Kushiel's Mercy (37 page)

“You could disguise yourself as an Amazigh,” he suggested.

I blinked. “You know, that might come in handy.”

“I was jesting,” Sunjata observed.

“Even so.” I pointed at him. “It’s a potential tool. Never set aside any potential tool that comes to hand, right?”

He shook his head. “I should have kept my mouth shut.”

I ignored the comment. “What about Bodeshmun? I know he keeps the talisman on him, and I suspect I know where. Does he have any other weaknesses I might exploit? Wine? Women? Boys? Opium?”

“No, no, and no,” Sunjata said. “He’s vain, but he’s suspicious and rigid. And he’s not likely to be fooled by a disguise. Leander . . .” He fell silent a moment. “Leander, Bodeshmun’s dangerous. More than the entire College of Horologists put together, and more than Astegal. Hannon’s afraid of him, the Council’s afraid of him,
I’m
afraid of him. When you move against Bodeshmun, I think you’d best be prepared to kill him. And to fly like hell once you do.”

I frowned at him. “Why didn’t you say this before?”

“I thought you’d give up sooner,” he said flatly.

“Your confidence is touching,” I commented. “Or is it your loyalty I should question?”

“No!” Sunjata’s voice was low and fierce. “Her ladyship gave me my freedom. I would never betray her, no matter how much I doubt the merits of this endeavor.” He looked away. “Let us say that I didn’t expect you to fall in love at a single glance and become filled with noble purpose and determination.” His lips quirked. “Although mayhap I should have known better.” He looked back at me. “Ah. No denial this time?”

“No,” I said quietly. “What I’m feeling . . . I’m not ready to call it love. By the Goddess, I barely know her! But . . .”

“But there it is.” He wrapped his arms around his knees. “Are you seeing her again?”

“Tomorrow.” I laughed. “My good lord Bodeshmun’s arranged for a hunting party outside the city. I’m invited.”

“What?”
Sunjata’s voice rose in disbelief. “A hunting party?”

I grinned at him. “I convinced him he’d best find a way to distract her, or she’d begin asking inconvenient questions. And the gods know that’s true enough.”

“Nothing like truth to leaven a good lie.” Sunjata unwound his arms and rose. “Good luck, then. I’ll see you anon.”

Jest or no, I thought Sunjata’s idea had merit. I summoned Ghanim and spun him a tale about wishing to obtain Amazigh garb, explaining that her ladyship kept some traditions of Terre d’Ange and celebrated the Longest Night with a masked fête. Ghanim listened without comment while one of the Carthaginians translated, his fierce gaze fixed on my face. Although I kept my features schooled to perfect sincerity, I had the strong feeling he didn’t believe a word of it.

But to my surprise, Ghanim agreed readily. “There are Amazigh come to the city to trade,” the Carthaginian brother translated. “If you give him money, he will obtain Amazigh garments for you.”

I gave Ghanim the amount he deemed necessary for barter, realizing full well as I did that there was little to keep him from wrapping the veils around his own face to disguise his slave-brand, and escaping.

He pocketed the money and bowed, both hands pressed together.

“I trust your honor,” I said to him.

Ghanim replied without waiting to hear my words in Punic. “Do not insult me,” the Carthaginian translated.

I returned the Amazigh’s salute. “Of course not.”

He was gone the better part of the day. Fortunately, I had no need of my bearers, as I was entertaining one of Lord Solon’s acquaintances within the city that afternoon: Boodes of Hiram, a doddering fellow who was the oldest member of the Council of Thirty. His wits wandered with age, although there were flashes of clarity that suggested why Solon had once counted the man a friend.

“Ptolemy Solon,” Boodes mused. “By the Goddess, he was an ugly lad! Is he still?”

“Not a lad, I fear.” I smiled. “But ugly, yes. Still, he’s a mistress any man would envy.”

The old fellow nodded; then his head slumped, face crumpling into his white beard. I was just beginning to worry when his head snapped upright. “Yes, of course. Your mother, is she not?”

“No, no,” I corrected him. “I’m merely in her ladyship’s household.”

Boodes peered at me with rheumy eyes. “Are you sure? Betimes my memory fails me.”

“Yes, my lord,” I said. “Very sure, alas. Tell me, how fares the war in Aragonia?”

“Aragonia.” His wrinkled lips worked. “Damn fine oranges they grow there. I used to gorge on them when I was a boy. You like oranges?”

“I do, my lord,” I said politely.

“Good.” Boodes nodded again. “Moderation, that’s the thing. Overreach, and you’ll end up with a sick belly. The old Hellenes understood it. Solon does. Astegal doesn’t, nor does Bodeshmun.”

I hesitated. “Do you speak of the war, my lord?”

He blinked his rheumy eyes at me. “I speak of oranges, young man.”

By the time Boodes of Hiram departed, escorted by bearers who clearly bore a good deal of fondness for him, I wasn’t entirely sure if he’d been trying to send me a subtle message of the sort Sunjata had mentioned, or if he was merely wandering in his wits. I’d rather liked the old fellow, and chose to believe it was the former. I found it heartening to think that there were those in Carthage concerned about the scope of Astegal’s ambitions.

It was a good thing, since it put me in a tolerable frame of mind to deal with Ghanim’s return. The Amazigh presented himself at the door of my chambers, his arms filled with dark indigo cloth. He bowed and said somewhat in Punic—or mayhap it was his native tongue—and indicated with pride a bloodstained rip in the fabric.

“Name of Elua!” I said, startled. “Did you kill someone for this?” I mimed a stabbing gesture.

Ghanim grinned. Thrusting out his left arm, he showed me a dagger strapped to his forearm. “Amazigh,” he said with satisfaction.

“I see,” I said slowly. I thought about calling for one of the Carthaginians to translate, but at need, one can accomplish a good deal without language. I studied Ghanim’s face. Whatever he’d done, he reckoned it wholly acceptable with Amazigh culture. I hoped it was, because I wasn’t about to inform Carthaginian authorities that I’d commissioned a slave to purchase Amazigh garments for me and discovered he’d killed to obtain them. “Will you show me how to wear it?” I asked, miming.

He nodded. I ushered him into my chambers, and spent a good hour struggling to master the intricate twists and folds of wrapping the head-scarf so that it formed a turban and veiled my lower face.

“Not bad,” I said at last, studying myself in the mirror. If I darkened the skin of my face and hands with charcoal and kept my eyes narrowed, I could pass in very dim light. All that fabric provided good concealment.

Ghanim pointed to my waist and mimed drawing a sword. I rummaged in my trunks and fetched out my sword-belt, fastening it about my waist. The sword wasn’t the right sort—a slender gentleman’s blade, not the heavier weapons the Amazigh carried—but again, it would suffice to pass a cursory glance. Ghanim slapped my shoulder in approval and asked somewhat in a questioning tone.

“Honestly?” I said. “I’ve no idea, my friend. Not yet. But it seems a useful item to have.” I accorded him a bow, pressing my palms together. “My thanks.”

He bowed in return.

Once Ghanim had left, I practiced wrapping the head-scarf a few dozen more times, until I felt I could do it in my sleep. And then I took off the robe and burnoose, did my best to scour the stiff, dried blood from the robe with water from the washstand, and buried both items deep within my trunks.

In a single day, I’d acquired a ring and a disguise.

Tools. Dangerous, but useful.

I slept better that night and arose with a renewed sense of purpose. Truth be told,
I
could use the distraction of a hunting party as much as Sidonie. There was a certain measure of safety in Bodeshmun’s managed contact. In the company of others, I could count on them to shunt aside any dangerous turns of conversation, and merely play at being the amicable courtier. She knew it was less than the whole truth, of course, but she would have no grounds to question it this day, and I would spend a few precious hours not feeling as though I walked a knife’s edge of intrigue.

And I would be in her company.

The hunting party assembled outside the western gates of Carthage. Passing beneath the massive arch, I felt the same reluctant sense of awe I’d felt on first beholding the city. The walls were just so damned vast.

South of Carthage, it was desert; but here near the coast, it was fertile territory, rife with citrus and olive groves. We would be coursing hares today, riding astride and hunting with a breed of dog particular to Carthage, lean and speedy.

“Leander Maignard!” Gemelquart of Zinnrid hailed me, seated astride a dish-nosed grey mare. His wife, whom I had met at his dinner party, was on one side of him. Princess Sidonie was on the other. “I’m pleased you could join us.”

I bowed to them. “I am honored.”

“You will remember my lady Arishat, I trust.” Gemelquart chuckled. “And I am given to understand you have spent some hours entertaining her highness.”

I gazed up at Sidonie’s face. “I have had that honor, yes.”

“Huntsman!” Gemelquart shouted. “Fetch this man a mount and a bow!”

There was a period of milling chaos while all was made ready. I was provided with a stalwart little chestnut mare and a short hunting bow. It seemed there was to be a picnic luncheon. A battalion of servants was dispatched to make ready for it. Along with Gemelquart and his lady wife, there were some half a dozen Carthaginian nobles taking part in the excursion. Most of them, I did not know. Bodeshmun was there, looking distinctly unlike himself in ornate hunting leathers, glowering into his beard.

At last, the horns blew and we rode forth at a jog. The dogs strained at their leashes. I positioned myself beside Sidonie.

“Messire Maignard,” she acknowledged me in greeting.

I winced. “Have we returned to such formality, your highness?”

Her brows rose. “Do you not think it wise?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer. I made a show of testing the draw of my hunting bow. “I aspire to wisdom, my lady. I do not believe I possess it, not yet. But my lord Ptolemy Solon holds that happiness is the highest form of wisdom.” I made a broad gesture. “Today the sun is shining and we are engaged in a pleasant pursuit in the company of friends. If that is wisdom, let us be content.”

“You are content with little.” Her tone was unreadable. She didn’t believe it. I knew; I could feel it on my skin. She doubted me. I had revealed too much when I’d stumbled over speaking D’Angeline the other night, when I’d glanced at the guard, when I’d warned her against questioning Bodeshmun.

I bowed in the saddle. “Today, yes.”

Sidonie studied me. “So be it.”

So we hunted.

We rode only a short distance from the vast walls of Carthage. The huntsmen sounded their horns and loosed the hounds. We rode after them, whooping in the chase. I felt invigorated. The hounds were graceful, lean-bellied creatures with plumed tails. In an olive grove, they flushed a brace of hare. I shot and missed as the hares dodged and doubled, the hounds yelping. One of the Carthaginian lords I didn’t know set out in hot pursuit, followed by others.

“You’re not a terribly good shot, are you, Leander?” Beneath the shade of an olive tree, Sidonie drew rein alongside me, accompanied by Gemelquart and his wife.

“No.” I smiled because she’d used my name. “Are you?”

She laughed. “No.”

“I am,” Gemelquart said. “But I’m under orders not to overexert myself.”

“That, and you use your weak lungs as an excuse for laziness,” his wife, Arishat, said, but she was smiling as she said it.

“Alais would enjoy this,” Sidonie mused. “She likes the hunt, and she loves dogs. She had one for many years—”

“Ah, yes, Alais!” Gemelquart interrupted her. “Your highness, I would be delighted to make your sister a gift of one of these dogs. They are royal Phoenician hunting dogs, a very ancient strain. As you can see, they are possessed of tremendous speed—”

“It was a wolfhound,” Sidonie said, frowning. “She was killed.”

“Such a sad thing to lose a beloved pet!” Arishat exclaimed. She was a Carthaginian lady some years younger than her husband, with pleasant features and a lovely speaking voice. “Why, I had a cat, a pretty little Menekhetan cat, that I’d raised from a kitten. She used to follow me—”

“Killed by a bear?” Lost in thought, Sidonie blinked. “Or was it a boar?”

“Let me summon the huntsman,” Gemelquart said smoothly. He raised one arm and gave a shout, beckoning. “Doubtless he’ll be able to advise us on the dogs’ qualities and recommend one suitable for a young lady’s companion.”

In the distance, the huntsman turned, heeding Gemelquart’s summons. Bodeshmun heard it, too, and reined his mount in our direction.

“Why can’t I remember?” Sidonie reached out and grabbed my wrist without thinking. There was a panicked strength in her grip and slow terror rising behind her black eyes. “Was it a boar or a bear? Leander, why can’t I remember how Alais’ dog was killed?”

Ah, gods, what in the seven hells did Prince Imriel have to do with the death of her sister’s dog? I couldn’t even begin to guess. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bodeshmun looming nearer. Gemelquart gave me a helpless grimace.

“Sunstroke.” I freed my wrist, leaned over in the saddle to place my hand on Sidonie’s brow. “Forgive us, my lady, we were thoughtless. The sun is much stronger in Carthage than you’re accustomed to. Being raised on Cythera, I forget.”

“I don’t have sunstroke,” she said in a low tone, batting my hand away.

I caught her hand and squeezed it hard enough to feel the small bones grinding together. “Yes,” I said. “You do.”

She stared at me.

“I fear he’s right, your highness,” Arishat said in her soothing voice. “Oh, I feel a fool! You feel disordered in your wits, yes? ’Tis a common malady. I’ve suffered it myself. In the cooler weather, one forgets the sun’s strength.” She dismounted and took hold of Sidonie’s mount’s bridle. “Come, let us sit here in the shade together. We’ll have the picnic brought to us.”