Kushiel's Mercy

one of the Carthaginians translated, his fierce gaze fixed on my face. Although I kept my features schooled to perfect sincerity, I had the strong feeling he didn’t believe a word of it.
    But to my surprise, Ghanim agreed readily. “There are Amazigh come to the city to trade,” the Carthaginian brother translated. “If you give him money, he will obtain Amazigh garments for you.”
    I gave Ghanim the amount he deemed necessary for barter, realizing full well as I did that there was little to keep him from wrapping the veils around his own face to disguise his slave-brand, and escaping.
    He pocketed the money and bowed, both hands pressed together.
    “I trust your honor,” I said to him.
    Ghanim replied without waiting to hear my words in Punic. “Do not insult me,” the Carthaginian translated.
    I returned the Amazigh’s salute. “Of course not.”
    He was gone the better part of the day. Fortunately, I had no need of my bearers, as I was entertaining one of Lord Solon’s acquaintances within the city that afternoon: Boodes of Hiram, a doddering fellow who was the oldest member of the Council of Thirty. His wits wandered with age, although there were flashes of clarity that suggested why Solon had once counted the man a friend.
    “Ptolemy Solon,” Boodes mused. “By the Goddess, he was an ugly lad! Is he still?”
    “Not a lad, I fear.” I smiled. “But ugly, yes. Still, he’s a mistress any man would envy.”
    The old fellow nodded; then his head slumped, face crumpling into his white beard. I was just beginning to worry when his head snapped upright. “Yes, of course. Your mother, is she not?”
    “No, no,” I corrected him. “I’m merely in her ladyship’s household.”
    Boodes peered at me with rheumy eyes. “Are you sure? Betimes my memory fails me.”
    “Yes, my lord,” I said. “Very sure, alas. Tell me, how fares the war in Aragonia?”
    “Aragonia.” His wrinkled lips worked. “Damn fine oranges they grow there. I used to gorge on them when I was a boy. You like oranges?”
    “I do, my lord,” I said politely.
    “Good.” Boodes nodded again. “Moderation, that’s the thing. Overreach, and you’ll end up with a sick belly. The old Hellenes understood it. Solon does. Astegal doesn’t, nor does Bodeshmun.”
    I hesitated. “Do you speak of the war, my lord?”
    He blinked his rheumy eyes at me. “I speak of oranges, young man.”
    By the time Boodes of Hiram departed, escorted by bearers who clearly bore a good deal of fondness for him, I wasn’t entirely sure if he’d been trying to send me a subtle message of the sort Sunjata had mentioned, or if he was merely wandering in his wits. I’d rather liked the old fellow, and chose to believe it was the former. I found it heartening to think that there were those in Carthage concerned about the scope of Astegal’s ambitions.
    It was a good thing, since it put me in a tolerable frame of mind to deal with Ghanim’s return. The Amazigh presented himself at the door of my chambers, his arms filled with dark indigo cloth. He bowed and said somewhat in Punic—or mayhap it was his native tongue—and indicated with pride a bloodstained rip in the fabric.
    “Name of Elua!” I said, startled. “Did you kill someone for this?” I mimed a stabbing gesture.
    Ghanim grinned. Thrusting out his left arm, he showed me a dagger strapped to his forearm. “Amazigh,” he said with satisfaction.
    “I see,” I said slowly. I thought about calling for one of the Carthaginians to translate, but at need, one can accomplish a good deal without language. I studied Ghanim’s face.
    Whatever he’d done, he reckoned it wholly acceptable with Amazigh culture. I hoped it was, because I wasn’t about to inform Carthaginian authorities that I’d commissioned a slave to purchase Amazigh garments for me and discovered he’d killed to obtain them.
    “Will you show me how to wear it?” I asked, miming.
    He nodded. I ushered him into my chambers, and spent a good hour struggling to master the intricate twists and folds of wrapping the head-scarf so that it formed a turban and veiled my lower face.
    “Not bad,” I said at last, studying myself in the mirror. If I darkened the skin of my face and hands with charcoal and kept my eyes narrowed, I could pass in very dim light. All that fabric provided good concealment.
    Ghanim pointed to my waist and mimed drawing a sword. I rummaged in my trunks and fetched out my sword-belt, fastening it