Kushiel's Mercy

fashion among some of the young men left in Carthage to pay tribute to her,”
    Sunjata told me, lying propped on one elbow. “Loitering in the streets outside the Sarkal villa to catch a glimpse of her.”
    “That’s unexpectedly charming,” I observed.
    He shrugged a shoulder. “Don’t put too much stock into it. It’s some scheme Astegal dreamed up to reinforce the notion that this is a love-match that has all of Carthage charmed. He wants her kept happy and ignorant.”
    “Thoughtful fellow,” I said. “He didn’t manage to get her with child before he left, did he?”
    “Apparently not.” Sunjata smiled wryly. “Though not for lack of trying, I understand.
    You do realize that she thinks herself in love with him, Leander? She’s not about to fall into your embrace, lovely creature though you may be.”
    “Oh, I know.” I folded my arms behind my head. “But she’s not in love with him. That truth is in there somewhere. And I’m hoping that I bear just enough resemblance to her beloved Imriel to unlock it. We’re kin, you know, albeit distantly.”
    “Yes.” Sunjata gazed at me. “I scarce had a chance to speak with him in Terre d’Ange.
    You spent time with him. What’s he like?”
    “Prince Imriel?” I thought about it. “Intense. But I suppose he was rather desperate when I met him.”
    “Do you think he actually loves her?” he asked.
    “I don’t know,” I said slowly. “Gods above, it would be unlikely as all hell. But if he doesn’t, he’s as skilled a player as her ladyship, which is entirely possible.” I freed one arm and reached out to run my fingers through the soft cloud of Sunjata’s hair. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter, does it? What matters is whether or not she loves him, and given that she defied her royal mother and half the nation, I’d say she does. Or at least thinks she does,” I added. “It may be nothing more than a girlish infatuation.”
    “No.” Sunjata rolled onto his belly, propping his chin on cupped hands. “I don’t think it is. And I think he does love her.”
    I smiled at him. “I didn’t know you had such a romantic streak.”
    “There’s a lot you don’t know,” he replied. “So, do you want to have a look at the lady in question?”
    “Why not?” I said. “It can’t hurt.”
    At the appropriate hour, I summoned my bearers. We went to the flower market, I in my palanquin and Sunjata walking alongside it. There, I bought a great armload of roses and a basket. I put Kratos and the lads to work plucking the roses and filling the basket with petals while Sunjata and I visited a wineshop. Kratos thought I was mad—and I daresay the others did, too—but he did it willingly enough.
    The sun was low in the sky when we made our way up the hill to Astegal’s villa, drenching Carthage in golden light. The villa was easily three times the size of mine, although most of it was hidden behind high walls. There was an imposing gate with a marble arch above it set with a seal depicting the House of Sarkal’s insignia, a stylized hawk. A handful of young men were gathered there. They gave us curious looks, but asked no questions as we took places among them.
    I tucked the basket of petals beneath my arm. “Let them see how a D’Angeline pays tribute to a woman,” I said to Sunjata.
    We didn’t have long to wait. The gilded light was just beginning to deepen to amber when the princess’ palanquin appeared. It was an ornate affair, large and heavy with gold leaf, the sides worked with the same hawk insignia. The bearers were all of a height, strapping fellows in scarlet tunics. Four additional men flanked the palanquin. They were an odd sight, clad in flowing indigo robes, their heads and faces wrapped in burnooses, swords hanging from their belts.
    “Amazigh,” Sunjata murmured. “Very fierce, and when they give their loyalty, they mean it.”
    “So I noticed,” I said. “These are loyal to Astegal?”
    “Very.”
    The young Carthaginian admirers began to cheer as the palanquin came through the gates.
    I caught my first glimpse of its inhabitant. Her profile held a young, delicate beauty.
    Honey-gold hair coiled atop her head, a few curling locks hanging loose.
    “She’s fair,” I mused. “Fairer than I expected. One wouldn’t suspect she was half-Cruithne.”
    “Gods, D’Angelines can be insufferable,” Sunjata muttered.
    “Jealous, my dusky plum?” I shot him a quick smile. “I spoke of her coloring. My father