Kushiel's Mercy

diplomatic mission had ended in Carthage. So far as anyone here was concerned, I was a lap-dog, a harmless courtier . . .
    and a failed one, at that.
    But they were satisfied it was because of the spell, because Astegal kept her contented.
    They were wrong. Although she didn’t understand why, Sidonie was being wary because she did have feelings for me.
    Strong feelings.
    The knowledge filled me with elation. It lent me strength. I made myself play at being a perfect courtier that night. I danced with a good many Carthaginian ladies, and with Justina, who was one of the few Aragonians present—or at least, a seeming Aragonian.
    She played her part so well I forgot myself.
    “Well?” I asked her, smiling falsely. “Any luck this evening?”
    Justina laughed as though I’d said somewhat witty. “Oh, yes.”
    “Good,” I said, still smiling. “Excellent.”
    If the night had ended there, it would have been perfect, or at least as near to it as it could be under the circumstances. Unfortunately, it didn’t. After the dancing, Astegal decreed a spectacle, announcing that the Amazigh would perform a ritual for us.
    All of us returned to our seats at the long tables, clearing the floor. Two Amazigh took their places. They bowed to one another, then unwound the lower portions of their head-scarves, rewinding them in such a fashion that their eyes were bound and covered. With that, they drew their blades and commenced to spar.
    What the point of it was, I couldn’t say. A reminder of their skill, I suppose. To be sure, it was an impressive spectacle. Robed and faceless, they hardly looked human. They fought with a sword in the right hand and a dagger in the left, flowing back and forth across the floor. Their blades crossed and clashed, glinting in the light of many lamps and candles.
    At length, one gained the advantage of the other. Feeling the other’s sword-point against his throat, the defeated Amazigh dropped his blade, pressing the palms of his hands together in a curious gesture of surrender. I clapped politely along with everyone else.
    “Do any among you think to best my loyal Amazigh at their game?” Astegal called.
    There were general utterances of denial. “Ah, but someone must try.” He made a show of glancing around the room, his gaze settling on me. “Leander Maignard!” he said brightly.
    “You were invited here to provide entertainment. Do so.”
    I spread my hands. “I’m no swordsman, my lord.”
    Astegal laughed. “That will make it all the more entertaining! Don’t worry, my pretty little friend. My men are skilled; you’ll take no serious hurt.”
    The Carthaginian peers laughed. Even Bodeshmun allowed himself a sour smile. I glanced at Sidonie. She wasn’t amused. If Astegal thought to lessen me in her eyes by humiliating me in public as he’d humiliated Kratos in the palaestra, he was mistaken.
    I rose and bowed. “As you wish, my lord.”
    One of the Amazigh loaned me his sword and dagger. Someone else bound my eyes with a length of cloth. I stood very still, focusing my breathing. The noise in the great hall was distracting, voices bouncing off the walls. They were making wagers, not on who would win, but how long I would last.
    Strangely, the dual blades in my hands didn’t feel entirely wrong, only . . . unbalanced.
    The Amazigh sword was heavier than the one I was accustomed to wielding, and it felt mismatched against the dagger.
    “Go!” Astegal shouted.
    I took a silent, sliding step to my left and felt the wind of a blade’s passage where I had been. I’d always been good at her ladyship’s training games. I could navigate the entire villa blindfolded, and I had sharp ears. I concentrated. Beneath the noise of the onlookers, I heard the soft scuff of my opponent’s sandals as he advanced, thinking I’d retreated. I poked him blindly with the tip of my sword, moving farther to the left as I did.
    A great roar went up.
    Circles, I thought. The Amazigh had battled to-and-fro in a straight line. If I could keep circling, I could keep him off guard.
    For a while, it worked. Longer than anyone expected, I daresay. Long enough that the tables were turned, and the crowd began laughing at the sight of the Amazigh spinning, his robes flying as he tried to guess which way I’d gone. I kept my blades crossed before me, concentrating on defending myself.
    But while the Amazigh may have been fierce in battle—who else would devise such a dangerous ritual?—they were