Kushiel's Mercy (34 page)

“Because I was anxious,” I murmured. “Because you are very, very beautiful, your highness. And by the presence of yon glowering guard, I suspect you have a jealous husband.”

“Actually, Astegal is quite reasonable,” the princess said with amusement. “The guards are merely for the sake of appearances. As I recall, at one point during our courtship, he told me I was welcome to keep a harem of beautiful young men if I chose.”

I eyed her, trying to tell if she was teasing me. “And do you?”

“Are you volunteering?” she asked.

“Would you have me?” I countered.

A wicked smile flickered over her face. “Not smelling like that.”

I flushed a second time. “I’m
sorry
, my lady!”

“No, I apologize.” She laughed. “You’re ill at ease and I’m baiting you unfairly. In truth, Messire Maignard, my husband is a rare man himself, and I’ve felt no temptation to test the boundaries of his tolerance.”

I felt a profound pang of sorrow. “Not even a little, Sidonie?”

Why I’d called her by name, I couldn’t say. It was wildly inappropriate . . . and yet, something shifted between us. She gazed at me, frowning like someone trying to remember a forgotten tune. I held her gaze, my heart hammering in my chest, suffused with a strange tenderness. Fear, hope, desire? The air between us felt charged, as though lightning were about to strike.

And then she closed her eyes and shuddered, and it passed.

“Oh, gods!” I said in anguish. “Forgive me. That was appallingly overfamiliar. I’m sorry, your highness, I don’t know what came over me. Will you please forgive me?”

“I think I’d better.” A wry edge crept into her tone. “I deserved no less for baiting you. Are you always this graceless and blunt in practicing the art of flirtation, Messire Maignard?”

“No,” I said. “Are you always this acerbic?”

“No.” It was only one syllable, but it was accompanied by that same wicked little smile: a quick, maddening flicker.

“Ah.” I fanned myself and glanced at her Amazigh guard. He stared impassively back at me. “You mentioned a lesson. May I ask what your highness is studying?”

“Punic,” she said. “One can get by with Hellene, of course, but I find it unwise not to at least attempt to learn the mother tongue of a land. In fact, that was one of the reasons my mother replaced the Comte de Penfars as the ambassador to Menekhet. She discovered he’d not bothered to learn Menekhetan after the Comtesse de Montrève and her consort were there to . . .” The princess blinked, her voice trailing off. A perplexed frown creased her brow.

Oh, hells.

“On their quest to free the Master of the Straits, was it not?” I inquired. “Even in Cythera, we heard of it.”

“Yes, of course.” Her brow cleared, though a touch of uncertainty lingered. “I imagine you would have, given his eminence’s ties to Ptolemy Dikaios.”

I sighed inwardly. “Indeed.”

Gods above, I felt like a rabbit in a field of snares. How exactly was one to avoid speaking of Terre d’Ange to a woman raised from birth to inherit its throne? And all the topics that touched on Prince Imriel’s life . . . all the very things I needed to reach her, the very things Bodeshmun had forbidden me to discuss.

Which left flirting as the only safe ground, except that I was stumbling over my own feet there, awkward and graceless.

“Are you well?” the princess asked. “You look pained.”

“I think it’s the pomade,” I said. “Your highness, his eminence has asked me to conduct other business in Carthage, and I will be here for some time yet. If I were to promise to scour myself quite thoroughly, is there any chance that I might beg another audience of you? Mayhap to play a game of chess?”

She laughed. “Do you promise to be as unwittingly amusing?”

I winced. “By the Goddess, I hope not.”

“I rather enjoyed it.” Her eyes sparkled. “It’s a pleasant change of pace from the usual bland courtesies.”

I rose and bowed to her. “Very well, my lady. If the lifeblood of my dignity serves to brighten your days, then by all means, puncture it. Bleed me dry of every peck of self-respect, and I shall languish at your feet, a glad fool.”

“Ah.” She rose. “Eloquence surfaces.”

“Belatedly,” I admitted. “Truly, your highness, I’m terribly sorry for the impropriety. And if you give me a chance to make amends, I will be most grateful.”

“Come tomorrow afternoon,” the princess said. “We’ll see how you fare at chess.”

“Thank you.” I smiled at her. “Very much indeed.”

She smiled back at me, sincerely, this time. “You’re welcome. And Messire Maignard, you may stop apologizing. There was somewhat I quite liked about the way my name sounded when you spoke it, although I couldn’t for the life of me say why.”

Nor could I.

I bowed again. “Then I wish you would do me the kindness of calling me Leander, and I aspire to the honor of using your name one day in earnest friendship.”

She inclined her head. “On the morrow.”

Thirty-One

I
walked out of the House of Sarkal’s villa feeling more profoundly disoriented than I had in my life.

Sidonie.

Why in the name of all the gods and goddesses in heaven had she had such a disturbing effect on me? I’d played the most dangerous man in Carthage like a master, then tripped over my own tongue when sparring with a young woman who’d had a large piece of her memory ripped from her.

All my expectations had been wrong. Weak. I’d thought she’d be weak-minded. Why? Because she’d fallen prey to Carthage’s magic, I supposed. I was an idiot. I’d sought to flatter Bodeshmun, but the truth was, he
had
wrought a spell sufficient to impress even Ptolemy Solon. It had ensorceled an entire city. I’d have been a victim had I been there. And Sidonie . . .

Well, she wasn’t bound by the
ghafrid-gebla
. Not here. It was a simpler magic, awful and powerful in a different way. It was the very force of her love that had been turned against her. Two days ago, I’d doubted. I hadn’t been sure that love was genuine.

Now . . .

A girlish infatuation. Gods! No, no. If I’d ever met a woman who knew her own mind, it was Sidonie de la Courcel.

Except for the parts she didn’t.

It was in there, I thought. I could
see
it. That perplexity, a sense of something missing. Something withheld, something denied. Knowledge trapped within her. Like a butterfly battering its wings against a glass jar.

I wanted to smash that glass.

I wanted to free her. I wanted to kiss her until she couldn’t breathe. I wanted to taste her, to bury myself in her. I wanted, desperately, to find out what lay behind that quick, wicked smile.

I wanted to kill Astegal.

A rare man . . . gods! Oh, yes, it took a rare man indeed to set a country against itself, to abduct a young woman and turn her against her will with dark magics. All to further his own ambitions. Dreams of empire. And he’d been doing his best to get heirs on her. Soon he’d send for her again.

I gritted my teeth at the thought.

I was losing my damned mind.

“Halt!” I called to my bearers. They lowered the palanquin, and I climbed out. Kratos regarded me skeptically.

“Are you well, my lord?” he asked.

“Well enough,” I said shortly. “I need to walk. I need to clear my thoughts.”

He shrugged. “As you will.”

I stalked alongside the empty palanquin, reliving the encounter in my mind. All right. I’d acted a perfect dolt. That was good and bad. Harmless, yes. The gods above knew I’d reinforced that belief. I’d amused and distracted her. Bodeshmun would be pleased. From what I’d seen, he had cause to worry. A butterfly’s wings, battering. A considerable and plaguing curiosity.

She
thought me a dolt.

I hated that fact.

But there had been that moment, that charged moment. When I’d crossed the line of propriety, called her by name as though we were intimate. Asked her a question I’d no right to ask. It had struck a chord within her. I’d
seen
it. And she’d never given an answer.

I whispered her name. “Sidonie.”

My heart leapt at the sound of it.

I pressed my own fist against my chest, willing my pounding heart to subside. It felt strange and heavy to me. A stone lodged in my chest. It ached. It threatened to drag me down into deep waters. It threatened to burst and splinter. I breathed slowly and deeply, thinking on the lessons her ladyship Melisande had taught me.

Bit by bit, the feeling eased.

“Name of Elua!” I said aloud. “I’m not even sure I
like
her.”

The following morning, I’d arranged to meet Sunjata at the baths. They were massive, laid out in the grand Tiberian style, although the architecture itself was Carthaginian. I found Sunjata in the palaestra, stretching his limbs. Ordinarily, I thought, it would likely be a crowded place, filled with young men wrestling and boxing with one another, practicing for foot-races, but it was quite empty today. I reckoned a good many of Carthage’s athletes were serving in Astegal’s army.

“Run with me?” Sunjata asked in greeting, nodding at the footpath circling the exercise arena.

“A lap or two,” I said. “You know I can’t keep up with you for long.”

He merely shrugged. For as long as I’d known him, Sunjata had had a fondness for running. It gave him a sense of freedom; and too, eunuchs had a propensity to gain weight as they grew older, their figures growing more womanish. Sunjata would never let that happen. He wasn’t vain, but he was proud.

After I’d limbered, we set out on the footpath together. Sunjata paced himself slowly so I could match him stride for stride.

“So,” he said when we’d reached the far end. “How was your audience?”

“Aside from the fact that I reeked of attar of roses?” I asked, and he laughed. “Gods, I don’t even know what to say. I found myself acting an idiot, and she spent most of the time laughing at me.”

“Did you gain a second audience?” Sunjata asked.

“I did that much,” I said glumly. “But I’ll have to summon considerable more charm if I want to be reckoned aught but a performing lap-dog.”

“Lap-dogs don’t give Bodeshmun cause for concern,” he observed. “Which is to the good.” We fell silent on reaching the central stretch of the arena, waiting until we were out of earshot of the few folks availing themselves of the palaestra. “What did you think of her?”

“Disconcerting,” I said. “She’s quick-witted and bored. I can see why Bodeshmun’s worried.”

Sunjata increased his stride. “What did
you
think of her, Leander?”

I pushed myself to match his pace, feeling my muscles warm and loosen. It came easier than I remembered. Our bare feet thudded softly on the path. “I’m not entirely sure of that, either. But whatever it is, I find myself thinking a good deal too much of it.”

Another stretch of silence. I could hear Sunjata’s breathing, steady and even. I matched him breath for breath.

“Perhaps you’re falling in love with her,” he said when next we reached the turn at the far end of the footpath.

“At one meeting?” I laughed. “Don’t be absurd.”

“At a glance,” Sunjata said. “At a single, devastating glance that stripped clever Leander Maignard of all his smooth beguilements and left him standing in the street, staring after her palanquin like a man besotted.”

“That only happens in poets’ tales,” I scoffed.

He gave me a sidelong glance. “Are you sure?”

I opened my mouth to reply, but Sunjata pulled away, his effortless stride increasing once more. Irritated, I pulled abreast of him. My lungs were working hard now. He pushed his pace and I struggled grimly to keep up with him, running too hard for conversation. Another lap, then another and another. My lungs felt like they were bursting and I had a stitch in my side. Even Sunjata was breathing hard. Still, I managed to keep up with him this time.

“There!” he gasped at last, slowing to a panting halt. “See, I told you. We’re all capable of things we can’t imagine.”

I braced my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. “You’re out of practice.”

“Not so.” Sunjata shook his head. “This is my one great escape. I suspect you’ve been training at somewhat.”

I eased myself upright. “Not that I recall.”

Sunjata gave me one of his opaque looks. “Let’s get you into the baths. I can still smell that damnable pomade.”

We passed a pleasant time lingering in the baths. I kept my promise to Princess Sidonie and bathed thoroughly, washing my hair several times over. Afterward, we bought food from one of the many vendors there and dined while strolling the colonnade. I felt an unaccountable excitement rising as morning gave way to noon.

“I’ve got to be on my way,” I said to Sunjata outside the baths. “Shall I see you later?”

“I’ll meet you here on the morrow.” He smiled wryly. “I’ve a commission to work on. A particular ring.”

“Ah, I see,” I said. “Good. Tomorrow, then. But why don’t you come to the villa? I had some business I wished to discuss.”

“I prefer this,” he said.

“Fine.” I threw up my hands. “As you wish.”

“Leander.” Sunjata caught my arm as I turned to go. He lowered his voice. “Listen . . . whatever you’re feeling for her, don’t fight it. It might be exactly what you need.”

“I’m not,” I said. “It feels more like it’s fighting
me
.”

He let go my arm. “That may very well be true.”

Before I could ask what in the world that was supposed to mean, Sunjata turned on his heel and set off at a brisk walk. I let him go. There was no reasoning with him when he was in an obstinate mood.

Besides, I had a date to keep.

Once more, I presented myself at the villa of the House of Sarkal. This time, I was bade wait a moment before I was escorted within. When I was, I found the princess already awaiting me, seated in the sunlight alcove and pondering the chess board. One of the Amazigh had taken up his customary position, his presence warning me to be discreet. Today the princess wore a silk gown the color of apricots. The decolletage wasn’t low enough to be unseemly, but I could see the swell of her breasts. My mouth went dry.