Kushiel's Mercy

“It scared her.”
    Bodeshmun rubbed his chin. “That’s not good.”
    “Well, thank young Maignard here for convincing her it was merely a touch of sun,”
    Gemelquart said with some asperity. “Because I was at my wits’ end. Isn’t there something you can do?”
    “Not without . . . damage,” Bodeshmun said slowly.
    My blood ran cold.
    “So?” Gemelquart retorted. “Do we need her undamaged?”
    “For the moment, yes.” Bodeshmun turned his quelling look on Gemelquart. “You forget, my lord, that her father is the Cruarch of Alba. He has returned to Alba’s shores, where my spell no longer binds him. It could not be helped.”
    “I forget nothing,” Gemelquart muttered. “I’m merely saying—”
    “The Cruarch is bewildered,” Bodeshmun continued, ignoring him. “For so long as he believes his eldest daughter is sincere in her marriage, he will remain frozen in inaction, unwilling to commit troops against Carthage. And yes, we need that, Gemelquart. We need to keep Alba and Terre d’Ange bewildered and unable to act. We need to secure Aragonia. And we need to trade on the strength of this marriage to force Terre d’Ange and Alba to bow before the inevitable.”
    Gemelquart glanced back toward the olive grove. “Yet I fear your spell is weakening.”
    “Time and distance strain it.” Bodeshmun waved a dismissive hand. “Once the princess is reunited with Astegal, all will be well. She will forget her fears. I will see to it that it happens sooner rather than later.”
    “Do,” the other said curtly.
    That earned him another quelling look. In the bright Carthaginian sunlight, Bodeshmun seemed to swell and tower, while Gemelquart quailed before him. I clasped my hands behind my back and looked away, doing my best to seem inconspicuous and innocuous.
    “Do not presume to give me orders,” Bodeshmun said in a voice of quiet menace. “I have wrought my life’s work with these spells. The world has never seen their like before.
    What does the Council know of what is entailed in such magics?”
    “Nothing,” Gemelquart said lightly. “Nothing at all!” He forced a laugh. “I should return.
    We don’t want to give the princess further cause for suspicion.”
    Bodeshmun watched him go, resting a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Do you know,” he said wistfully, “I almost wish Ptolemy Solon were here. I have no peers capable of appreciating my work, only acolytes and fearful allies.” His hand tightened on me. “But you’ll tell him, won’t you?”
    “Yes, my lord,” I murmured.
    He laughed deep in his chest. “Have you discovered how I bound the princess?”
    “No,” I said truthfully. “Not yet.”
    “Ah, well! Keep trying.” Bodeshmun laughed again, giving my shoulder a rough shake.
    “You acquitted yourself well today. You’re a useful tool, Solon’s pretty little monkey.”
    I smiled at him. “I try.”

Thirty-Five

    For a day, I heard nothing. I was in an agony of suspense. Ah, gods! The irony abounded.
    Bodeshmun, sodding Bodeshmun , trusted me. The man Ptolemy Solon himself admired for his cleverness—I’d fooled him. That was good. That was very, very good.
    But it was Sidonie’s trust I needed.
    And that, I feared I was in danger of losing.
    Such a difficult game it was. Lies and a marrow of truth. Everything I’d said cut close to the bone. Again and again, I relived that moment in the olive grove. Her hand clutching my wrist, the quiet panic rising. She had listened. She’d heeded me. But she didn’t trust me. Why should she? I’d seen the fear dawning in her eyes.
    I was afraid, too.
    For the first time in years, I drilled with my sword. I practiced in the privacy of my chambers, feeling woefully inadequate. I wasn’t a swordsman, wasn’t a warrior. I knew how to hold a blade, a few rudimentary thrusts and parries. Nothing more.
    Still, I drilled.
    “My lord.” It was Kratos who interrupted me. “The princess has sent word wondering if you would care for another game of chess.”
    “Has she?” I snatched the letter from his hands.
    “So I’m told,” Kratos said laconically. “Not succeeded in bedding her yet, have you, my lord?”
    I lifted my gaze from the vellum. “That would be an offense against General Astegal, would it not? Against Carthage itself?”
    Kratos shrugged his heavy wrestler’s shoulders. “Do I care?”
    “I don’t know,” I said. “Do you?”
    He laughed. “Not much.”
    “If you value your tongue, you’ll