jolted to an abrupt halt. The two Amazigh preceding us were giving orders in Punic to the bearers, pointing and gesturing. I sensed the princess stiffen beside me.

“Is there trouble?” I asked.

“No.” Her expression was unreadable. “I need to . . . no.”

It was my turn to be perplexed. “All right.”

Whatever it was, the Amazigh and the bearers sorted it out. We changed course and took a different route back to the House of Sarkal’s villa. The princess was quiet and withdrawn, and I was fearful I’d made a misstep.

“May I call on you tomorrow?” I asked before I took my leave. “Or have I begun to contribute to your tedium?”

“No, of course not.” She gave me a quick, absentminded smile, and I realized that whatever disturbed her, it had naught to do with me. “I’ve enjoyed your company, Leander. I’ll send word.”

I bowed. “I will await it.”

Thirty-Three

W
hen I returned from taking exercise with Sunjata on the morrow, there was word awaiting me—but it was from Bodeshmun, not the princess. He wished for me to call on him immediately at the College of Horology.

Of course, I complied.

I found him distracted and pacing. As before, he was an abrupt and ungracious host, not offering so much as a cup of water. I bowed deeply, keeping my tone light and unconcerned. Harmless. Oddly, it was a great deal easier to do with Bodeshmun than it was with Princess Sidonie.

“You wished to see me, my lord?”

He fetched up before me, glowering. “You took her into the city.”

“So I did,” I said. “Was that wrong?”

Bodeshmun’s deep-set eyes flashed. “I would prefer that you did not, not without consulting me. It is imperative that her contacts be . . . managed.”

I shrugged. “She made an offering to Tanit and threw some flowers to children in the marketplace. There was no harm in it.”

“There might have been,” he said grimly.

“My lord, she’s
bored
.” I spread my hands. “I accompanied her into the city at her own request. If you wish to keep her distracted and under the impression that she’s not a prisoner for the next fortnight, I suggest you provide her with a few more of these
managed
contacts, because I fear my charming banter and impressive chess skills are wearing thin.”

My suggestion earned me one of his quelling looks. “I didn’t become Chief Horologist to play master of revels for a bored young princess!”

I stifled a smile. “Nonetheless.”

Bodeshmun sighed. “I’ll think on it. Until then, you will agree to no further excursions.”

“You wish me to refuse her?” I asked.

His broad mouth twisted sardonically. “I’m confident you’ll think of some cause. I understand you’ve done quite well at playing the blushing admirer while dancing clear of any . . . awkward . . . topics. Whoever taught you to dissemble is to be commended.”

I inclined my head. “My thanks, my lord.”

“Go.” He waved one hand. “And remember that if that glib tongue of yours should slip, I’ll have it cut out. Keep my warning in mind.”

“I always do,” I said with perfect sincerity.

The encounter with Bodeshmun didn’t trouble me overmuch. At least he was a known danger, and the meeting confirmed he still thought me harmless, a useful fool. But Sidonie . . . Sidonie was another matter. Gods, what was it she’d overheard the Amazigh say yesterday that had disturbed her? I wished I’d had time to learn Punic. If I’d had any idea I’d be in this position one day, I would have learned it years ago.

And what if she didn’t send for me again?

The thought of not seeing her made my heart ache. And the thought of failing—of leaving her a spell-bound pawn in Carthage’s hands, happily spreading her legs in Astegal’s bed—filled me with sick fury.

When a letter inviting me to dine with her that evening came later in the day, I nearly laughed aloud with relief. It was ludicrous. Never in my life had I felt such absurd, soaring joy.

I’d heard it described, though.

That was the awful irony of it. The day I’d accompanied Prince Imriel to the Temple of Aphrodite on Cythera, I’d asked him what it was like to be in love. And impossible as it seemed . . . yes. That was how I felt. As though my heart could burst, flaying my chest. As though I could leap off a cliff and take wing.

And then it changes
, he had said.
It becomes a part of you.

He had been speaking of Sidonie.

She loved him. Not me—him. What I’d said to her yesterday was true. Whatever I felt for her, it didn’t matter. Whether I succeeded or failed, this would end with Sidonie de la Courcel in another man’s arms, and me broken-hearted. The only difference was whether or not her happiness would be a faltering lie or joyous truth. And astonishingly enough, that had begun to matter to me.

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

I
t’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.”