Kushiel's Mercy (12 page)

And in turn, Naamah graced them with desire.

I could feel her presence lingering over Amarante like a touch, a claim, and a blessing at once. A mantle of grace lay over us that night: love, desire, and selflessness all intertwined. There were no violent pleasures, only tender ones, but I learned somewhat of myself. I learned I was capable of sharing and being shared, of holding fast and letting go all at once. And I realized I was surpassingly grateful that Amarante
had
returned, albeit altered. She had long been Sidonie’s closest confidante, her safe harbor. I was glad she would be here while I was gone.

In the morning, Sidonie was thoughtful. “I knew it was time to send you to Naamah,” she said to Amarante. “I didn’t know she would keep so much of you for herself.”

Their eyes met in a manner born of long familiarity, and Amarante smiled. “I held a little back. I’ll always be there when you need me.”

“Soon, I hope,” I said.

She didn’t mistake my meaning. “There’s no word of your mother yet?”

I shook my head. “We’re waiting on word from La Serenissima.”

“I hope it comes soon,” Amarante said quietly.

It did, although it didn’t come from La Serenissima.

It came only a few days later, in the midst of sufficient uproar at Court that it easily passed unnoticed. If tensions in Terre d’Ange were internal and simmering, they were external and rising to a boil elsewhere in the world. Alba’s future remained unsettled. Queen Ysandre had been unable to broker any lasting peace between Aragonia and the Euskerri, and now fighting had broken out between them in the mountains south of Siovale. Delegates from both nations were beleaguering her—the Aragonians begging her to honor her alliance and stay out of the matter, the Euskerri begging for acknowledgment of their sovereign rights—and the Siovalese lords worried that the fighting would spill across the border.

In the midst of
that
came the news that a sizable delegation from General Astegal of Carthage—who had thus far done not the slightest thing to justify the rampant unease his appointment had provoked—was lying off the shores of Marsilikos, begging leave to sail up the Aviline River and pay tribute to Queen Ysandre.

And I got a letter.

To all appearances, it was a love-missive, written in a feminine hand, tied with ribbon and scented with perfume. It was delivered to the barracks of the Dauphine’s Guard.

It wasn’t the first of its kind. We’d both gotten them; it was a popular pastime at Court. This one was unsigned. It contained an innocuous love poem written on thick vellum . . . but there was a series of subtle notches and lines etched along the edges of the vellum. I fingered them, thinking back on the day in the Temple of Asclepius when the priest had taken my hand and shown me similar notches etched in a clay medallion.

“Who delivered this?” I asked.

Claude de Monluc shrugged. “Some Tsingano lad. He said a lady in Night’s Doorstep paid him.” He grinned. “Not intrigued, are you?”

“Gods, no!” I laughed and showed him the letter. “It’s not signed, that’s all. One never knows if it’s a prank.”

“Like as not it’s just another high-spirited young noblewoman,” he suggested. “Drunk enough to take a dare, sober enough to realize she’d regret it in the morning.”

“Like as not,” I agreed.

Since Sidonie was in conference with her mother, I went straightaway to the townhouse. Phèdre and Joscelin were still in Montrève, but Eugènie admitted me to Phèdre’s study without question. I knew Phèdre had found a reference for the blind priest’s system of notation, but it took me forever to locate the moldering old Hellene medical tome in which she’d found it. Doubtless Phèdre could have laid her hand on it in a heartbeat, but she wasn’t the most organized archivist in the world.

Once I finally did, I laid it open on her desk, studied the maddeningly intricate chart of slashes and crosshatches it contained, and set about transcribing the message.

It was painstaking work and I daresay I made a few errors, but eventually the gist of it came clear.

I do not hold the answer you seek, but one of Carthage does. If the Queen receives their tribute, he will tell you.

“Carthage,” I muttered. “It
had
to be Carthage.”

Giving Eugènie my thanks and a fond embrace, I took the letter, the transcription, and the musty old Hellene volume, stowed them in my bags and headed for Night’s Doorstep, where the portly Emile presided over a tavern called the Cockerel. He was a Tsingano half-breed who had been one of Hyacinthe’s boon companions many years ago, and he was unfailingly loyal to House Montrève.

“I need a quiet word,” I said to him.

“For you, my
gadjo
pearl?” He clapped my back. “Anything.”

Emile listened while I told him I’d received a mysterious love letter delivered by a Tsingano lad, that I wanted to talk to the boy and learn what he could tell me of the woman who’d given it to him. And that I wanted it done in secrecy.

“I will find out.” Emile studied me with disapproval. “Already you philander?”

“No!” I shook my head. “But I fear mayhap it’s a plot to make her highness believe otherwise.”

“Ah.” The lines of reproach smoothed from his fleshy face. Emile laid a finger alongside his nose. “Like the other time, eh? Do not fear. The Tsingani will always keep your secrets and seek to ferret out the secrets of those who would harm Phèdre nó Delaunay’s son. We do not forget who freed Hyacinthe from his curse.”

“There’s another matter,” I said. “Can you find someone discreet to ride to Montrève and fetch Phèdre and Joscelin?” Emile hesitated, and I fumbled for my purse, setting it on the table. “For a generous fee, of course.”

The purse vanished. “Of course I would do it for free.” Emile smiled broadly. “But all things are possible for a fee,
chavo
.”

“My thanks,” I said, rising.

Strange but true, I trusted the Tsingani more than I trusted most of my peers. Most D’Angelines held them in a measure of suspicion, although it is better now, I am told, than before I was born. In fairness, the Tsingani did take a certain delight in bilking outsiders whenever possible, but they could be fiercely loyal friends. Of a surety, they’d been that to Phèdre—and to me. It was a Tsingani
kumpania
that had reported seeing Carthaginian slavers with D’Angeline children in tow long, long ago. If not for that, I would have been dead years ago.

I rode back to the Palace and awaited Sidonie.

When at last she entered her quarters, she took one look at my face and stopped dead. “What is it?”

I showed her the letter. “Word’s come.”

Nine

Y
sandre took the news better than I would have reckoned.

We met in private, just the three of us. She glanced briefly at the text of the letter itself, then examined the vellum edges, lingering over my transcription and checking it against the chart in the Hellene book. At length, her fair brows rose.

“That’s it?” she asked. “I accept Carthage’s tribute, and some mysterious agent of the Guild will divulge Melisande’s whereabouts?”

“So it seems,” I said.

“It’s not much of a favor to ask,” she observed.

“I know.” I spread my hands. “Your majesty, I can’t say why the Ephesian ambassador would ask such a thing in such a covert manner.”

Ysandre leveled a hard gaze at me. “Give me your best guess.”

“I don’t
know
!” I said in frustration.

“A favor may be transferred if all parties are in agreement,” Sidonie said pragmatically. “I imagine the Guild must deal in such currency. For some reason, Diokles Agallon has transferred his favor to Carthage. He seeks to align himself with their interests, which, at the moment, appear to be courting your favor.”

Ysandre tapped the vellum, her face thoughtful. “He’s wary, though.”

“He is,” Sidonie agreed. “Carthage is poised to make a gambit. If it succeeds, and the axes of power shift in their favor, well and good. If it fails, he may yet distance himself—and Ephesium—from it.”

I felt hopelessly over my head. “What gambit?”

“Therein lies the question,” Ysandre said in a wry tone. She tapped the vellum idly again, thinking. “I must confess, I am curious about this General Astegal, and I’m weary of trying to settle the bickering of Aragonia and those damned Euskerri. I’d cede sovereignty to the Euskerri over the D’Angeline territory they want if Aragonia would do the same, but there’s no reconciling them. And I’ve half a mind to hear Carthage’s suit anyway. We’ve had poor relations with them since . . .” She glanced at me, her face softening. “For a long time.”

“Carthage still practices slavery,” I pointed out.

“So do many nations,” Ysandre said gently. “But at least there has been no further traffic in D’Angelines. Imriel, I thank you for your candor in bringing this to me. I have promised a reply to General Astegal in a fortnight’s time. I have taken counsel with the Royal Admiral Quintilius Rousse, who sees no harm in their overture. I will take counsel with Drustan when he arrives, convene Parliament, and give my answer.”

“Father’s late this year,” Sidonie commented.

“Yes.” Queen Ysandre eyed her. “Our children are a trial to us.”

The days that followed were fraught with tension. Emile in Night’s Doorstep located the Tsingano lad who’d delivered the missive, but the boy could tell me nothing useful about the lady who’d given it to him. A foreigner, he said, but he couldn’t guess from what nation. She’d asked him to deliver it because she was leaving the City in haste, or so she claimed. I spoke to the City Guard, but any number of foreign women had come and gone in the past two days. In the end, it didn’t really matter how the message had arrived. What mattered was what we would decide regarding it. And so we waited. We waited for Drustan to arrive; I waited for Phèdre and Joscelin to arrive. The Carthaginians awaited a reply. Quintilius Rousse awaited word to bring it. Alba awaited a clear line of succession. Parliament awaited a voice and a vote.

Everyone was waiting, waiting.

I felt myself wound tight and restless. For the first time, things went awry between Sidonie and me in the bedchamber, our desires staggering out of rhythm. She wanted reassurance, and I sought to lose myself in violent pleasure.

I ignored her protestations for too long, too far.

“Always!”
Her voice cracked like a whip, one hand wrenching away the blindfold of black silk she wore. She glared at me. “Imriel—”

I dropped the tawse paddle, dropped to my knees. “I’m
sorry
!”

“Imriel . . .” Sidonie sighed, cupping my face. “I know. The world’s all out of kilter, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “Sidonie . . .”

“So we’ll set it right.” There was a world of tenderness in her voice. “I asked you for this, do you remember? Tonight, you do what
I
say. Do you trust me?”

“Always,” I said hoarsely.

She handed me the blindfold. “Put this on.”

I obeyed, tying it behind my head.

“Present yourself,” she said, and I clasped my hands behind the nape of my neck as I’d taught her to do. I heard her pick up the tawse and circle me. My skin prickled. I was still wound tight and I didn’t want this, not now, but I was willing to bear it in atonement. The edge of the tawse scraped along my skin. My muscles tightened further. “I don’t mind giving my
signale
when we’re caught up in play that’s gone too far,” Sidonie said. “Or when I find my imagination exceeds my appetite.” She tapped me lightly between the shoulder blades with the paddle’s edge, and I flinched. “But you just weren’t listening to me tonight, were you?”

“No,” I whispered.

“You do make a lovely picture like this.” There was amusement in Sidonie’s voice. “But I’m not going to punish you.” The tawse fell to the carpet with a soft thud. She tugged off the blindfold, tangled her fingers in my hair. I blinked up at her, feeling the heat of her body, breathing in the scent of honeyed musk. “I’d never ask aught from you that you didn’t wish to give freely and joyously, Imriel.”

“If you want—”

“Oh, hush.” She gave my hair a tug, then smiled and touched my lips. “There will be other times. But as long as you’re on your knees, you may do penance. Lengthy, lengthy penance.”

That I did, freely and joyously. And she was right. I lost myself in her pleasure and hers alone, worshipping her with lips and tongue until she cried out, fingers clenched in my hair, and I had to grasp her hips to steady her.

And when it was done, when I couldn’t wring another spasm of pleasure from her, I felt calm and at peace. Mayhap we couldn’t set everything that was wrong in the world to right, but as long as all was well between us, it was enough.

Sidonie’s grip eased, and she gave a long, shuddering sigh. “Good boy.”

Still on my knees, I grinned at her. “You’re an easy mistress.”

It was the following day that everything began to converge. Drustan and his escort of Cruithne arrived at last. Phèdre and Joscelin returned from Montrève. The Queen and Cruarch spent a day closeted in consultation, while I did much the same with my foster-parents.

“I don’t like it.” Joscelin shook his head. “’Tis too easy.”

“I know,” I said. “But I can’t fathom where the risk lies.”

“Nor can I.” Phèdre rested her chin on her hand. “He asked naught but that Ysandre accept Carthage’s tribute? There was no implication that it implied a favor, a bribe?”

I showed her the letter and my transcription. “None.”

She studied it absently. “Well, mayhap Melisande’s made herself a thorn in Ephesium’s side somehow, and Agallon saw an opportunity to get rid of her and curry favor with Carthage at the same time.”

“Yes, but why does Carthage have a sudden burning desire to pay tribute to Terre d’Ange?” Joscelin asked. “If this General Astegal does mean to move against Aragonia, does he really think Ysandre can be bribed into looking the other way?”

“He might reckon it worth a try,” Phèdre said. “History is full of precedents.”

“Well, it’s a sizable tribute,” I said. “At least according to Quintilius Rousse.”