Kushiel's Mercy (59 page)

We looked at one another. “Right.” Sidonie nodded. “Sleep.”

In the morning—or later in the morning—when we arose, we found it was true. The weather had broken and the day was clear and bright, giving every promise of a clear, cloudless night.

“I don’t think they’ll do it tonight,” I said to Sidonie. “Not after the fête.”

I was wrong.

In the early afternoon, Captain Aureliano, the soldier I’d met atop the walls of the city, sought us out, finding us in the palace library. He’d struck me as a competent, easygoing fellow when I’d met him. Today he was as serious as death.

“Well met, your highness,” he said when I introduced him to Sidonie. “General Liberio sent me to confer with you.”

Sidonie paled. “Is it tonight?”

“It is.” Aureliano took a deep breath. “The general had us let the word slip to Astegal’s men that there was a fête last night. We do a fair bit of taunting back and forth, you know. Not much else to do. But he reckoned that in the event the weather cleared today, they’d never expect us to pull a stunt tonight.”

“Clever,” I said.

“Liberio’s a clever fellow,” Aureliano said. “I’ll be in command of your company. He’s sent me to go over every instruction with you to be sure there are no mistakes made tonight.”

“Tell us what we need to know,” Sidonie said in a resolute tone.

Aureliano went over the plan step by step. Saddlebags would be delivered to our quarters. We were to pack our things and be ready by nightfall—nothing more than we could carry on horseback. That part at least was simple—neither of us possessed more than we could carry.

“What about supplies?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Your guide will be carrying enough to get you through the first night or so. Once you’re north of Amílcar, you’ll find villages willing to trade. Carthage’s sway lies to the south yet.”

The sortie was to take place some hours after midnight. Aureliano and his men would come to fetch us and escort us to the western gates of the city.

“You’re opening the gates?” I asked, startled.

“No choice,” he said grimly. “There are sally ports to the north and south, but they’re too small to admit aught but foot-soldiers. Not horses, and surely not that movable gangplank.”

The balance of the plan was simple. Liberio’s infantry men would essay a pair of sorties; the first from the southern sally port to provide a distraction, and the second from the northern port. Once the latter had secured the trench, the gates would be opened. A company of soldiers would rush forth with the gangplank to bridge the trench. As soon as it was in place, we’d follow. A second company, the one that would scatter across Aragonia, would follow in our wake.

“Getting across the plank’s going to be the worst of it,” Aureliano warned us. “We’ll have to go single file. Do you ride well, your highness?”

“Tolerably,” Sidonie said.

“Good.” He gave a brusque nod. “Getting to the bridge proper is the second worst. We’ll be crossing ground held by Carthage. With luck, they’ll be too confused and in disarray to act swiftly.”

“And Astegal will be fuming his way from Montero,” I observed. “Where he’s been careless enough to ensconce himself.”

“Indeed.” Aureliano smiled briefly. “There are ten of us escorting you. Once we’ve crossed the plank, I want you to fall into the following formation. Four lines of three abreast. Your highness, you’ll be in the middle of the second rank, directly behind me. Prince Imriel, you’ll be in the middle of the third rank. The last rank will form your rearguard. Is that too difficult to understand?”

The question was directed at Sidonie. On any other occasion she would have shot him a cool look. Today she shook her head somberly. “No, my lord captain. I think I can manage it.”

To his credit, he took her at her word. “Good. Once we’ve crossed the bridge, we ride like hell. There’s a squadron of archers will try to follow in our wake. They’ll hold the bridge behind us as long as they can to delay pursuit. When your guide Paskal gives the word, you’ll split off from the company. Do you have any questions?”

“No,” Sidonie said.

“I do,” I said. “You and the men who drew this assignment . . . how were you chosen?”

Aureliano met my eyes. “We volunteered. What do you reckon our odds are?”

I thought about the Amazigh guards beheading the assassin in the garden. Desert justice. “Do any of you speak Hellene?”

“I do,” he said.

“Give yourselves up before the Amazigh catch you of their own accord,” I said. “Don’t give them an excuse to kill you out of hand. Try to convince them you’ve information you’ll give only to Astegal.”

“And tell Astegal you were forced into cooperating,” Sidonie added. “Tell him Serafin and Liberio threatened to kill your wives and children. Tell him you want to swear loyalty to him.”

“Will it work?” Aureliano asked.

Sidonie shrugged. “It might. He takes a certain pleasure in getting folk to betray their loyalties.”

“My thanks.” He bowed. “I’ll see you anon. Take some sleep if you can. It’s going to be a grueling night.”

Fifty-Eight

A
t the hour of midnight, we gathered in the great hall to wait.

The mood was quiet and subdued, the palace nearly empty. Most folk were either sleeping or elsewhere along the city walls. But Lady Nicola waited with us, for which I was grateful.

“You’ve everything in readiness?” she asked for the third or fourth time. It was unsettling to see her unsettled.

“Everything,” I assured her.

“I’m sorry.” Nicola shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. “It’s the waiting. It drives one mad, doesn’t it?”

Sidonie didn’t comment. I watched her gathering herself, gathering her courage. Mostly I just watched her, etching her features on my memory over and over again. I wasn’t afraid for myself, but I was terrified for her sake. I wondered if Joscelin had felt that way. Probably, I thought, and with a great deal more regularity.

Still, it was awful.

It almost seemed too soon when Aureliano and his men came for us. He introduced us to Paskal, our guide. Paskal was a short, dark, broad-chested fellow who seemed disconcertingly young. I’d hoped for someone steady and authoritative, someone like Urist. But Paskal’s mother was Euskerri. He knew the language and the territory. I supposed that was more important than age.

“Ready?” Aureliano asked.

“Yes.” Sidonie glanced at me, then reached for my hand, gripping it hard. “Let’s go.”

We bade farewell to Lady Nicola, who embraced us both. “I’ll not say good-bye to you,” she said steadily. “We’ll meet again. But yes.” She forestalled Sidonie’s question. “
Emmenghanom
. I remember. And I have it written and saved in a safe place.”

Sidonie smiled quietly. “Thank you, my lady.”

Another leavetaking.

Gods, I hated them.

We rode through the moon-silvered streets of Amílcar, the city silent and tense. The first sortie hadn’t been launched yet. General Liberio wanted to be certain every element was in readiness. Once they struck, things would move very quickly.

Our company gathered inside the western gate, behind the stalwart company of soldiers responsible for maneuvering the gangplank into place. I didn’t envy them their task. They’d be slow-moving and exposed.

A runner went to inform the General that we were ready. We waited. My horse shifted under me, cocking one hip. I wished I had the Bastard. He’d make a target, though, his speckled white hide gleaming in the moonlight. We rode dark horses, wore dark clothing. Our armor was darkened with ash and grease. Sidonie was shrouded in a man’s black cloak, the hood drawn up to hide her hair.

We waited.

The first sortie struck.

On the far side of the wall, a clamor of chaos and confusion arose to the south of us. The sound of bowstrings twanging. Shouts of pain and anger, battle-cries. A clash of weapons. Horns blaring an alarm. I wished I could see what was happening.

Then the second sortie.

The sounds of battle intensified. South and north. Men screaming, men dying. We’d be riding through it. I glanced at Sidonie. She met my gaze, her eyes wide: twin pools of blackness in her pale face.

“Whatever happens, I love you,” she said.

I nodded. “Always.”

“You won’t let Astegal have me?”

I shook my head. “Never.”

More horns blared—ours, in the tower of the gatehouse. “Be ready,” Aureliano said briefly.

It was a proper portcullis, massive and heavy. Somewhere in the gatehouse a gear cranked, raising the grate. Two men wrestled with the heavy bar of the inner gates. Four men in concert shoved at the doors themselves, hurling them open.

“Go, go, go!” someone shouted.

The infantry soldiers carrying the portable bridge raced forward, dashing for the trench some thirty yards away. The fighting was north and south. Before us, the moon-shadowed ground was open. At Aureliano’s signal, we moved forward into the open gateway. He raised one hand, bidding us wait.

We waited.

Liberio’s soldiers scuttled under their burden. Dim figures peeled away from the fighting on both fronts. I couldn’t tell if they were Amíl-car’s men or Carthage’s. Both, I thought. Metal clashed on metal. I settled my buckler on my left arm and drew my sword. Our fellows wrestled the gangplank into place, bridging the trench.

“Now!”
Aureliano shouted.

He led the charge, spear lowered. One by one, we followed.

Single file.

This was the hardest part, the worst part. I fell in behind Sidonie. The speed of our passage had blown her hood back, loosened her hair. It streamed, silver in the moonlight. I saw a figure racing to intercept her on foot, wielding a throwing-axe. I dug my heels hard into my mount’s flanks, passing her. I rode him down before he had a chance to throw, trampling him. My mount balked and shied.

“Go!”
I shouted at Sidonie, pointing with my sword toward the improvised bridge.

She went.

Several of Aureliano’s men passed me. I wrestled my mount under control, cursing him. The rearguard checked their horses, yelling at me. I rejoined the column. We thundered toward the trench, toward the gangplank. Overhead, the moon shone, placid and bright. All around us, men fought and died.

One, two, three . . . I was the ninth to cross. I could feel the planks dip and give under the weight of my mount, but they held. A Carthaginian soldier veered out of the darkness unexpectedly, jabbing at me with a thrusting spear. I kneed my horse hard and it swerved.

“Fall in!” Aureliano was shouting. “Fall in!”

We obeyed, all of us. Falling into the formation he’d ordered: four ranks of three. Or mayhap three ranks. I didn’t know if the rearguard had made it, and I didn’t know if the archers meant to hold the bridge were following. I didn’t dare look. All that mattered was that I could see Sidonie in front of me, alive. And in front of her was Aureliano and his line, clearing the way with lowered spears. Astegal’s infantry fell away before their onslaught, unprepared.

And beyond, the bridge across the Barca River.

Somewhere, more horns were raising an urgent cry. Ahead of me, a racing figure hurled a javelin. The soldier to the left of Sidonie went down, his mount rolling and squealing horribly.

“Move!” I shouted at the soldier on my left. “Move up!”

He hesitated.

I swore and urged my mount past him, cutting him off. Not such a bad horse, really. I fell in beside Sidonie, taking my place at her side. I saw a Carthaginian archer kneel, taking aim in the moonlight. His bow twanged. I twisted in the saddle, leaning low, and caught the shaft on my buckler.

And then there was the bridge and a double line of men determined to defend it. Aureliano rode them down without hesitation. The soldier to his right went down. I chopped mercilessly with my sword, hacking at blurred faces in the moonlight, shoving at them with my arrow-pierced buckler.

We cleared the line.

We crossed the bridge, dark, moonlit water sliding beneath us.

Behind us, more bows twanged. Ours or theirs? I couldn’t tell.

“Ride!” Aureliano’s voice rose. “Ride for your damned lives!”

It was a strange and surreal flight, hurtling ourselves across the moon-drenched landscape. We rode at a hectic pace, clinging to our saddles. Bit by bit, the sound of fighting faded. Pursuit was coming, but not yet. We followed the road as it curved along the coastline, rising into the foothills.

Within a quarter of an hour, there was dense pine forest crowding the western edge of the road. Not long after they appeared, Paskal drew rein and whistled sharply. Our company halted.

“Here?” I asked Paskal.

Our guide shrugged. “Better sooner than later.”

“Good luck,” I said to Aureliano. “Give them a good chase.”

“Thank you,” Sidonie added soberly. “More than I can say. May the gods be with you and your men.”

Aureliano gave a brusque nod. “And you, your highness.”

That was all. There was no time to waste or spare. Aureliano raised one hand in farewell and ordered his men to move. Paskal beckoned for us to follow, turning his mount into the forest.

We had to travel slowly. The dense pines blocked out the moonlight until there was barely enough to see by. Branches reached for us, prickling and tangling as we made our way between the trees. The foothills weren’t steep, but the grade was deceptive. Our horses had been ridden hard, and I could feel mine laboring. The slow pace made my skin itch.

But we were alive.

And the very factors that slowed us protected us. The road had been utterly blocked from our view within twenty paces. The thick pine mast muffled the sound of our horses’ hooves. There was no way the Amazigh could suspect we’d turned off the road, no way they could track us here at night.

Not long after we entered the forest, we heard the sound of hoofbeats in the direction from which we’d come. Many hoofbeats, racing along the road. The sound rose and rose, then faded as they continued onward.

“Astegal’s cavalry,” Paskal said in a low voice.

“Likely,” I said. “Pray for your friends and press onward.”