Kushiel's Mercy

“Check and mate. I will be pleased to have your company.”
    “And I to provide it,” I murmured. I studied the board, then tipped my king.
    “So our game continues?” she inquired.
    I wanted to say to her, It’s not a game; it’s in deadly earnest . But Sidonie knew. I didn’t need to hear her say it. I saw her, saw all of her. The raised chin and the firm, demanding brows, at odds with the delicate bones of her face. All the pride and determination, all the rising fury and suspicion, terror and vulnerability. A measure of trust I hadn’t earned.
    Fault-lines created through cruel artifice. It made my heart ache and my throat tighten.
    I loved her.
    No point in denying it, no point in doubting it. It was unlikely, improbable, and true. If I had to lay my broken heart on the altar of love and let it be destroyed in a glorious blaze to secure her happiness, so be it. I would do it.
    “Always,” I said hoarsely. “Always.”
    There it was again, that word.
    The word lodged like a stone in my chest. It felt like a stone in my mouth, heavy on my tongue. Always. Always and always. Why did it make my eyes sting? I looked away.
    Sidonie looked away. Her steward, Astegal’s steward, cleared his throat.
    “Then I will see you in New Carthage,” she murmured.
    What I wanted to say was I will follow you to the ends of the earth. I will be whatever you ask of me: courtier, savior, lover, and husband, master and slave. Anything, everything.
    Only ask.
    What I said was, “Yes.”
    “Good.” She nodded. “To New Carthage.”

Thirty-Six

    I spent three days putting my affairs in order.
    I wrote out a lengthy letter to Ptolemy Solon, employing one of the codes her ladyship had devised, one that owed naught to the Guild, but merely to her own prodigious intellect.
    I met with Maharbal and haggled over the terms of ending my lease of his cousin’s villa earlier than expected. I thanked the steward Anysus for his service and gave him a purse to share amongst the household.
    I wrote out letters of manumission as I had promised for my bearers and had them witnessed and stamped by the city official in charge of such matters. I presented them to the lads and asked what they willed.
    Ghanim received his letter with fierce joy. Through one of the Carthaginians, he made me to understand that he would be returning to the desert to seek vengeance against the brother who had wronged him. I wished him well. In turn, he uttered a lengthy prayer on my behalf in the Amazigh tongue that no one could translate.
    I’d never thought before what a strange thing it was the way lives intersected. I had changed the course of Ghanim’s life, while the only trace of his impact on mine was a bloodstained robe hidden in the depths of my trunks. Passing strange.
    The brothers elected to remain in Carthage, working as porters or bearers on the docks. It didn’t surprise me. They were young enough to be resilient. A couple weeks’ worth of a good diet had given them a measure of strength and, more important, hope.
    Kratos . . . Kratos was the surprise.
    “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stay in your service,” he said, pocketing his letter of manumission. “Might be you could use a loyal man.”
    I dismissed the others, then studied Kratos’ homely face. “How loyal?”
    He shrugged. “I’m not a fool, my lord. Most people don’t see that. You did. I know you’re up to something. But you kept your word. I’ll keep mine. You’re not buying my loyalty this time. I’m giving it freely.”
    “Why?” I asked. “You’re the one was clever enough to be concerned about my business being dangerous.”
    “True.” A broad smile spread over his face. “Truth be told, I don’t rightly know. I’m curious. You’re not what I took you to be.”
    “And what was that?” I inquired.
    “A shallow fellow,” Kratos said frankly. “A smooth-tongued politician delighted by his own cleverness. Now . . .” He shrugged again. “I don’t know. You seem different, or mayhap there’s more to you than I gauged. I’m long past my prime. I’ve got nowhere to go, no family left to me. Those lads, the Carthaginian boys . . .” He jerked his thumb at the door. “They’re young. They’ve a chance to build lives for themselves. Might be they’ll succeed; might be they’ll fail. Me, I’m a broken-down wrestler with only a few good working years left in me. Might as well satisfy my curiosity. Good enough?”
    I put out my hand.