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

Kushiel's Mercy (Imriel's Trilogy #3) Page 43

While he ruled like a king.

And that he did.

Every night there was feasting and revels in the great hall of the palace. Wine flowed freely, and platter after laden platter emerged from the kitchens. There were dancers and musicians and comedians. Some were Carthaginian, imported along with his household. Most were Aragonian. Some performed with bitterness scarce concealed behind stoic expressions. Some with philosophical indifference.

Astegal didn’t care either way.

All of it entertained him—all of it.

He laughed and clapped regardless, tossing coins for the performers to scramble after. And every night, every damnable night, Sidonie sat beside him. For the most part, she was quiet and withdrawn. She was struggling, I could tell. Sorting through her thoughts and fears and confusion, trying to put them in order. Sometimes she would glance my way, and I could see the quiet panic. At other times, Astegal spoke soothingly to her, stroking her face with his ringed hand, and I could see the fears abate.

And every night, every night, she went willingly with him. His strong arm resting around her waist or draped over her shoulders. His hardened soldier’s hands. Touching her, possessing her. Guiding her to their bedchamber, over and over.

I thought I would lose my mind.

My only consolation was that Bodeshmun himself seemed disturbed at Astegal’s excesses. He attended the revels, grim and funereal in his black horologist’s robes. From time to time, I saw him murmur in Astegal’s ear. The Carthaginian general merely laughed, waving away his concerns. Well and good, I thought, you reap what you have sown, Bodeshmun.

Still, it was cold comfort.

I waited for Sidonie to send for me, waited and waited. But it was Justina who sent for me first, inviting me to dine privately with her. It seemed she had a villa of her own, not far from the palace.

“Leander Maignard!” This time, in private, Justina greeted me with a kiss. “I’m sorry, I wanted to send for you or Sunjata sooner, but I had to be cautious. I’m treading a narrow path here. Tell me, do you have word from her ladyship? What game is afoot?”

I glanced around, wary of her servants.

“I’ve dismissed them for the evening,” Justina said, reading my face. She reached up to toy with my braids. “The table’s already laid. As far as they’re concerned, this is likely a dalliance I don’t want known. So come dine, and tell me.”

I did.

Justina listened in fascination, her eyes widening. “Dire magic,” she said when I had finished. “That explains a great deal.”

I stabbed my fork into a piece of overcooked fish. “Can you help?”

“I could have.” She eyed me wryly. “Gods, Leander! I wish you’d come here first. Until her demure highness arrived, I’d managed to position myself nicely as Astegal’s mistress.”

“Oh?” I savaged my fish. “Then why did you spit at me on the docks?”

Justina blinked. “I told you, I’m treading a narrow path. As far as Astegal and Carthage are concerned, I’m a young Aragonian widow, an eager opportunist playing at being a double agent. As far as loyal Aragonia is concerned, I’m a spy in Serafin’s service.” She shrugged. “Before this I was eyes and ears, nothing more. Now I’m merely awaiting word on whom, if anyone, to betray. I haven’t been able to get word out to her ladyship since the war began.”

“It’s Astegal,” I said curtly.

“You won’t mind if I confirm that with Sunjata, will you?” Justina rested her chin on one hand, studying me. “Because I’ll be honest, Leander. You seem . . . odd.”

I set down my fork. “Odd how?”

“I don’t know.” Justina blinked again. “Just . . . odd.”

I sighed. “Oh, hells! Justina, I feel odd. And her highness . . . I assure you, Sidonie de la Courcel is not demure.”

“Well, she’s barely said a word in public,” she observed. “I assumed she felt too guilty over Terre d’Ange’s betrayal of its alliances. Aragonians despise her more than Astegal. Naked ambition, at least, they understand. But when Terre d’Ange was invaded, Aragonia was the only country to send troops to its defense. When our turn came, Terre d’Ange turned its back on us and the D’Angeline heir married our conqueror.”

I shook my head. “It’s not their fault, any of it. Justina, can you still get access to Astegal?”

“Mayhap,” she said warily. “Why?”

“Sunjata made a copy of his ring.” I picked up my fork and pointed it at her. “And you are perfectly positioned to make the exchange.”

Justina was silent a moment. “I want to talk to Sunjata.”

“Fine,” I said. “Do.”

The interminable days wore onward. Astegal amused himself, Bodeshmun brooded, the Aragonians quietly seethed. Sidonie continued to be withdrawn. Sunjata was close-mouthed about his discussion with Justina, and there was no word from her.

If it hadn’t been for Kratos, I think I truly might have lost my wits in those days. Like old Carthage, the city had a public bath-house with a palaestra, although it was much smaller. Sunjata refused to take exercise there, as it had been overtaken by bored Carthaginian soldiers given to shouting crudities at him. But Kratos, sensing my rising frustration, decided to teach me to wrestle there.

It was a good release, although it left me bruised and scraped. At first the soldiers who used the palaestra as a training field were amused. They shouted crudities at me, too, but I didn’t care. And Kratos allowed I was a much better pupil than he’d expected me to be. After a few days’ worth of training bouts, the soldiers weren’t laughing.

“You’re quick,” Kratos said after the first time I nearly managed to pin him. “Stronger than I would have thought for a wiry fellow. Someone taught you before, eh? It’s coming back to you.”

“No.” I grinned. “Quick, and a quick study, that’s all.”

It didn’t take long for word to spread that Kratos had been a professional wrestler in Hellas in his youth. Once it did, a handful of soldiers challenged him to bouts. Kratos permitted himself to accept one a day, and although he must have been well into his fifties, he won with skill and cunning. I couldn’t help but wonder what he’d been like in his prime and how he’d come to lose enough matches to fall into penury. When I asked him, he shrugged.

“I got careless after I’d worn a champion’s crown a few years running. Squandered my winnings on women and wine. Let myself get soft.” Kratos dusted his hands. “By the time I realized it, there was a new generation rising, younger and more fit.”

“I’m sorry,” I said honestly.

“Not your fault.” He clapped my shoulder. “Take it as a lesson.”

It was after Kratos had won five or six bouts that Astegal strolled into the palaestra, accompanied by a retinue of Amazigh guards. We watched him spar with his soldiers, laughing and jesting as their blades flashed in the wintry sun. Whatever else was true, the bastard was a gifted swordsman.

“He’s good,” Kratos muttered. “Careless, though.”

“How’s that?” I asked. I might not have been handy with a blade, but I knew enough to know Astegal was very good.

Kratos jerked his chin. “Letting victory go to his head. He’s won a battle, not a war. He ought to be drilling his troops in the field, not playing cock of the walk in the bath-house.”

“Don’t give him any ideas,” I said, and Kratos laughed.

Someone did give Astegal an idea, though, albeit of a different nature. After sparring for a time, he strolled over to the corner where Kratos and I trained.

“Leander Maignard,” Astegal said pleasantly. “You’ve been an absent courtier. I brought you under my roof to entertain my wife, not roll in the dust with an aging Hellene slave.”

I gritted my teeth and bowed. “Kratos is a freedman, and I do but await a summons from your lady wife, my lord. It seems for the moment you’ve kept her well entertained.”

“Yes.” Astegal smiled, heavy-lidded. “It does.” He changed the subject. “I wrestled in my youth, freedman,” he said to Kratos. “And I hear you’re undefeated among my soldiers. Care to give me a bout?”

“Do you jest, my lord?” Kratos asked in surprise.

“Not at all.” Astegal stripped off his tunic. “Not at all.”

Astegal wasn’t boasting; he had considerable skill at the game. And he had twenty years on Kratos and the advantage of reach and leverage. It was a hard-fought bout, but in the end, Astegal won. And he won ugly, wrenching Kratos’ arm behind his back with such force that Kratos cried out in pain. Astegal leaned one forearm on the back of Kratos’ neck, grinding his face into the dust. It was an unnecessary humiliation.

“Do you concede, freedman?” he asked.

Kratos made a muffled sound of agreement. Astegal released him to the cheers of his men. He gave them a brief bow of acknowledgment.

“Carthage’s supremacy is restored,” he said lightly.

Kratos didn’t say anything then, only got to his feet with an obvious effort, rubbing his wrenched shoulder in pain. Later we had a good, long soak in the caldarium, which Kratos claimed would help the injury heal. We could see Astegal in a private room beyond the caldarium, the doorway guarded by a pair of ever-present and vigilant Amazigh. He was taking a massage, his muscles loose and languid, his eyes closed, his olive skin glistening with oil.

There was no one else in the pool at the moment. I entertained thoughts of killing him then and there. If I could have devised a plan that didn’t involve me getting spitted on an Amazigh blade, I might have tried it.

“My lord,” Kratos said thoughtfully. “Please tell me it’s your life’s work to destroy that man.”

“Why?” I asked.

The expression on Kratos’ homely face was calm, but there was hatred in his voice. “Because I would very much like to assist you.”

I nodded. “Excellent.”

Thirty-Nine

It was some days before the Longest Night when Justina finally sent for me.

“What in the seven hells took you so long?” I hissed at her when we were alone in her villa. I expected a flare of the temper I remembered in reply, but Justina surprised me.

“I needed to think,” she said quietly. “It’s a grave danger.”

“Did Sunjata not confirm the truth of all I told you?” I inquired.

Justina looked at me for a long time. “Yes,” she said at length. “Yes, he did. But he’s worried that you’re being hasty and careless.” She smiled wryly. “I didn’t realize you were . . . enamored . . . of her.”

“Strong feelings cloud the wits,” I said, quoting her ladyship. “Yes, I know. But a task is a task. And hasty . . . Name of Elua, Justina! The Longest Night is nearly on us. We don’t have forever. Come spring, Astegal will move against Serafin’s rebels, and the opportunity will be lost.”

“I know.” Justina sighed. “Astegal plans a fête to honor D’Angeline tradition. I’ve managed to get invited. I’ll approach him then and tell him I’ve been missing him. Beyond that, I can make no promises.”

“My thanks,” I said. “It’s a great deal to ask, I know.”

She gave me another long look. “’Tis an unlikely task. I’d no idea her ladyship had such . . . strong feelings . . . for her estranged son.”

“Nor does anyone else,” I observed. “Her ladyship is clever enough to use her own reputation and advice against her adversaries. By the Goddess, even Astegal and Bodeshmun think me an ally! Which makes it a perfect gambit, do you not think?”

“I don’t know,” Justina mused. “I truly don’t.”

“But you’ll help?” I pressed her.

She sighed again. “I’ll try.”

I didn’t know what to expect of the Longest Night. In her ladyship’s household on Cythera, we simply celebrated with a masqued ball. I had vague memories of celebrating it in Terre d’Ange as a child. Pine boughs and beeswax candles, snatched sips of joie. I’d been permitted to stay awake long enough to witness the pageant of Winter’s Queen and the Sun Prince the year before we had departed to prepare a household for her ladyship on Cythera. I remembered music and adults glittering in masks. I couldn’t imagine Astegal would seek to re-create it for Sidonie’s sake. Surely there were too many dangerous memories of Terre d’Ange attached to it. He would not take the risk.

In that, I was right.

In some ways, it might have been any other night in New Carthage under the rule of Astegal the First. No masks, no pageant. No Sun Prince entering by chariot with his gilded spear to restore light to the world. There was much of what there had been every night at the palace: wine and feasting. All the guests had been carefully selected, so that there were none who would dare strain the fragile veil of illusions that bound Sidonie.

But there was music.

And dancing.

As the Chief Horologist, Bodeshmun himself declared the hour in a deep voice. The balance of the world had tipped, darkness giving way to light. The musicians struck up a measured tune. At the head table, Astegal arose and bowed to Sidonie, extending his hand to her. She rose and took his hand, and they danced together.

I swallowed bile.

They looked well together, loath though I was to admit it. Him so dark, and her so fair. She looked smaller in his arms. His hands, possessing her. Resting on her waist, caressing. Her face lifted to his, his head bent over her, solicitous.