Kushiel's Mercy

it. An onyx knight, his ruby eyes sparking. “You must convey my gratitude to his eminence. It is a thoughtful gift.”
    “Do you play?” I asked.
    “Yes, of course.” The princess smiled. Her lips were pink, the sort of shape that begs to be kissed. The spark of lively intellect in her dark eyes suggested it wasn’t something to be undertaken rashly. “But it’s a rare man thinks to gift a woman with a game of wits.
    And you continue to be mysterious, Messire Maignard.” She returned the knight to the box and gestured at the chairs. “Pray, sit and tell me. How does a D’Angeline come to be in the service of Cythera’s governor?”
    I set the inlaid box on the table. “His lordship is a rare man.” I waited until she sat, then sat opposite her. Her Amazigh guard remained on the opposite side of the room, but he watched us with folded arms, his expression hidden behind the folds of his burnoose.
    Princess Sidonie ignored him. I cleared my throat. “My lord Solon is kin to Pharaoh of Menekhet. My father served as the master chef to the D’Angeline ambassador in Iskandria.”
    She tilted her head. “Marcel de Groulaut?”
    “No.” The question threw me off stride. I blinked, trying to remember the timeline for the tale I’d concocted and what I knew of Terre d’Ange’s presence in Menekhet. “Before him.”
    “Ah.” The princess thought a moment. “That was the Comte de Penfars, I think.”
    “How do you know that?” I asked stupidly.
    Sidonie de la Courcel raised her brows, higher, this time. “Messire Maignard, since the day I gained my majority, it has been expected that I should be prepared to assume the throne of Terre d’Ange at a moment’s need. To that end, I am reasonably well informed about the workings of my own nation.”
    I flushed. “Of course. Forgive me.”
    Her lips quirked. “Rare men are . . . rare. But pray, continue.”
    Gods, it galled me. I’d expected . . . what? A victim, a hapless pawn, easily manipulated.
    She wasn’t. Spell-bound and ignorant, yes. But still, disconcertingly self-possessed and acutely intelligent. I stammered through my tale of how Ptolemy Solon had come to dine at the Menekhetan ambassador’s home and grown enamored of his chef’s cuisine, wooing him away, thus establishing the Maignard clan on Cythera.
    When I finished, I was sweating; and very much aware of the aroma of my ill-advised pomade hanging in the air.
    “So you’ve never known Terre d’Ange?” the princess asked.
    “No.” I shook my head. It wasn’t going to be easy to avoid speaking of Terre d’Ange when she brought it up herself. “No, but Cythera is beautiful. Mayhap you’ll visit one day.”
    “I’m sure that would be very pleasant,” she said politely.
    “Yes, indeed.” Hot and uncomfortably aware that I was failing at being charming, I fanned myself, waves of scent wafting from me. Her expression turned slightly peculiar.
    “Ah, gods!” I blurted. “My lady, forgive me. I fear I’ve doused myself in a most cloying pomade. Believe me, I regret it.”
    She laughed.
    It was an unexpectedly deep-throated laugh, rich and resonant. My heart rolled over in my chest, whispering the word “always.” Her black eyes came to life, sparkling at me.
    “And why did you do that, Messire Maignard?”
    “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