Kushiel's Mercy

departed with the army.
    The latter was an affair rife with pageantry. It was a vast army. Most of his troops were Carthaginian, but there was a sizable contingent of Nubian mercenaries with striking zebra-hide shields and long spears, and a mounted company of robed Amazigh. We assembled outside the gates of the city to see them off.
    “Bastards,” Kratos muttered.
    The ceremony began with the sacrifice of a white heifer, a singularly gory and unpleasant ritual. Once the poor beast’s struggles had ceased, the priests slit its belly and withdrew the steaming entrails for inspection. They pronounced the augurs to be good and invoked the blessings of Tanit and Ba’al Hammon on the venture.
    Astegal gave a stirring speech full of lies about the glorious era of peace and prosperity that would follow on the heels of Carthage’s victory. His voice carried well, and the army cheered. Clad in gilded armor, he looked every inch the heroic general. Sidonie stood beside him, blank-faced as a doll. Astegal didn’t care. He swept her into his arms and kissed her farewell, proclaiming the hope that he would return victorious to news that she was providing him with an heir to the vast new empire of Carthage. There were more cheers and long blasts on the trumpets.
    Then he turned her over to Bodeshmun, who made a speech declaring that the Princess Sidonie and New Carthage alike were under his protection. When it was finished, Astegal mounted his horse and drew his sword.
    “Onward, Carthage!” he shouted. “Onward to victory!”
    The army roared its approval, soldiers beating their shields and stamping their feet, trumpets blaring. Astegal nudged his mount, and they were off, rank upon rank of soldiers falling in behind him, supply wagons groaning. It was a long time before the last column passed us.
    I sighed. “Good riddance.”
    Without an entire occupying army, New Carthage seemed much emptier than before. We returned with the remnants of the procession that had accompanied Astegal to the gates.
    On every street, Aragonians stared at us with bitter hatred, but it was hatred tempered by fear. Not a one of them dared speak. Perversely, I found myself glad for the presence of Bodeshmun and the remaining forces. I didn’t doubt but that every man and woman we passed would gladly see all of us dead.
    In that, I was more than right.
    On the morrow, I received a message from Sidonie inviting me to accompany her on a stroll in the gardens. I met her at the appointed hour. It was an incongruous sight, the D’Angeline princess surrounded by four veiled Amazigh.
    “You look well, your highness,” I greeted her. “Are you feeling better?”
    “A bit.” It was true: she didn’t look quite as pale. “I thought the fresh air might help clear my thoughts.”
    The gardens surrounding the palace were actually quite lovely and extensive. We strolled through them, passing lemon and orange groves, eucalyptus trees, and others I couldn’t name. Here and there, we passed Aragonian gardeners at work, pruning the trees and culling weeds. Like the bath-house attendants, I thought, they must have taken pride in their work once. Now they merely looked sullen.
    “Everything is so green,” Sidonie observed. “It’s hard to believe it’s winter.”
    “Southern climes,” I said. “On Cythera, the first orchids will be blooming soon.”
    We continued for some time in this vein, exchanging meaningless pleasantries. Bit by bit, Sidonie’s pace increased, until we were walking quite briskly. I realized she was trying to put some distance between us and her guards.
    It didn’t work. The Amazigh quickened their own pace, trailing behind us like so many indigo spectres. Sidonie gave an imperceptible shrug and slowed.
    “Mayhap we might sit for a moment,” I suggested, nodding at a marble bench beside a fountain in the shape of a fish spewing water. I was hoping that the sound of splashing water might provide some cover.
    It wasn’t enough to drown out our conversation. Gods, this was ridiculously frustrating!
    After a few more moments of inane talk, Sidonie sighed. “Thank you, Leander, you’ve been very patient. Mayhap I should return.”
    I rose and bowed. “Of course, my lady. You shouldn’t tire yourself.”
    We returned the way we’d come. And what happened next, I couldn’t have said for the life of me how I knew. A lifetime of training to be observant, I suppose. It was the second gardener we encountered, one we’d