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

Kushiel's Mercy (Imriel's Trilogy #3) Page 47

Behind her, Astegal gave me a curt nod.

“Of course.” I inclined my head. “As always, your highness, I am at your disposal.” Once again, I forced myself to adopt a tone of levity. “I shall hope and pray for your restored health, my lady. In the parlance of chess, I shall await your move.”

“Indeed,” she murmured. “Indeed.”

Fourty-Two

“Here you are, my lord.” Kratos dropped the ring into my hand.

I examined it. A simple band, a gold knot. To all intents and purposes, it was identical to the ring Sunjata had created. For all I knew, it was the same ring. I hadn’t dared set any distinguishing mark on the copy. I slid the ring onto the fourth finger of my right hand. It fit very well.

“So Esme succeeded?” I asked.

Kratos chuckled. “Ah, the lass was brilliant! Yon Astegal does love to be cozened and pampered. She oiled him and worked him down to his fingertips.” He kissed the tips of his own fingers. “The ring slid loose like a charm. I could see it all from the caldarium. You remember?”

“I remember,” I said briefly.

“Yes, well.” Kratos smiled broadly. “It fell to the floor and bounced. Ch-chink, ch-chink! Our Esme scrambled after it in a panic. Astegal hadn’t even begun to worry before she shoved the copy on his finger, babbling apologies. I watched. She retrieved his ring later.”

“This?” I raised my right hand.

Kratos nodded. “That. So what happens now, my lord?”

I sighed. “Unfortunately, we wait. I need to speak to Sidonie alone, and that’s the one thing I can’t fathom how to do.”

“That, and getting Bodeshmun’s talisman,” Kratos observed. Over the past days, I’d taken him fully into my confidence and told him everything. “Is he really as dangerous as all that?”

“Ptolemy Solon thought so,” I said, removing the ring and stashing it in the trunk with the false bottom. “And so did Sunjata.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t seem like it.”

On that score, Kratos was wrong. The following morning, Astegal summoned Roderico de Aragon and his entourage to the great hall. The elderly former king struck a tragic, forlorn figure, standing with the remnants of his court in his former palace while Astegal paced back and forth like an angry lion. Bodeshmun stood behind him, silent.

“My wishes were clear,” Astegal said. “No one was to give audience to my wife without my express permission. You defied me.”

“She is the Dauphine of Terre d’Ange,” Roderico said with dignity. “Was I to refuse her when she was at my doorstep?”

“Yes,” Astegal said. “You told her lies that upset her. Last night, she could find no peace without the aid of a sleeping draught. Even now, she is too ill to rise.”

Roderico’s eyes flashed. “I told her no lies.”

“The truth is what I say it is.” Astegal’s voice hardened. “Carthage and Terre d’Ange have always been allies. Aragonia provoked this war by permitting its fleet to prey unchecked on Carthaginian trade-ships. That is the truth, and from this moment onward, any man or woman who claims otherwise is guilty of treason. Is that understood?”

The former king didn’t answer. One of the members of his entourage, a young man who couldn’t have been much past his majority, muttered an expletive.

“You!” Astegal snapped. “Come here.” After a moment’s hesitation, the young lord obeyed. Astegal surveyed him. “There are rumors circulating that Carthage is capable of wielding dire magics. Observe and learn fear.”

He beckoned to Bodeshmun, who stepped forward. The young Aragonian stared at the Chief Horologist with hatred, a muscle jumping in his cheek. Bodeshmun raised one hand, palm upward, until it was level with the man’s face. He blew out his breath gently over his palm. A brief puff of dust arose.

The young Aragonian gasped. One gasp, no more. His hands rose frantically to scrabble at his throat. His face worked. Not a sound emerged from his mouth.

“Enough!” Roderico said sharply. “It shall be as you say. Spare the lad.”

Astegal folded his arms. “What is done cannot be undone. If you wish others to be spared this fate, remember this moment.”

It was an awful thing. The great hall was filled with onlookers. Astegal meant this event to be witnessed. And in front of all of us, the young Aragonian lord slowly choked to death for no apparent cause. His face turned dark and his eyes bulged. It was a mercy when he finally sank to the floor. Several members of Roderico’s entourage were weeping audibly, and silent tears ran down the former king’s creased face.

“Is it understood?” Astegal repeated.

“Yes, my lord.” Roderico’s voice cracked. “The truth is whatever you say it is.”

“Good.” Astegal nodded. “You may go.”

They went.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. Kratos and I exchanged a glance. Well, that was one question asked and answered. Yes, Bodeshmun was that dangerous.

The memory of it made my skin crawl. There was no word from Sidonie, so Kratos and I proceeded to the bath-house. We engaged in a few training bouts, which left me bone-jarred and bruised. It didn’t erase the memory of the Aragonian’s strangled face, but it helped a bit. Afterward, I went to soak in the caldarium while Kratos accepted one of his friendly wagers.

There, I managed to spot Esme and catch her eye. She pointed to the table in her chamber. I nodded and emerged dripping from the bath. No one was around at the moment; the idle soldiers were cheering on their comrade in his bout against Kratos. I went to fetch the purse I’d hidden in my things.

Esme gave me a startled look when I handed it to her. It was heavier than she’d expected. I’d doubled the amount.

“You did well,” I said.

She tucked the purse away quickly. “Lay down. I’ll massage you.”

I shook my head. “Better if you’re not seen with me. Vanish well and be safe until this passes, Esme.”

“I pray it’s soon,” she whispered.

As matters transpired, it was soon, at least where Esme was concerned. By the time Kratos and I returned to the palace, there was a whole new uproar in progress. Astegal and his councilors were closeted away once more and the place was abuzz with gossip.

“What passes?” I asked one of the guards I knew by sight.

His face was grim. “We’ve had ships lying off the harbor at Amílcar. One of them intercepted an Aragonian ship bound for Terre d’Ange. Serafin’s pleading for aid from the D’Angeline fleet.” He lowered his voice. “Trying to trade on their old alliance.”

“I thought the D’Angeline fleet was incapacitated,” I said.

“Not the bulk of it,” he said glumly. “Looks as though we’ll be fighting a winter war after all.”

“Hard luck,” I said.

The guard shrugged. “It’s a soldier’s lot.”

Better than a bath-house attendant’s lot, I thought, but I kept my mouth shut. This particular guard seemed a decent enough fellow. Inwardly, I was pleased. If Astegal pulled his army out of New Carthage, the task of gaining access to Sidonie seemed marginally less insurmountable.

Things were finally beginning to move.

Fourty-Three

Once things began to move, they moved quickly indeed. By the time Sunjata returned from old Carthage, he was astonished at all that had transpired in his absence. Astegal might have enjoyed playing cock of the walk and being pampered, but when he moved, he moved swiftly and decisively.

Everywhere, plans were afoot. A small standing army would be left under Lord Gillimas’ command to guard New Carthage. Bodeshmun would be in charge of administering the city and the surrounding areas, and after his display in the great hall, I doubted there would be much in the way of an insurrection.

Most of the Carthaginian fleet would be moved to blockade the harbor of Amílcar, leaving a handful behind to secure the harbor here. After studying the city’s defenses, Astegal had determined that it would be best assailed by land. He himself would command the siege.

Well and good, I thought. Go. Go far, far away, Astegal.

Of all the events that had transpired, the one that astonished Sunjata the most was that Esme had succeeded in procuring Astegal’s ring.

“You’re sure?” he said. “Did it have an effect?”

I nodded. “Oh, yes.”

Sidonie had sent for me the day after Bodeshmun had killed the young Aragonian with a single breath, although of course the knowledge of that event had been kept from her. I’d found her pale and guarded. I’d brought the book of love letters with me and presented it to her as a gift. She’d gazed at it for a long time, her brows furrowed.

“I know this correspondence,” she murmured at length. “Somehow. Thank you; it will be a pleasure to read the Aragonian translation.”

I bowed. “I hope it may provide solace in your husband’s absence.”

“My husband’s absence.” She raised her gaze to meet mine. The fear and uncertainty in her eyes had doubled. Underneath it was a terrified determination that nearly broke my heart. “Yes.”

We had played our usual game. At first, I’d thought that Sidonie was playing badly, walking into a rather obvious trap I’d set. Then I felt the pressure of her foot against mine beneath the table as she studied the board.

“I’m in a very precarious situation here, aren’t I, Messire Maignard?” she inquired.

I moved a piece, returning the unseen pressure. “Indeed, my lady.”

Her hand hovered over her queen. “I confess, I don’t fully understand what it is that you’ve done. Will you be gallant enough to advise me?”

I shook my head. “I cannot divulge my secrets.”

Sidonie’s head moved imperceptibly in the direction of the Amazigh guard. I gave the briefest possible nod. The guard stared past us, bored half out of his wits. I’d wager they drew straws to avoid this posting.

“Well,” she said lightly. “Mayhap I’ll find a way to make you talk.”

“Mayhap you will,” I said. “But not today.”

That was all, but it was enough. She knew. She knew something was very, very wrong. Bodeshmun’s spell had been weakened. And Sidonie de la Courcel, terrified and uncertain, was nonetheless playing a cautious and meticulous game of her own.

It was hard, so damnably hard, not to be able to tell her.

Elua, she had courage! I broke into a cold sweat conversing under the Amazigh’s bored gaze. How much worse must it be for Sidonie? She knew, but she didn’t know. Missing memories, false memories. At least I had the surety of my own wits and a loyal ally or two.

Sidonie was all alone.

I didn’t see her again until after the majority of the Carthaginian fleet had set sail and Astegal departed with the army.

The latter was an affair rife with pageantry. It was a vast army. Most of his troops were Carthaginian, but there was a sizable contingent of Nubian mercenaries with striking zebra-hide shields and long spears, and a mounted company of robed Amazigh. We assembled outside the gates of the city to see them off.

“Bastards,” Kratos muttered.

The ceremony began with the sacrifice of a white heifer, a singularly gory and unpleasant ritual. Once the poor beast’s struggles had ceased, the priests slit its belly and withdrew the steaming entrails for inspection. They pronounced the augurs to be good and invoked the blessings of Tanit and Ba’al Hammon on the venture.

Astegal gave a stirring speech full of lies about the glorious era of peace and prosperity that would follow on the heels of Carthage’s victory. His voice carried well, and the army cheered. Clad in gilded armor, he looked every inch the heroic general. Sidonie stood beside him, blank-faced as a doll. Astegal didn’t care. He swept her into his arms and kissed her farewell, proclaiming the hope that he would return victorious to news that she was providing him with an heir to the vast new empire of Carthage. There were more cheers and long blasts on the trumpets.

Then he turned her over to Bodeshmun, who made a speech declaring that the Princess Sidonie and New Carthage alike were under his protection. When it was finished, Astegal mounted his horse and drew his sword.

“Onward, Carthage!” he shouted. “Onward to victory!”

The army roared its approval, soldiers beating their shields and stamping their feet, trumpets blaring. Astegal nudged his mount, and they were off, rank upon rank of soldiers falling in behind him, supply wagons groaning. It was a long time before the last column passed us.

I sighed. “Good riddance.”

Without an entire occupying army, New Carthage seemed much emptier than before. We returned with the remnants of the procession that had accompanied Astegal to the gates. On every street, Aragonians stared at us with bitter hatred, but it was hatred tempered by fear. Not a one of them dared speak. Perversely, I found myself glad for the presence of Bodeshmun and the remaining forces. I didn’t doubt but that every man and woman we passed would gladly see all of us dead.

In that, I was more than right.

On the morrow, I received a message from Sidonie inviting me to accompany her on a stroll in the gardens. I met her at the appointed hour. It was an incongruous sight, the D’Angeline princess surrounded by four veiled Amazigh.

“You look well, your highness,” I greeted her. “Are you feeling better?”

“A bit.” It was true: she didn’t look quite as pale. “I thought the fresh air might help clear my thoughts.”

The gardens surrounding the palace were actually quite lovely and extensive. We strolled through them, passing lemon and orange groves, eucalyptus trees, and others I couldn’t name. Here and there, we passed Aragonian gardeners at work, pruning the trees and culling weeds. Like the bath-house attendants, I thought, they must have taken pride in their work once. Now they merely looked sullen.