Kushiel's Mercy

Page 61

“I remember,” Sidonie said absently. “Janpier Iturralde was from Roncal.”
“Who?” I asked.
“The Euskerri ambassador,” Serafin said. “Or as near as they have to one. That’s who you’ll treat with, Sidonie.”
“So I take it we’re no longer serving as bait?” I inquired.
The other two men exchanged another glance. “I’m afraid that’s not changed,” Liberio said somberly. “I expect the Amazigh will catch the men they’re pursuing, your highness. And when they do, my men will have orders to betray you, leading the Amazigh into a Euskerri ambush. You’ll have a lead on them, nothing more.”
“You mean to force the Euskerri’s hand,” Sidonie observed.
He shrugged. “Into the ambush, aye. Whether or not they’ll agree to more is anyone’s guess.”
“I mislike this.” I frowned. “Would it not be simpler to abandon the notion of forging an alliance with the Euskerri altogether? All we need to treat for is safe passage over the mountains. If Sidonie and I can reach Terre d’Ange, we can undo Carthage’s spell. Terre d’Ange and Alba alike will send aid.”
“Yes.” Serafin poured a cup of water from a ewer and drank. “There is that option. And there is fear among certain quarters that you will take our aid and do exactly that.” He set the cup down. “The Euskerri are near. Despite the hostilities between us, they are a known quantity. Terre d’Ange is far. And despite the long alliance between us, it is currently very much an unknown quantity. The consensus was that at this juncture the Euskerri are a better wager. And that is the price of our aid.”
“I see.” Sidonie was quiet a moment. “So Imriel and I and a lone guide are to make our way to Roncal, where I will inform Janpier Iturralde that I’ve brought a hostile Carthaginian force into Euskerri territory, then expect him to treat gladly with me.”
“I don’t expect you to succeed.” Serafin met her gaze squarely. “Only to try. The Euskerri want sovereignty very badly. And there are those still very much opposed to granting it. You were the one tipped the balance. Are you unwilling now to stand by your words?”
Her eyes flashed.
“Sidonie.” I held up my hand. “You don’t have to agree to this. Neither of us expected it to be quite so dangerous.”
“If there were a safer way, I’d offer it,” Liberio murmured. “There isn’t. As it is, a good many men may die for this venture.”
“I don’t see any other choice, Imriel,” Sidonie said simply. “Other than staying and awaiting defeat. I was quick to speak of sacrifice yesterday. How can I refuse to take the risk? I’d give a lot more than a few ounces of flesh for Terre d’Ange.”
“You’re sure?” I asked.
She nodded. “I’m sure.”
So it was decided.
We wouldn’t be able to act immediately. In accordance with General Liberio’s plans, it would be a night sortie, the better to sow confusion. In order to see well enough to execute his plan, we’d need to await a tolerably clear night with a good moon, and the moon was yet a waxing sliver. He counseled patience and put his men to work building a portable gangplank to bridge the defensive trench.
I spent a good deal of time telling the hours in the palace courtyard, honing the skills that had been neglected during my tenure as Leander Maignard. I was keenly aware that in the days to come, I would be Sidonie’s sole protector. And that was the one area of the Cassiline discipline that Joscelin had neglected to teach me—the sphere of defending one’s ward. He’d taught me everything I needed to know to ward my life. Neither of us had dreamed that one day I’d be playing such a role.
At least I’d learned how to fight from the saddle. Gods, it seemed like a long time ago that I’d advised Claude de Monluc to trick Barquiel L’Envers into lending his own Akkadian-trained Captain of the Guard to teach the Dauphine’s Guard. It hadn’t been much more than a whim that had led me to train with them, posing as an anonymous guard among guardsmen. Now I was glad of it. With Liberio’s permission, I visited the armory and appropriated a small buckler, a leather hauberk with metal scales, a helmet with a peaked crest, and a short bow and quiver.
For her part, Sidonie spent long hours in the palace’s library, reading everything she could find on the Euskerri. Whether or not it would prove of use, I couldn’t say, but it helped pass the interminable waiting.
Blessed Elua be thanked, her wound continued to heal cleanly. At her insistence, some days after the council met, I took her to see Kratos. With Lady Nicola’s assistance, he’d been lodged in a boarding-room where a good-natured Aragonian widow was paid to look after him.
“Your highness!” Kratos looked thunderstruck when he answered our knock. “You came to see me?”
Sidonie laughed at his expression. “How are your burns, Kratos?”
“Healing.” He peered over his shoulder as though he could see through his tunic. “And your injury? You were passing feverish, my lady. I worried.”
She gave me a sidelong look. “Much, much improved.”
“What about the ribs?” I asked Kratos.
He took a deep breath, his chest swelling. “Better.”
I was glad.
We passed a pleasant hour talking with Kratos. Somewhere in the back of my thoughts, I’d hoped he’d have some clever perspective on our plan for escape that no one had conceived; but he didn’t. He merely shook his heavy head, running one hand over his cropped, greying hair.
“You were right, my lord,” Kratos said soberly. “I’d only slow you down. It’s dicey, but I don’t see another way.”
“Pray for us?” I asked.
“To all the gods I know,” he affirmed.
Sidonie stooped and kissed his cheek. “Remember your promise.”
A blush suffused his homely face. “To dance at your wedding?”
She smiled. “To dance with me at my wedding, Kratos. I mean to make it a point not to forget those who’ve saved my life. And the other thing, too. The word I taught you. Keep the knowledge quiet, but don’t forget.”
“Emmenghanom,” Kratos said softly.
Sidonie nodded. “Exactly right.”
We didn’t spread the word throughout the entire city. At this point, it was dangerous. Blockaded, besieged Amílcar was a hotbed of gossip. If it were to fall in our absence or failure, if word were to leak that we’d disseminated the key to undoing Carthage’s spell far and wide . . . well, it was Sidonie’s fear that Astegal would have every man, woman, and child put to the sword rather than risk word carrying to Terre d’Ange. And with that, I agreed.
But we made sure it wouldn’t be lost.
General Liberio agreed in a bemused fashion that those soldiers serving as couriers carrying word of Amílcar’s plan to neighboring cities would carry it. I’m not sure he believed, not entirely. He was a pragmatic fellow. Still, he agreed. And Sidonie and I taught the word to half a dozen bright-eyed, impassioned young men. If any of them survived, the word would be passed onward.
Emmenghanom.
Beholden.
We taught the word to Captain Deimos, lodged in a harbor inn, posing as the captain of a fishing vessel. He didn’t want to hear it, not really, but he’d been Ptolemy Solon’s man too long. In the end, the desire for knowledge won out.
“Emmenghanom,” he whispered, closing his eyes.
“If all else fails, the Wise Ape of Cythera will know what to do with it,” I said. “And if we succeed, I will keep my promise. Terre d’Ange will reward you.”
Deimos shuddered. “Goddess save me from wisdom. I hope to be an ignorant man in my next life.”
We gave the word unto the safekeeping of Nicola L’Envers y Aragon. To her, I showed the talisman; the scrap of lacquered leather filched from an inner pocket of Bodeshmun’s robes. A whirlwind sprouting horns and claws, a word inscribed in Punic.
“This is it?” Nicola inquired. “On this you pin your hopes?”
Sidonie and I nodded.
“Emmenghanom,” Nicola murmured. “I’ll remember.”
“Write it down,” Sidonie said, fetching pen and paper. “Write it as it sounds when I speak it, my lady.” She knelt beside Nicola’s chair, her face earnest and pleading. “I know it sounds absurd. But if we fail—”
Nicole cut her off. “You won’t fail.”
Sidonie shrugged gracefully. “But if we do . . .”
“Emmenghanom,” I echoed. “Beholden. We are beholden. We will all be beholden to you. Sidonie and I, Ysandre, Alais, Drustan, Phèdre and Joscelin, your son, Raul, the whole of Terre d’Ange . . .”
Nicola raised her hand. “I understand.”
She wrote the word, mouthing the syllables to herself.
There was little else we could do, save wait.
Fifty-Seven
Slowly, slowly, the moon waxed. At its halfway point, it would have shed enough light to stage a sortie, but the weather was foul: cold, grey, and drizzling. The mood in the city grew tense and strained. When the weather showed no sign of breaking, Lady Nicola decided to hold a fête.
“Are you sure that’s wise?” I asked her. I couldn’t help but think of Gallus Tadius’ orders during the siege of Lucca. He’d have been apoplectic at the waste.
“People need something to keep their spirits up,” Nicola said pragmatically. “And my husband’s wine-cellar can withstand the blow. Besides, there’s someone who’d like to meet you, but he’s felt awkward about it. This will provide a nice opportunity.”
I was intrigued despite myself. “Who is it?”
She smiled. “You’ll see.”
It wasn’t an extravagant affair. With Carthage’s troops camped outside the walls and the spectre of death hanging over those who hoped to assail them, that would have felt unseemly or desperate or both. But it was a pleasant affair. The food that was served was modest and less than abundant, but the wine flowed freely. Skilled musicians played in a distinctly Aragonian style, rapid rhythms punctuated with clapping. An air of defiant gaiety permeated the great hall.
A young Aragonian lieutenant begged leave to teach Sidonie one of their national dances. I watched her try to follow his lead and master the quick, intricate steps, laughing when she tripped over his feet. He was flushed and nervous. She looked bright and beautiful, her color healthy. I thought about that last day on the ship, her skin fevered and hot to the touch, and I was filled with gratitude.
“So that’s Ysandre’s daughter,” a melodious voice beside me murmured.
I turned and blinked. For a moment, I thought I was seeing an older version of my cousin Mavros with lines at the corners of his twilight-blue eyes and his black hair threaded with silver. Then I realized who he must be and tensed. “Marmion,” I said. “Marmion Shahrizai.”
Many years ago, after Skaldia’s invasion, Marmion had placed country over family and betrayed my mother into the Queen’s custody. He in turn was betrayed by his sister, Persia, who placed family over country and helped my mother escape. In the end, Marmion’s men had unwittingly set fire to Persia’s manor house in a botched spying attempt. Marmion himself was stripped of his title and sent into exile. I wasn’t sure what to expect of him.
He read it in my face and smiled wryly. “I bear you no ill will, Prince Imriel. But I must confess myself terribly curious to meet Melisande’s infamous son.”
“Am I infamous?” I asked lightly.
Marmion’s gaze shifted back to Sidonie. “I thought so when I heard you’d seduced the Queen’s heir. Now it seems mayhap I was mistaken.” He shook his head. “Melisande’s son risking life and limb on behalf of Ysandre’s daughter. Who would have thought to see the day?”
“No one,” I said. “But mayhap the gods themselves have ways of redressing old wrongs.”
He turned a measuring look on me. “You look a lot like her, you know. You must hear it often.”
“Not so very often,” I said. “People seldom speak of my mother to me unless they’re telling me what horrors her actions visited on their families.”
Marmion laughed without mirth. “I suppose so. Is it true that you’ve seen her?”
I nodded. “On Cythera.”
“Melisande.” He was silent a moment. “Is it true that her sentence was commuted to exile in exchange for her aid?”
“Yes,” I said.
He shook his head again. “So after all she’s done, our sentences are the same.”
“I’m sorry, my lord,” I said quietly. “I understand that your sister’s death was an accident. It was a terrible tragedy.”
“Yes.” Marmion gathered himself. “Tell me, is she happy?”
“My mother?” I thought about it. “I think she has found a certain calm and acceptance. I wouldn’t call her happy.”
Whether or not the answer pleased him, I couldn’t say. Marmion studied me. “I see a good deal of House Courcel in you, too. It’s not as obvious, but it’s there. You’ve a look of Prince Rolande, Ysandre’s father. I remember him from when I was a boy. Too impetuous for his own good, but he had a streak of high nobility.” He touched my arm, light and unexpected. “I wish you well, of course. All of us pray you succeed. But it would please me to know you restored honor to House Shahrizai’s name. That’s all I desired.”