Kushiel's Mercy (Imriel's Trilogy #3)

Kushiel's Mercy (Imriel's Trilogy #3) Page 15

Phèdre blinked at him. “That’s an excellent idea.”

He grinned. “Credit a lifetime of listening to your intrigues.”

Ti-Philippe agreed readily. He’d been a sailor himself once, long ago, under Rousse’s command.

Beyond that, there wasn’t much to be done at the moment. Sidonie reported the latest developments to her mother, who replied that the matter would have to wait for discussion until the Carthaginian delegation had departed. For my part, if I found I had no choice but to strike out for Cythera on the dubious message implied in Gillimas’ gift, I damned well wasn’t going to do it until the Carthaginians were gone.

They made me nervous.

The day after the fête, Astegal had a private meeting with Ysandre and Drustan. He made a candid offer for Sidonie’s hand, pointing out that a strategic alliance between Terre d’Ange, Alba, and Carthage would make for an axis of unparalleled power in the west.

“With Aragonia caught betwixt and between,” I observed when Sidonie told me, having gotten a full accounting from Ysandre.

She nodded. “Carthage dreams of empire. He didn’t deny it. Mother says he pointed out—very smoothly—that under pressure from three strong nations, Aragonia could easily agree to become a vassal state without a drop of blood spilled.”

“Aha!” I said. “So that’s what this is about.”

“Mm-hmm.” She looked troubled. “There was the implication that matters could go very differently if we declined this offer, and that the blood of slain Aragonians would be on Terre d’Ange’s conscience.”

I whistled softly. “That’s damn nigh blackmail. Aragonia was right to be worried.”

“He didn’t quite say it,” Sidonie said. “But it was there.”

“Tempted?” I asked.

“No, of course not,” she said, but her expression was still troubled. “It’s just . . . Elua! If it comes to that—and I pray it doesn’t—I’m bound to think it now.” She took my hand, twisting the knotted gold ring I wore. “What if I could have averted it? How many more people have to die for our happiness?”

“Sidonie.” I caught her fingers, stilling them. “It happened last time because we didn’t trust ourselves. Will you risk betraying Blessed Elua’s precept a second time?”

“Do you know what else Astegal said?” She laughed humorlessly. “He said it had come to his attention that I had already taken a lover. He said that he had the utmost respect for the customs of Terre d’Ange, and that if I wished to surround myself with a bevy of beautiful young men, he had no objection so long as I took care not to conceive aught but heirs of his blood.”

I stared at her. “He didn’t.”

“Oh, he did.” She was silent a moment. “It doesn’t matter. Terre d’Ange cannot allow itself to be coerced into betraying its allies and supporting Carthage’s imperial aspirations. It’s just . . . ugly.”

“Very,” I agreed. “What did Ysandre say to him?”

She smiled ruefully. “She told him that while Terre d’Ange has indeed grown less insular under her rule, D’Angelines hold their descendance from Blessed Elua and his Companions as a sacred trust. That it was already a matter of considerable concern that her heir was half-Cruithne, and that she couldn’t possibly betray that trust further by seeing me wed to aught but a pure-blooded D’Angeline, or the peers of the realm would rise in rebellion.”

I stroked her hair. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Sidonie shrugged. “It was the best response in diplomatic terms. It may even be true. Father backed her.” She gave a quick smile. “She said beyond that, he didn’t say much. Just sat and listened with that quiet, deadly look on his face that makes grown men squirm.”

“I know that look,” I said. “Did Astegal squirm?”

She shook her head. “Not much. He’s a cool one. He thanked them for hearing his offer, expressed hopes that whatever the future held, these new friendships would continue . . . the usual diplomatic pap, all very cordial. No further mention of bloodshed in Aragonia. Mother’s chosen to keep this quiet for now. She’ll take counsel with Parliament after Astegal’s gone.”

“Huh.” I thought about it. “I’ll be glad when this is over.”

“So will I,” Sidonie murmured. “But I don’t like thinking about what comes next. I wish those damned Guild people weren’t so secretive and evasive.”

“I wish the whole lot of them would fall into the sea and take my damned mother with them,” I said, and she laughed.

The following day, I found myself with diplomatic duties of my own. It seemed Astegal had been entirely sincere in his desire to sample the pleasures of the Night Court, and in desiring my company while so doing.

We set out from the Palace in the early hours of the evening; Astegal and I and a half dozen other Carthaginian lords, escorted by a score of Sidonie’s guardsmen. It was to have been the Queen’s Guard escorting us, but Claude de Monluc had intervened and come to an arrangement.

“You don’t have to do this,” I’d told him. “It’s not your duty.”

Claude had leveled a hard gaze at me. “Palace gossip says this Astegal’s made a bid for her highness’ hand. He knows she’s in love with you. No, I’m not your man, but I’m Sidonie’s, and I know for a surety she doesn’t want you dead by mysterious misadventure. I’m not willing to entrust this duty to men whose loyalties are uncertain.”

I smiled. “You sound like Joscelin.”

He laughed. “I wish!”

We went first to Eglantine House, where we were treated to an extraordinary feast, entertained all the while by dancers, tumblers, singers, and musicians of surpassing skill. Several of the Carthaginian lords succumbed to their charms. I explained to them in Hellene the laws regarding consensuality, to which they readily agreed, and after which I made arrangements with the Dowayne. Astegal reclined on a couch, taking it all in through half-slitted eyes.

“You lead a good life here,” he observed.

“We do, my lord,” I agreed. “But what passes here is sacred, too.”

“Of course.” His gaze slid sideways toward me. “No doubt you heard of the offer I made. I hope you do not take it amiss.”

I spread my hands. “Politics.”

He nodded. “Nothing more.”

After Eglantine House, we went to Bryony. Dusk had fallen and the evening was balmy, the air soft on one’s skin. Gillimas of Hiram was one of the lords attending this night’s venture. I was hoping by the night’s end he would be sufficiently drunk to speak candidly to me. At Bryony House, where money is reckoned an aphrodisiac, I bribed an adept to see that his winecup was never empty.

It was a good investment. The Carthaginians, who had built an empire on trade and lost it through military overreach, loved Bryony House. They were willing to wager on anything: who could out-drink the other, which lean-muscled, oiled adept might wrestle the other into submission, whether or not an adept could peel an apple in a single, coiling strip. And they had a fine time doing it, encouraged all the while by Bryony’s adepts.

“You fatten our purses at Carthage’s expense,” commented Janelle nó Bryony, the Dowayne. “My thanks.”

I smiled at her. “You fattened mine, once.”

“True.” She traced a finger down my chest. Once upon a time, the Dowayne of Bryony House had lost a bet to me. “At the time, I didn’t know your heart was given elsewhere.”

“Nor did I.” I caught her hand, halting its progress. “Now I do.”

“You’re faithful to her?” she asked.

“Unless requested to be otherwise,” I said, thinking of Amarante.

Janelle nó Bryony laughed and kissed me. “You inspire us, Prince Imriel. The Night Court stands behind you.” Her eyes sparkled. “And if there is any truth in gossip, it may be that her highness will not prove adverse to certain adventures in the future.”

“Probably not,” I agreed.

An idea was beginning to take shape in my mind. There had been debate over which of the Houses to visit. Astegal had wished to experience the genius of Eglantine House and the carnival atmosphere of Bryony. After some deliberation, he had settled on Jasmine House for our final destination.

The central tenet of Jasmine House was pure, unadulterated sensuality. It was palpable, too. It struck like a wave the minute one was ushered into the salon of reception. It was an undulating space, filled with semiprivate niches. The floor was piled with thick Akkadian carpets and massive cushions on which patrons and adepts reclined. Fretted lamps hung low from the ceiling, wrought with images of love-making. Incense and opium burned in tiny braziers, and servants circulated with wine, cordials, and delicacies.

With the assistance of Claude de Monluc, I got the Carthaginians settled in a niche, happily drinking wine and reviewing those adepts willing and available to serve them, and begged a private word with the Dowayne, Yolande Caradas.

“I have a great boon to ask, my lady,” I said.

“Oh?” Her brows rose. She was a stunning woman, with perfectly straight black hair that fell to her waist, and a mouth made for sin. “I’m . . . curious.”

I’d never heard anyone invest so much sensuality into so few syllables. It made the room feel hot. “That man, the hawk-nosed fellow.” I nodded slightly toward Gillimas. “I wish to have a quiet word with him without General Astegal’s knowledge.”

“Why?” Yolande asked.

I shook my head. “’Tis a matter of state I cannot reveal.”

“Covertcy.” Her generous mouth curved. “He seems quite taken with Marielle. I’ll have her fetch you to her chamber when they have concluded their pleasure. Will that suffice?”

“Perfectly,” I said. “I’m in your debt.”

“That’s a nice place to have you,” Yolande Caradas said.

It wasn’t long before the Carthaginians had made their selections. Astegal was ambitious; he’d chosen two adepts, a dark-haired girl with smoldering eyes, and a young man with full lips and a wiry panther’s grace. They seemed pleased at being selected. I had to own, he wasn’t a bad-looking man, and I might have found him charming if I didn’t know about his ambitions and his veiled threats.

“Surely you’re not abstaining,” he said to me, his arms slung around the adepts’ shoulders.

“I am, my lord,” I replied. “I’ll await you here.”

Astegal shrugged. “How very unlike a D’Angeline.”

I met his gaze squarely. “You don’t know us as well as you reckon.”

“No?” He smiled lazily. “Well, I’ll know you better after tonight, eh? At least two of you.”

I inclined my head. “Naamah’s grace be on you.”

One by one, they retired to private chambers, all except a certain Lord Mintho, who had fallen asleep and was snoring peacefully on the cushions. He’d been one of those who had taken his pleasure at Eglantine House, so I didn’t reckon he’d be too sorry in the morning. All of them were fairly well drunk except mayhap Astegal, and I was pleased to see that Gillimas was weaving on his feet as he left, the girl Marielle laughing and tugging his hand.

I didn’t have that long to wait. A good deal less than an hour had passed before Marielle came to fetch me. Claude gave me a sharp look. I put my hand over his mouth before he could speak.

“State business,” I murmured. “I need to talk to him without Astegal’s knowledge and I can’t do it at Court. There are things he may be willing to tell us about Carthage’s true intentions. As you value your commission in the Guard, keep your mouth shut.”

Claude gave a slow nod. I took my hand away, rose, and followed the girl.

“You’ll not get much out of him,” she said when we reached the inner corridors, her tone smug. “He’s snoring like a babe.” Marielle tossed her hair. “Patrons shouldn’t come to Jasmine House wine-sotted. They tire too quickly for us.”

“I’m sure they do.” I smiled at her. “Don’t worry. I’ll wake him. What of General Astegal?”

Marielle glanced down the corridor. “Now, there’s a man knows what he’s about. By the sound of it, he’ll be busy awhile.”

“Excellent.” I fished in the purse at my belt for two gold ducats. “This is for your assistance,” I said, giving her one. “And this is for your silence.” I fixed her with a stern look. “Lord Gillimas’ life could be in danger if Astegal learns he’s provided us with secret information. Understand?”

She nodded, chastened.

I kissed her cheek. “Good girl.”

I let myself into her bedchamber, closing the door quietly behind me. Gillimas was sprawled on the bed, mouth open and snoring. I picked up one of the pillows strewn about and took a deep breath, approaching the bedside. In one swift motion, I straddled him and shoved the pillow over the lower part of his face.

Gillimas woke thrashing and terrified, uttering muffled cries. I pinned his arms with my knees and pushed hard against the pillow. His chest heaved and his fear-stricken gaze found my face.

“Listen to me,” I said in Hellene. “Because you will die if you don’t. You’re in the Night Court of Terre d’Ange, Gillimas, surrounded by my allies, escorted by my men. I can smother you here in this bed, and the girl will swear your heart gave out during love-making. Understand?”