Kushiel's Mercy (78 page)

Stupidity, cunning, and greed.

The first we heard of it was a summons from a Queen’s courier bidding me to Court. I thought mayhap I’d rejoiced too quickly at Marc Faucon’s successful escape and felt the blood drain from my face.

“Why do you look so pale?” Phèdre asked. “Mayhap the news is good.”

I forced myself to smile. “Mayhap.”

“Not likely,” Joscelin observed.

We arrived at the Hall of Audience to find Ysandre pacing in a fury, her color high and hectic. I glanced at Sidonie. She returned my gaze, but I couldn’t read her expression. Beside her, Kratos grimaced in warning.

“Imriel.” Ysandre fetched up before me, pointing toward a trembling figure. “Do you know this man?”

I looked at him. He was of average height and middle years, muscle running to fat. Brown hair, a forgettable face. He sported several ostentatious rings, and his chin was quivering. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

“His name is Antonio Peruggi,” Ysandre said in a taut voice. “He claims to have news from Amílcar. He claims that you and Sidonie conspired to bring the Euskerri to defeat Astegal. He claims you killed Astegal with your own hand, and that my daughter aided you. And he seems to think I will reward him for this knowledge.”

I went ice-cold.

“Who paid you to say that?” The words were out of my mouth before I knew I’d thought them. Fear and rage drove my body and wits; I found myself standing before Peruggi without realizing I’d moved. He gaped at me, uncomprehending. I struck his face hard enough to wrench his head sideways. “Who?”

“No one!” Peruggi cried in broken D’Angeline. “It’s true! Everyone knows!”

I struck him again.
“Who?”

“No one!” he cried again.

“Do you know me?” I demanded. “Have you ever seen me before?”

“No!” Peruggi said raggedly. “But I heard the tales—”

I backhanded him across the face. “Was it Alais? Barquiel L’Envers?”

“Enough.” It was Sidonie who spoke, her voice cool and commanding. “He speaks sedition,” she said to her mother. “I told you as much. I sense L’Envers’ hand behind it. It reeks of his tactics. This is some scheme to drive a wedge between us.”

Ysandre considered her daughter’s words. “Is that so?” she asked the Caerdicci merchant. She sounded eminently reasonable. “Will you hold to your story or shall I have you tortured until you divulge the truth?”

Antonio Peruggi shook his head. There was a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth where I’d struck him. “No,” he whispered. “Please, your majesty.”

“So it was L’Envers,” Ysandre pressed.

“Yes.” He gazed at me, eyes damp. “Yes, the Duc L’Envers.”

“Sedition.” Ysandre lingered over the word. “You have sacrificed your rights here, Messire Peruggi, and I would be within mine to have you executed.” He flinched. She glanced at Sidonie. “What do you say?”

“Let him be flogged.” Sidonie fixed the Caerdicci merchant with an implacable gaze. “Let him be put in stocks and given a public flogging, then turned loose to leave the City, his back bloody and bare, that all across the realm might know the price of speaking sedition in the matter of my husband.”

Ysandre nodded. “So be it.”

Ah, gods! I was torn between relief and horror. Elua knows, the man had spoken the truth, even if it was driven by greed and idiocy. My rage had been unfeigned, although no one would have guessed at its cause.

But Sidonie . . .

I wasn’t sure.

Later that day, Antonio Peruggi was flogged in Elua’s Square, kneeling on sifted dirt denuded of its paving-stones, his bent head and helpless hands held in stocks, his thick, fleshy torso bare. I watched the Queen’s chastiser’s arm rise and fall, wielding the metal-tipped flogger. I watched it shred Peruggi’s skin as he jerked and moaned in the stocks, blood running freely down his back. I watched Sidonie’s calm, appraising gaze.

My heart ached.

When it was done, a watching crowd roared their approval. Members of the Queen’s Guard helped a stumbling Peruggi from the stocks, helped him to mount. Slapped his horse’s haunches and sent him toward the southern gates. I made my way unobtrusively to Sidonie’s side.

“Are you still there, love?” I murmured under my breath.

For the space of a few heartbeats, she didn’t answer; but at last her head moved in an imperceptible nod. Wherever she’d gone, it took a long time to come back. “Get out of the City,” she said in a low voice. “Save yourself before this truth breaks in earnest.”

“Not without you,” I said steadily.

A glance, one glance. Anguish surfacing in her dark eyes. Gods, I wished I could make it go away! Instead, Kratos shifted, placing himself closer to Sidonie. Ysandre’s suspicious gaze found us. I moved away.

That night I couldn’t sleep. I gazed out my narrow window. The moon was very nearly full. Three days. In three days it would be full. I wondered if the spell’s strength waxed and waned with the moon. I thought about the emerald flash I’d seen before the madness on Sunjata’s needle took me and wondered if mayhap the gem would emit a spark by the rising moonlight.

It seemed no less implausible than anything else, so I rose and went to saddle a horse. In the process, I awoke the sleeping stable-lad, who went to alert the guards. One went to fetch Joscelin, who came to stop me.

“You can’t go out there alone, Imri,” he said. “It’s not safe.”

I thought about all the dangerous places I’d ventured alone and I could have laughed until I wept. Instead I told Joscelin my notion about the moon affecting the gem.

“I suppose it’s worth a try,” he said. “I’ll go with you.”

And so we rode out together, starting our quest under the moon-shadow of the ancient oak tree in Elua’s Square, where the dirt was still clotted with Antonio Peruggi’s dried blood. I kept feeling myself drawn to the place where it had begun. But there was no emerald flash, only the rustling of the spring breeze in new leaves.

We rode in aimless circles, making a rough outward spiral through the streets of the City. The City was restless, the sounds of harsh revelry and discordant music pouring from inns and wineshops open well past the usual hour. Atop Mont Nuit, the Houses of the Night Court were all ablaze with lamplight.

“Soldiers,” Joscelin said, gazing toward the distant lights. “Bidding farewell to the pleasures of the flesh. One can’t begrudge them.”

“No.” I thought about Sidonie lying in my arms the night before battle.
As much as I’d like to make love to you until the sun rises, I’d sooner have you go into battle well-rested.
I’d prayed to Blessed Elua for a hundred thousand nights to make up for that one. My eyes stung. “But I’m surprised Drustan and Ghislain don’t insist on better discipline.”

“When did you start thinking like a commander of men?” Joscelin glanced at me. “Ah, well. I imagine they’ll have a good long march to sweat out the excesses of debauchery. And in the end . . .” He fell silent.

“In the end it doesn’t matter,” I finished. “Because they’re all dead men.”

“If it comes to it. Don’t make mock of their sacrifice,” Joscelin said in a somber tone. “One day, they’ll be remembered as heroes who fought to preserve all that we hold dear in Terre d’Ange. Their deaths will not be in vain if their valor lives on in the hearts of men.”

“I’m not mocking,” I said wearily. “Just heart-sick.”

Joscelin nodded. “So are we all.”

I wanted to say no, no you’re not. You’re all
sick
, poisoned by Bodeshmun’s vile spell, poisoned by this cursed demon-stone we’re trying so hard to find. But I knew it would do no good, so I held my tongue and kept searching, riding the moonlit streets, hoping to spot an emerald spark amid the bobbing torches and spilling lamplight.

I didn’t.

We made our way back to the townhouse at dawn. I watched the sun’s rays breaking in the east.

Three days.

Only three.

Seventy-Nine

F
or two more nights, I continued to roam the City, accompanied by Joscelin or Hugues and Ti-Philippe. I didn’t really have much hope left, but sleep evaded me and I didn’t know what else to do with myself.

Phèdre didn’t like it, fearing I was in the grip of a new obsession. For the first few days after Ysandre had declared an end to the search, folk in the City had continued to look for Bodeshmun’s gem in a furtive manner under the wary eye of the Royal Army. But that had faded as their thoughts turned increasingly to war.

The mania to find the gem vanished as though it had never existed. War was the new mania.

War.

War.

War.

It was all I heard. In the townhouse, in the streets, spewing from the inns. An endless drumbeat of war. The City’s mood ranged wildly from fierce, deluded optimism to maudlin sentiment. Theories abounded and were analyzed tirelessly. Alais’ and L’Envers’ army would desert at the first show of strength. The battle would end in devastation and ruin, but poets would sing forever of the glorious sacrifice of the Royal Army of Terre d’Ange. Folk argued heatedly on every side of the argument; but on one point, all agreed. They were eager for it to begin.

And I continued my futile, lonely search, Joscelin having succeeded in convincing Phèdre that this obsession was at least harmless.

By the dawn of the third day, the last day, I felt hollow inside. I’d done my best. It hadn’t been enough. There was one more night. Tonight the moon would be full. If there was any merit to my theory, tonight would be the last, best chance. I took to my bed, willing my weary body to succumb to sleep. A few hours would be enough to sustain me. I had to keep trying.

It felt like my head had scarce touched the pillow before Phèdre shook me awake.

“Imriel.” Her face was grave. “There’s a delegation from Alais. Ysandre and Drustan are receiving them at the Palace in an hour’s time. I thought you’d want to be there.”

I blinked. “Yes, of course.”

I was still stifling yawns when we entered the Hall of Audience an hour later. It was an open audience and the Hall was crowded, but people made way for the Comtesse de Montrève and the Queen’s Champion and, I suppose, poor mad Prince Imriel.

It was a formal affair. Drustan and Ysandre were seated in twin thrones on a dais, emblematic of their shared rule. Sidonie stood between them, the acknowledged heir to Terre d’Ange, her features composed. That damnable gem-painting was displayed on an easel behind her, still draped in mourning crepe. Astegal and a blonde woman, their hands entwined before the oak tree.

I met Sidonie’s gaze. She nodded at me with polite courtesy. There was nothing else there, nothing that I could see.

And no bindings of red thread at her wrists.

I’d lost her.

And, ah, Elua! As if that weren’t terrible enough, I saw that Alais and L’Envers had chosen to send a delegate that might present no threat, that might move a hardened heart. I recognized her. She was a member of their shadow Parliament, the elderly L’Agnacite woman who had wept and apologized for thinking terrible things of me. She held herself with dignity and grace, surrounded by an escort of some twenty men in humble attire. None of them were armed.

“We recognize the Baronesse Isabel de Bretel as an emissary of the avowed traitors Alais de la Courcel and Barquiel L’Envers,” Ysandre announced coolly. “Do you bring word of their surrender?”

“Your majesties.” Isabel de Bretel sank into a deep curtsy, then rose. “We come in peace. I bring one last plea for sanity.”

“We ask for nothing more,” Drustan said with deceptive mildness, resting his chin on one fist. “Have they renounced their mad quest?”

“There is madness, but it does not lie outside the City’s walls.” Her voice quavered, then strengthened. “Your majesties, we beg you to see reason! These men . . .” Isabel de Bretel gestured. “These men surrounding me, they are farmers and tradesmen and merchants, fathers and husbands and sons. We come to beg you to listen.”

“Listen to
what
?” Ysandre’s voice rose. “More sedition?”

A thousand voices murmured in agreement.

“You’re ill!” The old baronesse’s voice broke. “All those outside the City’s walls know it.” I could tell by the angle of her head that she sought Sidonie’s eyes, but there was nothing there she could speak to. “Please, we’re searching for a cure. We’re all searching. We beg you stay your hand—”

Drustan made an abrupt gesture. “Do you bring terms of surrender?”

Isabel de Bretel bowed her head. “No, your majesty.”

“Then there is nothing to discuss.” Ysandre nodded to the Palace Guard. “Throw her in chains. Throw them all in chains and lock them in the dungeon.” She paused. “No, wait. Save one of these farmer’s sons to carry word to our youngest child. We will give no quarter. We will accept no terms save surrender.”

Ah, gods! I was cold, so cold. Guards moved forward, chains at the ready. They’d been prepared for this. The outcome had never been in question.

I daresay Isabel de Bretel had expected it. It had been a desperate measure. They knew reason held no sway here, but they’d been compelled to try. I would have felt the same. She said a quiet word to her escort, then stood with her back proud and straight, holding out her hands to accept the shackles.

None of them protested. The guards handled them roughly nonetheless. They wrestled all but one of her party into chains, singled out a lanky young fellow with silken brown hair and cornflower-blue eyes, young enough that he was still rawboned with it.

“You.” Drustan pointed to him. “Come here.” The lad approached the throne, trembling. Drustan moved swiftly, rising and grabbing a handful of his hair. He stared into the lad’s eyes, his face deadly. “I should send you home in pieces, farmer’s son,” Drustan said softly. “Or at the least have you flogged. But time is short.”

“Your majesty,” the poor fellow whispered.
“Please!”

Drustan put his free hand on the lad’s chest and shoved him. There was a ripping sound. The lad cried out in pain, stumbling backward and falling hard. “No quarter.” Drustan tossed a hank of brown hair on the lad’s sprawling form, the roots bloody. “No terms but surrender. Go.”

He went, weeping.