Kushiel's Mercy

gave my hair another rub, and started over. “Any news?”
    “The good news is that you seem to have played Bodeshmun well,” Sunjata said. “To hear Hannon talk, he’s satisfied that you’re harmless and easily dealt with. Old Blackbeard’s quite tickled at the notion that he’s stymied Lord Solon.”
    “What’s the bad news?” I asked.
    “You may not have much time here,” he said soberly. “Astegal’s on the verge of having New Carthage thoroughly secured. The rumor is that he’s considering wintering there and sending for the princess.”
    I paused mid-braid. “When?”
    “A matter of weeks.”
    “Well.” I continued braiding. “I’ll just have to work quickly and find a way to get myself invited to New Carthage. I need Astegal’s ring anyway. Have you begun creating a replica?”
    Sunjata shook his head. “Not yet.”
    “You’d better make haste.” After our first tryst, I’d asked him to create a replica of the ring he’d stolen from Prince Imriel, and I was rather irked to find that he’d not yet begun.
    He was quiet a moment. “It’s a lot of risk, Leander. Bodeshmun’s talisman. Astegal’s ring. And you don’t even know what you’re looking for on the princess.”
    “No.” I grinned. “But that will be the fun task.”
    His voice rose. “It’s not a jesting matter.”
    “I know.” I finished my braids. “Believe me, Bodeshmun impressed that on me quite strongly yesterday. I have no desire to lose my eyes and tongue, and if I’m jesting, it’s because I’m nervous inside. But, Sunjata, I have to try.”
    “Why?” he asked.
    “Because . . .” I frowned. The reasons I’d set out with seemed distant and a bit childish now. A grand adventure, a chance to spread my wings at last. The desire to humble the brooding prince and expose his hypocrisy. Even the desire to make her ladyship proud.
    Instead, I thought of the Aragonian boy in the slave-market, his stricken face. The princess in the palanquin, fed a diet of lies. Terre d’Ange, land of my birth, teetering on the brink of civil war. “I just do.”
    “Just be careful,” Sunjata said.
    “So her ladyship bade me,” I replied.
    “Yes.” His expression was unreadable. “She cares very deeply for you.”
    “Do you think so?” I smiled. “It’s a nice thought.”
    With that, I collected the pretty inlaid box that contained the chess set, summoned Kratos and the lads, and went off to my audience with the princess, wishing I wasn’t so damnably nervous and unsettled.
    At the villa of the House of Sarkal I was met by a polite steward who escorted me into a sunlit salon that overlooked a garden. The scent of lemons wafted through the tall, arched windows, mingling rather unfortunately with the overly sweet floral odor of pomade still clinging to my hair.
    “Please be comfortable,” the steward said, indicating an alcove with a low table and chairs. “I will inform her highness of your arrival.”
    I sat and waited. Once, I heard footsteps and rose to bow, but it was only a maidservant bringing a cup of sweet mint tea. I sipped it slowly, waiting. Wishing I didn’t reek subtly of rotting roses. Wondering if the princess was playing some game, making me wait.
    Gods, I wished I’d taken the time to wash the pomade out of my hair.
    And then she came, one of her Amazigh guards trailing behind her.
    She wore a gown of pale yellow silk, a necklace and earrings set with canary-yellow diamonds. Her hair was coiled in a coronet, glinting in the sunlight. A golden girl, but for the shock of those black, black eyes.
    I rose and bowed, my heart thudding.
    “Messire Maignard, I pray you forgive my rudeness,” she said, speaking Hellene with a near-flawless accent. A light voice, cool and controlled. I had an immediate urge to know what it sounded like unstrung with passion. Instead, it took on a hint of amusement. “I fear I was in the midst of a lesson, and my steward chose to wait rather than inform me that my mysterious D’Angeline had arrived.”
    I laughed. “Not so mysterious, I fear.”
    Her brows rose slightly. “Do tell.”
    I accorded her another bow. “As my letter indicated, I am in the service of his eminence Ptolemy Solon, Governor of Cythera.” I lifted the inlaid box and opened the lid. “He sends his congratulations to you and Prince Astegal on the occasion of your nuptials, and this small token of Cythera’s goodwill.”
    “This is lovely.” She took a piece from the box, examining