Kushiel's Mercy (53 page)

“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.

“Keep going,” Deimos said grimly. “Row!”

The port grew closer. We were well inside the mole. I spared a glance over my shoulder and saw the wounded Carthaginian ship beginning to founder. I whispered a prayer of thanks to Blessed Elua.

Our pace slowed as we drew into the harbor.

Amílcar.

Even in the midst of terror and urgency, it made me feel strange seeing it again. I’d seen it as a child. It was here that the Carthaginian slave-traders had sold me to a Menekhetan merchant. It was from this very harbor that I’d set sail toward horror; and now I was back, seeking sanctuary in a besieged city. Strange, indeed.

There was a large contingent of armed men awaiting us on the dock. Archers with crossbows were arrayed in two ranks, one kneeling, one standing behind them. All held their weapons cocked and ready. A mounted man watched us intently, a lean fellow, his cheeks pitted with old pox scars.

“Peace!” I called in Aragonian. “We come seeking sanctuary!”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Fifty-Two

I
got carefully to my feet, raising my hands to show they were empty, and made my way forward to where Sidonie was shivering in the prow. “Are you all right?” I whispered to her.

She nodded. “Cold.”

I helped her stand. None of Deimos’ men moved. The archers on the dock kept their crossbows trained on us. “We bear her highness Sidonie de la Courcel, the Dauphine of Terre d’Ange,” I called. “Freed from Carthage’s grasp.”

The mounted man spat. “Carthage’s bitch!”

“No longer.” Sidonie was wavering on her feet, but her voice was steady. “Messire, if you bear any love for either of our countries, you will welcome us ashore.”

For a long moment, he hesitated, surveying our exhausted, singed, sooty human cargo. Kratos was huddled in the prow, grimacing. Sidonie and I stood. Everyone else, Deimos included, simply leaned on their oars.

“Down,” the mounted man said at last to his archers. “I am Vitor Gaitán, captain of the Harbor Watch,” he said to us. “I will take you into custody. What happens then is for Serafin to decide.”

“He’s my kinsman,” Sidonie said. “I need to speak with him immediately.”

Vitor Gaitán eyed her. “That’s for Serafin to decide.”

“She needs a chirurgeon is what she needs,” I said. The man opened his mouth to reply. “And no, that’s not for Serafin to decide.”

Gaitán’s men secured the landing-boat and helped us ashore, then marched us through the streets of Amílcar. Gods, we were a sorry lot! Kratos was among the worst, blisters rising on his back, his shirt scorched to holes. To compound matters, he’d broken a rib or two in the fall when I’d heaved him over the railing. Still, he shrugged off my apologies. “One of the last fellows didn’t make it,” Kratos said soberly. “Like as not that would have been me. I’m not as quick as you, my lord.”

There were a good many folk on the streets, watching with curiosity. The mood in Amílcar was markedly different than New Carthage. It was a city holding out in the early stages of a siege, tense, jubilant, and defiant.

That, I thought, would change.

Vitor Gaitán led us to a park where a makeshift infirmary of tents had been erected and called for chirurgeons to attend our wounded.

“I’m off to report to Serafin,” he said to us. “What happens then—”

“Just go,” Sidonie said wearily.

I sat with her on one of the cots while we waited. There were two chirurgeons on hand, but she wouldn’t allow either of them to examine her, insisting that they tend first to the injured among Deimos’ men.

“How many of them died?” she asked me.

“Seven or eight,” I said. “I’m not sure.” I took her hand. “Sidonie, Bodeshmun threatened to have my eyes put out and my tongue cut from my head if I was merely careless. Astegal might have kept you alive as a hostage if they’d caught us, but I think the rest of us would have been dead or wishing we were. And if we succeed, far more lives will be saved than lost.”

“I know.” She gazed into the distance. “It’s still a hard cost to bear. None of them had any stake in this. They were just obeying orders.”

“I know,” I said.

She glanced at me. “Thank you for not trying to soften it.”

It wasn’t long before we heard the sound of a carriage approaching, and then a woman’s voice angrily addressing the guards Vitor Gaitán had left posted to watch over us. It was a voice I knew, and one I never thought I’d be so grateful to hear. We got to our feet as Nicola L’Envers y Aragon entered the chirurgeons’ tent.

“Name of Elua!” She stopped short, staring at Sidonie. “It
is
true.”

“Well met, Lady Nicola,” Sidonie said a bit unsteadily. “I regret the circumstances.”

“What . . .” Nicola paused, then shook her head. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“It was a spell,” I said. “Dire magics. Half of Terre d’Ange hasn’t gone mad, and Sidonie didn’t willingly betray Aragonia. We’ll gladly explain the entire matter to you, but Sidonie needs to be seen by a chirurgeon. She has an injury that’s healing badly and she’s burning up with fever.”

Nicola looked at me in bewilderment. “Who are you?”

I’d forgotten half of my scorched attire was yet Leander’s. Ptolemy Solon wove a tight spell. “Imriel, my lady.” I sat on the cot and began hauling off Leander’s boots. “’Tis another piece of sorcery—”

“Wait.” Sidonie touched my arm. “You’ll only have to go through it again. Better to do it all at once, so they’ll believe. Your son Serafin’s taken charge of the resistance and declared himself regent in exile?” she asked Nicola.

“Yes.” She regarded us with continued bemusement.

Sidonie took a deep breath. “Then we need to speak with him and whoever else is in command here.”

“After you see a chirurgeon,” I added.

I daresay Lady Nicola thought we were both mad or fevered, but she escorted us both quickly from the tent and into her carriage. There the three of us sat in awkward silence. Sidonie was still shivering. I read the doubt and uncertainty on Nicola’s face.

“You gave me a spotted horse,” I said to her. “You said his name was . . .” I searched my memory. “Hierax. Hierax, but the Tsingani who bred and trained him called him the Bastard.”

Her violet eyes widened. “Blessed Elua!
Imriel
?”

I nodded. “I know it’s hard to believe. But please, trust us long enough to hear us out.”

Nicola leaned out the window and called to the driver. “Hurry, please.”

She took us to the Count’s palace—or what had been the Count’s palace. Count Fernan had been killed in a skirmish outside New Carthage. It was a solid building of grey granite, located in the Plaza del Rey at the heart of the city. There, she led us to a pleasant guest-chamber where we were able to wash the worst of the soot and smoke from our skin, and sent for her own chirurgeon, a capable Eisandine woman named Rachel. Lady Nicola stayed in the room while Rachel examined Sidonie. She caught her breath at the sight of the inflamed wound.

“What did this to you?” the chirurgeon asked.

Sidonie met my eyes. “A paring knife. Does it matter?”

“I suppose not.” Rachel swabbed the wound. “I need to apply a poultice to draw the poisonous humors. You’ll have to be still for a full day and not disturb it.”

“Not yet.” Sidonie shifted restlessly. “Not until I’ve addressed Serafin and the others.”

The chirurgeon made a disapproving sound.

“It’s important,” I said to Rachel.

She sighed. “I’ll clean and dress it, and give you willow-bark tea for the fever. But mind, if you don’t heed me quickly, it will start to putrefy. And once that happens, a mere poultice won’t suffice. I’ll have to induce maggots into the wound to devour the rotten flesh. Do you understand?”

Sidonie merely nodded. “My thanks.”

The chirurgeon Rachel sent her young Aragonian assistant to brew the tea, then finished binding the injury. Sidonie was sitting up and drinking the willow-bark tea obediently when a man who could only be Serafin L’Envers y Aragon entered the room unceremoniously. His olive-skinned features and straight black hair were Aragonian, but he had the violet eyes that marked so many of House L’Envers.

“Why didn’t you await my orders?” he asked his mother.

Nicola raised her brows. “To receive my kinswoman, the Dauphine of Terre d’Ange? I wasn’t aware it was necessary.”

“We’re at war with the woman’s husband, Mother.” Serafin turned to us. “You’re Sidonie?”

“Yes,” she said. “Cousin Serafin, I presume?”

He ignored the question. “You’ve one hell of a nerve coming here to beg sanctuary.”

“You’ve no idea,” Sidonie said dryly. “Would you care to summon a council to find out what Carthage has done to both our nations, and what we might do about it, or do you wish to berate me a while longer?”

Serafin’s nostrils flared, but he held himself in check. “You’ve knowledge that might shed light on this ungodly affair?”

“I do,” she said. “We both do.”

He gave me a hard look. “Who are you?”

I gave him a brief bow. “Imriel de la Courcel.”

We’d never met, so Serafin took me at my word, but it startled him nonetheless. “The missing prince?”

“More often than not,” I agreed.

“Call a council, Serafin,” Nicola murmured. “Whatever it is they have to say, I suspect we’ll all want to hear it.”

He nodded brusquely. “Escort them to the great hall.” With that, Serafin took his leave, accompanied by a handful of guards.

“He seems a touch . . . intemperate,” I volunteered.

“Terre d’Ange’s betrayal took everyone hard,” Nicola said soberly. “Serafin more than most. It’s half his heritage. You won’t find a lot of goodwill here, I fear. I’ve felt the brush of suspicion myself, and I’ve lived a good deal of my life in Aragonia.”

Sidonie finished her tea. “Lady Nicola, do you know what passes in Terre d’Ange these days?”

“You’ve not heard?” Nicola inquired.

Sidonie shook her head. “There was no information passing through New Carthage. Before that, I was kept ignorant.”

“We’ve been isolated since the siege began,” Nicola said. Her expression was deeply troubled. “But at last reckoning, Terre d’Ange was divided against itself. Barquiel sought to install your sister, Alais, as Princess-Regent, using troops he raised and some of Alba’s forces. Ysandre decreed them in rebellion against the Crown. They’ve established a base at Turnone, while Ysandre holds the City of Elua.”

I felt sick. “Are they at war?”

“Not yet—or at least they weren’t. But it seems a precarious stalemate.” She shifted her worried gaze to mine. “No one’s known what to believe. I’d never have thought Ysandre would grow power-mad, but there’s an ambitious strain in the L’Envers bloodline. Elua knows Barquiel’s always had it.”

“It’s not ambition,” Sidonie said. “Not this time.” She rose and I took her arm to steady her. She gave me a fleeting smile. “Let’s go take your clothes off for the Aragonian council.”

“I’m beginning to think you enjoy that part,” I observed.

Her smile deepened briefly. “I do, actually.”

The council wasn’t large. It consisted of Serafin and eight others, all men. His father, Ramiro Zornín de Aragon was among them. I wondered how it was that Serafin had claimed the regency over his father’s right, and suspected it had somewhat to do with ambition. Phèdre had always said that Ramiro, a minor member of the House of Aragon who’d long served as King’s Consul, had a good deal of charm and little ambition.

I supposed she ought to know, since Nicola had been her lover for many years, which was why I’d never liked her. Those feelings seemed distant and petty now.