Kushiel's Mercy (50 page)

“Nothing,” he wheezed, bending over and bracing his hands on his knees. I let him catch his breath, swallowing my impatience. At last Kratos straightened. “Sorry. I started to get suspicious looks. Had to pretend I was running the stairs to work out leg cramps. Good cure, you know.”

I made a concerted effort not to shake him. “Sidonie?”

“Gone to see Bodeshmun,” he confirmed. “One guard. He stayed posted outside Blackbeard’s door. Gods, you look just like one of them!”

“Good.” I didn’t relax, but my panic and frustration ebbed, my thoughts slipping into a cool, calculating mode. I nodded at the trunk. “Can you make it to the ship with that? You look knackered.”

Kratos snorted. “I’ll manage.”

“Be careful.” I paused. “Kratos, I mean to be there well before dawn. If I’m not there by the time the sun’s clear of the horizon, it means this has gone very, very wrong. Tell Deimos to sail, and go with him.”

“Where?” he asked briefly.

“Marsilikos,” I said. “Find Jeanne de Mereliot, daughter of the Lady of Marsilikos. Tell her everything you know, everything we’ve discussed.”

“You imagine she’ll believe me?” Kratos asked in a dubious tone.

“Tell her Imriel de la Courcel said to tell her that he was grateful for the offer she made him before he sailed for Cythera,” I said softly. “Even though I refused it, I was grateful for her kindness and Eisheth’s mercy.”

“Ah.” Kratos nodded and put out his hand. “Gods be with you, my lord.”

I clasped it. “And you.”

With that, Kratos shouldered my trunk and exited our quarters. He paused in the hallway, glancing to make sure it was clear, then gave me a brief gesture of affirmation. I slipped through the door, clad in my Amazigh garb. Kratos strode toward the front of the palace without looking back.

I went in the opposite direction.

There weren’t as many guards as there had been when Astegal was here. Bodeshmun had increased their number after Sidonie was attacked, but they were still spread thin. Mostly, he’d settled for purging the palace staff of any Aragonians, having uncovered no organized conspiracy, but a deep vein of seething resentment when he put them to questioning.

None of the guards I passed gave me a second glance. If they had, they might have noticed small details amiss. The ash-dark hue of my skin, the color of my eyes. The cut of my sword-belt, the hilts of my blades. But they didn’t. The guards were accustomed to letting Astegal’s Amazigh pass without question. They saw what they expected to see, and I passed them like an indigo ghost and climbed the stairs.

I’d decided to take care of the guard waiting in Sidonie’s quarters first. He would be the safer kill, and the less I needed to move about the palace, the better. And too, I needed to allow time for the sleeping draught to take effect. Outside her door, I drew my dagger and held it reversed, the blade hidden under the flowing sleeve of my robe.

I knocked on the door.

There was a shuffling sound within, and then one of the Amazigh opened it. He asked me somewhat in his own tongue or in Punic; I couldn’t have said. I shook my head and pressed a finger to the fabric muffling my mouth. He shrugged and admitted me, closing the door behind me.

He
did
take a second look.

I saw his eyes widen in the narrow strip of visible face, and didn’t hesitate. I whipped my arm up, sleeve falling to bare the hidden blade. Plunged the dagger hilt-deep in his chest, one hand smothering his muffled mouth.

Quick.

I’d always been quick.

The Amazigh died almost without a sound, his expression of alarm still fixed around the eyes. Somewhere far away, I felt a little sickened at the discovery that I’d make a skilled and effective assassin. I pushed the thought farther away and concentrated on doing what needed to be done, dragging his body into Sidonie’s bedchamber and hiding it on the far side of the bed where it was unlikely to be spotted at a careless glance. If anyone raised an alarm, every moment could be precious.

Once that was done, I yanked the dagger from his chest. His heart had long since stopped, and the wound didn’t even bleed much. I cleaned my blade on his robes and gave it a quick whetting.

By now, the sleeping draught should have worked.

If it had worked.

I took a moment to gather myself, breathing slowly. The second guard, the one posted outside Bodeshmun’s door, would be harder. I let myself into the corridor, listening. It was late and the palace was quiet. Downstairs, I could hear a few murmurs, but it seemed quiet upstairs. I soft-footed my way to Bodeshmun’s quarters, holding the dagger low and hidden at my side.

I didn’t give the second Amazigh guard time to react. I simply walked right up to him and pressed him against the door, shoving the dagger under his ribs, angling upward for his heart, clamping my left hand over his veiled mouth. He struggled briefly. I shoved the dagger harder, until I felt him shudder and go limp. With my left hand, I felt for the handle of the door and tried it.

Locked.

I cursed silently, then listened intently for a moment. There were no sounds beyond the door. I eased my dagger from the guard’s body, struggling to keep him braced upright. Worked the dagger in between the door and the frame, prying hard until I felt the latch give way with a brittle groan.

That done, I froze. If Bodeshmun
wasn’t
unconscious, he would have heard the sound, and like as not, the scuffle, too. He might well be waiting on the far side of the door for me, smiling into his beard, prepared to blow a handful of death into my lungs.

For a mercy, the door opened inward. Still holding the guard upright, I pushed the door open with one foot and heaved the guard’s body inside, jumping quickly backward.

The guard’s body fell heavily to the floor.

No Bodeshmun.

I glanced quickly around to confirm no one had come, then stepped inside, closing the door behind me. The narrow antechamber was empty but for the figure of the dead Amazigh. It was a dreadful thing to know how easily men died, fierce warriors or no. I didn’t doubt the Amazigh’s skills, but Bodeshmun had been right. They had no head for intrigue. I daresay Astegal had chosen them for their imposing and mysterious appearance, the very thing that had allowed me to deceive them.

There was a fire burning in the hearth beyond the antechamber, bright and merry. I thought about appearances and deception and drew my sword, approaching with care. A few paces before I reached the room, I paused and unwound my scarf.

I remembered Phèdre’s training.

Leander’s memories of my mother’s training were with me, too.

I could smell wood-smoke and beeswax. Traces of a familiar aroma, sweet and faintly spicy. Perry brandy, doctored with herbs. An unexpected smell of soap.

And a sour odor beneath it.

Vomit.

I stepped into the salon, the blade angled before me. The fire crackled. Two chairs had been drawn up before it, a table between them. An open flagon of perry brandy sat on the table, two empty cups.

Sidonie was slumped in one of the chairs, her head draped over one arm, a loose coil of hair dangling dangerously close to the fire. My heart leapt into my throat at the sight. I couldn’t even tell if she was breathing.

As Bodeshmun would have planned.

He was slumped in the other chair, his bearded chin resting on his chest. One hand lay loose on his knee. The other arm hung at his side, fingers curled. I took a sharp breath, my thoughts racing like quicksilver.

“Sidonie!” I whispered.

There was the merest sliver of a glint beneath Bodeshmun’s eyelids.

I hurried to her side, stooped over her, and tucked the fire-heated lock of hair behind one ear. Felt at her throat for a pulse and sighed with genuine relief when I found it. Only then did I take a deep, surreptitious breath and hold it, turning toward Bodeshmun.

He was already rising from his chair, one palm cupped and raised, eyes glittering with triumph.

Lungs full, lips pursed.

But I was ready, and I blew first.

I’d always been quick.

Dust and ashes, a handful of gritty grey matter. What it was, I couldn’t have said. Ptolemy Solon would have known. Bones of an innocent man hanged for a crime he didn’t commit, mayhap. Gathered under a full moon, burned in a furnace fueled by heartwood, ground to dust by virgins with a mortar and pestle. It didn’t matter. Bodeshmun expelled his breath in shock and gasped for air.

One gasp.

I didn’t. I stepped backward with alacrity, wrenching Sidonie’s chair out of the way. I held my breath until the dust settled, and then I watched Bodeshmun die.

He knew me.

Even dying, he saw through the semblance. I watched his face darken with recognition, fury, the onset of death. I waited, sword at the ready, until I was certain he carried no antidote to his own poison. Then I smiled.

“You know me, don’t you?” I said to him. “You know who I am.”

Bodeshmun glared, his chest heaving impotently.

I stooped over him, rummaging in his robes. I found it.
It
. The talisman, hidden in an inner pocket of his robes. A stiff piece of lacquered leather, wrought with an image. A whirlwind sprouting horns and claws. A word inscribed beneath it in Punic script.

A word I couldn’t read.

Bodeshmun saw it; Bodeshmun knew. I read the bitter satisfaction in his dying face. I leaned down close to him.

“Don’t worry,” I whispered. “As it happens, Sidonie’s been studying Punic. You’ve only yourself to thank for it. And in case you wonder as you die,
she
was the architect of your downfall, not me.” I settled onto my knees, my Amazigh robes puddling around me. “If you take no other thought into your next life, my lord, take this. It is not wise to meddle with D’Angelines in matters of love.”

Bodeshmun’s eyes rolled into his head.

Bodeshmun’s heels drummed.

Bodeshmun died.

Fourty-Nine

T
he sleeping draught was a problem.

“Wake up, love.” I patted Sidonie’s cheek gently, then not so gently. Nothing. I called her name sharply, as loudly as I dared, but she didn’t respond. When I grabbed her shoulders and shook her roughly, her head only lolled in an alarming manner.

Her breathing was even and her heart beat steadily. Girom had said his draughts were potent. Elua willing, she would awaken; that I had to believe. But for the moment, she slept like the dead, and I was fearful that if I rolled her in Bodeshmun’s carpet and hauled her all the way to the harbor, I was like to smother her in the process. Even if I didn’t, I wasn’t sure how Captain Deimos would react to the fact that I’d abducted the Dauphine of Terre d’Ange, drugged insensible.

And if she didn’t awaken by dawn . . .

Well, we had a few hours’ grace. I’d sooner have left the palace immediately, but no one was likely to notice aught amiss until the second shift of Sidonie’s guards came to relieve their fellows.

I resolved to wait as long as I dared. I stowed Bodeshmun’s talisman safely in my purse. I propped a chair under the door with the broken latch, lest anyone attempt to enter. I dragged the bodies of Bodeshmun and the guard into the far bedchamber. I cleaned and whetted my dagger a second time.

I waited.

Although it didn’t seem to trouble her in the least, Sidonie’s position in the chair looked uncomfortable. I eased her down to the carpeted floor, then cleared the carpet in preparation. I sat cross-legged, settling her head on my lap.

She looked younger sleeping, scarce older than the girl I’d fallen in love with. We’d known one another since we were children. I stroked the soft curve of her cheek, remembering. She’d been a reserved child, unnervingly composed from an early age, regarding me with cool distrust. How not? She’d grown up with the weight of the kingdom hovering over her, aware of the schisms that threatened to divide it.

And I . . . I’d been damaged and brooding, filled with fierce passions and loyalties. How not? By the time I was eleven years old, I’d seen and endured things no one should ever suffer.

Neither of us could possibly have understood the other.

It seemed so very long ago.

Ysandre used to force us to spend time together, the scions of House Courcel, hoping we would further our acquaintance. It made me smile now to think on it. Alais and I used to play cards together under the watchful eye of the Queen’s Guard, while Sidonie ignored us and read a book.

I wished I could travel backward through time to address those childhood selves. To tell Sidonie that one day she would defy her mother and half the nation for the sake of this proud, wounded boy whom she regarded with such misgivings, that he would grow into a man she trusted beyond all reason. To tell my young self that this cool, haughty girl who galled him so would one day be the most precious thing in the world to him, that she would become a woman for whom he would willingly lay down his life.

I wished Sidonie would awaken.

An hour passed, then another. For a mercy, no one came to call on Bodeshmun. But Sidonie showed no signs of waking, either. I shook her, coaxed her, whispered and pleaded to no avail. Once, she sighed in her sleep and my heart leapt, but she only seemed to settle deeper into slumber.

At last I gave up. If I delayed any longer, I wouldn’t reach the harbor in time. The palace would awaken and the alarm would be raised. I shifted Sidonie to the edge of the carpet.

“Sun Princess.” I knelt beside her and kissed her sleeping lips. “We have to try this now. Don’t you dare die on me, or I swear to Blessed Elua, I’ll haunt you through a thousand lifetimes.”

There was no answer. I raised her arms and crossed them in front of her face, hoping and praying that it would create a pocket of air that would keep her from smothering. Carefully, carefully, I rolled the most precious thing in the world to me into a carpet.

That done, I rewound the Amazigh scarf around my head and face. I moved the chair blocking Bodeshmun’s door and checked the corridor.

Empty.

Good.

I stooped and hoisted the rolled carpet with an effort, slinging it over my shoulder. It was heavy, heavier than I’d reckoned. Sidonie sleeping was dead weight, and the carpet itself was dense and tightly woven.