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

Kushiel's Mercy (Imriel's Trilogy #3) Page 55

“No,” Sidonie said.

We glanced at one another. “Open water?” I asked.

She nodded. “Please, my lord captain. It’s very, very important.”

Deimos’ lips moved in a silent prayer. “I’ll try.”

He strode along the deck, shouting orders. His sailors scrambled to obey. The ship’s prow swung toward the east, nosing away from the Aragonian coast.

Sidonie shivered. “I thought we had enough of a lead to get away.”

I took off the cloak I was wearing—Leander’s cloak, striped and gaudy—and draped it over her shoulders. I didn’t like her color. Her face was unwontedly pale, hectic slashes of pink high on her cheeks. “So did I. Lord Gillimas must have known enough to realize we took Bodeshmun’s talisman and sent one of their fastest war-ships after us.” I felt at her brow. “You’re hot.”

She shivered again. “I feel cold.”

“Let me have a look at your back.” I led her to our cabin and examined her. The wound was worse, swollen and inflamed. I bathed it and dressed it as best I could, wishing I were one of Eisheth’s scions with healing in my bones and trying not to let her hear concern in my voice. “Just think, if you were an anguissette, this would be healing cleanly.”

Sidonie made a face. “Yes, and you’d have to worry about me bedding your mother.”

I shot her a mortified look. “Perish the thought!”

She laughed. “Well, at least mayhap I’d be racing toward Terre d’Ange with the Name of God rolling like thunder on my tongue, prepared to grapple with a servant of the One God himself, instead of hoping to free a demon from a stone using a term from my latest Punic language lesson.”

“Beholden,” I said. “Lift your arms.”

“Emmenghanom.” She said the word aloud. “Say it, Imriel.”

“Emmeghamon,” I echoed, winding the bandages around her.

“Em-men-gha-nom.” Sidonie enunciated each syllable with deliberate clarity. “Say it.”

I tied the last knot and met her overbright gaze. “Em . . . Emmenghanom.”

“Say it again.” She pulled up her gown and began lacing the bodice.

“You’re going to survive this, Sidonie,” I murmured. “Both of us are.”

“I’m just being practical,” she said. “Say it again.”

She was right, of course. Practical and right. I said the word over and over, Sidonie correcting my accent and inflection.

When I had it to her satisfaction, she nodded. “Good. You won’t forget?”

“No,” I said. “I won’t.”

It was a long, unsettling day. Not long after we’d turned into the open waters, a fierce headwind sprang up against us. There was a good reason Captain Deimos had feared this passage, a good reason precious few ships undertook major journeys during the winter months. Our ship bucked and surged like an unbroken horse, riding the waves, struggling to sail in the face of battening winds.

And our pursuer followed.

There was no doubt of it, not now. By the time the shrouded sun sank below the horizon, it had drawn near enough that we could all see the crimson-striped sail that marked it as Carthaginian and the triple bank of oars that lent it speed.

I slept fitfully that night, holding Sidonie in my arms.

Her skin was too hot, worrying me.

In the morning, our pursuer had drawn nearer. Our oarsmen rowed, groaning. Captain Deimos paced the deck. It didn’t matter; none of it mattered. The headwinds from the north were too strong. The Carthaginian war-ship with its striped sail gained steadily on us.

I prayed for something, anything. I prayed for good winds. I prayed we’d find the balance of the D’Angeline fleet awaiting us.

No luck.

The Carthaginian ship overtook us. It came along broadside, blocking our passage. A trebuchet mounted on its central tower thrummed, sending bolts our way. One tore through our topmost sail.

We turned tail and fled.

Back, back the way we’d come, racing before the wind now behind us. Deimos tried to make for land, but the Carthaginian ship raced alongside us, herded us onward. In the distance, I saw the harbor of Amílcar, blocked by a solid blockade of Carthage’s fleet. Our pursuer was driving us into their arms.

“We’re done.” Captain Deimos accorded Sidonie an exacting bow. “Forgive me, your highness. I did my best.”

Her voice rose. “My lord, we cannot surrender!”

“You’ll not be harmed,” Deimos said. “Either of you. You’re too valuable as hostages.”

“Once, mayhap.” Sidonie shook her head in impatient despair. “Not now. Astegal would never let either of us go, not knowing we have the key to undoing Bodeshmun’s spell. The only reason to keep us alive is to keep Terre d’Ange and Alba from acting by threatening them with our deaths.” She eyed the rough seas. “At this point, I’d serve my country better by drowning than being taken alive.”

“You’re feverish, your highness,” Deimos said to her, and to me, “Talk sense to her.”

“Captain, she’s right,” I said. “Is there no chance of running the blockade? At least in Amílcar we’ll find sanctuary of a sort.”

He gestured. “Look at it.”

“You might be able to make it.” Sidonie clutched my arm. “You’re a strong swimmer, Imriel. One man might be able to slip past the ships.”

“It’s too far,” Deimos said. “The water’s too cold.”

I gauged the distance. “Even so. If it’s our only chance—”

“Fire the ship,” Kratos said abruptly behind me.

I turned. “What?”

Kratos jerked his chin at the fast-approaching blockade. “You want to break their line? Set fire to the ship and bear down on them at full speed. I guarantee you, they’ll move.”

“Would that work?” I asked Deimos.

He looked ill. “Mayhap. It’s dangerous as hell.”

“Kratos, I adore you!” Sidonie planted a kiss on his cheek. “My lord captain, please. A slight chance is better than none. You’re not like to find much mercy from Astegal either.”

A muscle in Deimos’ jaw twitched. “By the Goddess,” he muttered. “I’m never swearing another oath as long as I live.”

He gave the order, though. His men worked frantically, breaking open kegs of strong spirits and dousing the entire ship, others finding a last surge of strength at the oars. When it came down to it, I daresay no one wanted to be taken by Carthage after assisting in the abduction of Astegal’s wife.

“I want you to wait near the landing-boat,” Deimos said to us in a taut voice. “The timing of this is going to be difficult.” He pointed. “There are catapults on the fortress at the end of the mole. That’s the point beyond which Carthage’s ships don’t dare venture. If we can get past it without foundering, we’ll drop the landing-boat and row for shore.”

“Thank you, Captain Deimos.” Sidonie met his gaze. Shivering and feverish, she was still very much in possession of her faculties. “I’m very sorry to have put you and your men in this position.”

His face softened. “You didn’t, my lady. My lord Ptolemy Solon did. But I reckon if I were D’Angeline, I’d be proud to serve you.”

I fetched my things from our cabin, or at least what I could wear. My sword-belt, Dorelei’s vambraces, the torc the Cruarch had given me. I found a piece of oilcloth and carefully wrapped Bodeshmun’s talisman in it, stowing it in my purse along with the croonie-stone and a handful of coins.

“What if we founder?” Sidonie asked. “You’ll be weighted down.”

“What if we don’t make it past the blockade?” I countered. “I don’t mean to be taken alive.”

She swallowed. “Did Joscelin ever teach you how to perform the terminus?”

“No.” It was the act of last, desperate measure for a Cassiline Brother unable to protect his charge, one that ended in the death of both protector and protected. “Sidonie . . .”

“Imriel.” She took my hand and laid it against her heart. “Believe me when I tell you I would far rather die by your hand than be restored to Astegal. Even if he is tolerably good in bed.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I settled for nodding.

“Thank you.” Sidonie released my hand.

We watched the blockade approach. All along the ship, Deimos’ men stood by with lit torches. Gods, it was going to be a near thing. If he gave the order too soon, we’d go up in a blaze before we reached the harbor. Too late, and the Carthaginian ships wouldn’t have time to maneuver out of the way.

“Where’s Kratos?” Sidonie asked.

I glanced around. “I don’t know.”

“Now!” Captain Deimos shouted.

The fire caught instantly in a dozen places, sudden and terrifying. It raced along the railing, crawled along the hull, raged upward along the lines. Now Deimos’ men ran wildly to-and-fro, dashing buckets of water on the flames. It wasn’t for the sake of show; the ship was at risk of becoming an inferno.

We were still under sail, bearing down on Carthage’s blockade, close enough that we could hear shouts of alarm ringing out over the water. Through the flames and billowing smoke, I could see banks of oars churning the waters and ships moving, getting hastily out of our way. My eyes were stinging and my lungs starting to burn. I wrapped my arms around Sidonie as though I could protect her from the fire.

“Here, my lord!” Kratos’ voice, harsh and coughing. He flung a sodden bed-linen sheet over my shoulders. “Drape yourself and her highness. Cover your mouths.”

I obeyed gratefully, then saw he hadn’t one for himself. “What about you?”

Kratos shook his head. “No time.”

It was a piece of madness. Sailors dashed, hurling buckets, but they’d done their job too well. The entire ship was ablaze. The sails were on fire, and our progress was faltering. We’d won our way past the blockade, but we hadn’t cleared the mole.

High overhead, one of the yardarms gave way, crashing to the deck in flurry of fiery sparks. Someone cried out in agonizing pain. Sparks landed and sizzled on the damp linen wrapped around us. The ship wallowed, flaming.

And behind us, looming through the smoke and flames, the Carthaginian war-ship that had dogged our wake passed the blockade and continued its pursuit.

“To the landing-boat, men!” Deimos’ voice roared. “To oars!”

They came, staggering, soot-blackened and singed. Not all of them. There were at least seven Cytheran sailors who didn’t survive that desperate gambit. Those who did worked with frantic hands, undoing the knots that held the landing-boat, lowering it into the water. Two held it in place with grappling poles. Others clambered over the railing, dropping into the smaller vessel. The first to gain his feet reached up, gesturing to me.

“Ready?” I didn’t wait for Sidonie’s answer, but swung her over the railing, lowering her. The sailor below caught and steadied her. Kratos’ linen sheet slipped from my shoulders. I felt a blast of heat against my back. Deimos was already in the boat, ordering his men to the benches.

“Go!” Kratos shouted, shielding me.

“You first, old man!” I stooped and caught him under the knee in a wrestling move he’d taught me himself, heaving him unceremoniously over the railing. There were shouts below from the men who broke his fall. The sailors holding the landing-boat in place with grappling poles grimaced. I vaulted the railing and let myself drop. One of them followed suit.

The other didn’t. The flames had caught him.

“Go!” Deimos shouted. “Go, go, go!”

They were good men, Ptolemy Solon’s men. They bent their backs to the oars, churning the grey waters to a frenzy. Behind us, the wreck of the ship foundered and burned, throwing off sparks of fire and burning matter. The Carthaginian war-ship was forced to give it a wide berth.

Before us, a scant twenty yards away, lay the mole and the fortress.

“Go, go, go!” Deimos chanted.

I wanted to reach Sidonie, but I didn’t dare. There was an open bench near me. I slid into it and grasped the oar shaft. I bent my back with the others, dipping and hauling for all I was worth. The light landing-boat shot across the choppy waters.

The massive trireme bore down on us, its sails full-bellied, propelled by three banks of oars.

From the fortress on the mole came a resonant thrumming sound. Amílcar’s defenders were loosing the great catapults. The first missile, a boulder large enough that two men’s arms couldn’t have circled it, passed low over our heads and landed behind our stern. A geyser of water shot up.

“Row, lads!” Deimos shouted. “Row, damn you!”

We doubled our efforts.

I’d taken a shift the night we’d rowed to Kapporeth, Joscelin, Phèdre, and I, following the stars. And I’d pulled my weight on a Vralian ship during the storm that led to a shipwreck. Those had been long, grueling affairs. This was short and urgent. Life or death would be decided in a matter of yards. The wood of the oar shaft felt hot beneath my hands, burning from the friction of my skin.

We surged past the fortress.

The catapults thrummed and thudded.

But not against us. Amílcar’s defenders were well-armed and determined. They might not know who we were, but they knew Carthage was against us. They loosed a barrage against our lone pursuer. At least one missile struck true. The Carthaginian ship slowed, taking on water.