Kushiel's Mercy

bending over to see.
    In one swift motion, I unsheathed my dagger and drove it under his chin, angling for the brain. He made a choked sound, and I covered his mouth. His wide, terrified eyes met mine.
    It was one of the Carthaginians, one I knew by sight. The guard who’d told me that Astegal was likely to move against Serafin, one of the more decent fellows. I wished it hadn’t been him. I remembered him grumbling about fighting a winter war. He must have thought himself lucky when he’d gotten this posting.
    “I’m sorry,” I whispered.
    His body went limp with death. Blood dripped onto the rolled carpet between us. I stepped over the carpet and wrestled him over to the wine cellar door. This one was unlocked; Astegal had preferred to set a guard on the wine-cellar rather than suffer any delays in his revels, and Bodeshmun hadn’t bothered to alter his order. I dragged the guard’s body into the dark cellar, then sprinted upstairs to retrieve Sidonie.
    Still dead weight.
    Once I closed the cellar door behind us, it was pitch black. I paused for a moment, willing my eyes to adjust, but there was simply no light. Step by step, I descended, balancing Sidonie and the carpet on my shoulder.
    At the bottom, I stumbled over the guard’s legs. The carpet lurched. I caught myself and steadied my burden. Kratos hadn’t said where the outer delivery door was located, and I hadn’t thought to ask. I wished there had been more time to go over the details of our plan with Sidonie. With her practical mind, it would have occurred to her that I’d be mired in darkness here.
    Gods, I hoped she wasn’t suffocating.
    I began making my way blindly through the cellar, one hand steadying my burden, the other outstretched. I blundered into kegs, barked my shins. I had to turn this way and that, losing all sense of direction.
    No good.
    I closed my eyes and breathed slowly. Darkness within darkness. I could do this. Leander Maignard could do it in his sleep. A child’s training game, nothing more. I lowered the heavy carpet to the cool stones of the floor, turning it in such a manner that Sidonie’s face was sideways—or at least so I hoped.
    “Love,” I whispered. “I have to leave you for a moment. But I’ll be back.”
    Without the burden, I was able to move more swiftly, both hands extended. Five paces forward, and my way was blocked by a wall of wine-kegs. I turned to the left. Seven paces, another wall of kegs. Right, and then right again. Step by step, I negotiated the mundane labyrinth until my hands encountered cool stone. I sidled along the wall until I felt wood beneath my fingertips.
    A door.
    I threw the bar and wrenched it open, feeling a blast of cool night air on my veiled face.
    Elua, it felt good!
    There was no moon, but there were hazy stars. What light there was was faint, not nearly enough to illuminate the cellar, but I could make my way to it. All I had to do was retrace my steps in darkness. I sidled back along the wall. Twelve swift steps; I’d counted. Left, then left again. Right, seven paces. Five paces forward. I stooped, feeling along the floor.
    No carpet.
    I closed my eyes again and fought off a wave of panic. What was wrong? I’d been cautious on the outward journey. I’d hurried back. I’d taken bigger steps. Somehow, I’d reached a wrong aisle.
    I made my way back to the open door and tried again, taking careful little steps. When my reaching fingers brushed the rolled carpet, I nearly wept with relief. Once more, I shouldered my burden.
    Outside, the air tasted so sweet, I had to loosen my scarf for a moment and breathe it deeply. I thought about laying Sidonie down, unrolling the carpet to make certain she was alive. But then I heard Carthaginian voices muttering in the gardens—some of Astegal’s guards, making their rounds. So instead, I retucked my scarf and set out at a brisk walk.
    The carpet was still dead weight.
    It wasn’t long before my left shoulder began to ache. I shifted my burden to the other shoulder, heaving and ducking. Heavy, so heavy! I’d carried Sidonie in my arms a dozen times, a hundred times. But this was the one that mattered.
    Blessed Elua, please let her live.
    At least it was downhill. We entered the streets of New Carthage. There were no Aragonians abroad at this hour, only Astegal’s patrols. I strode past them, acknowledging their curious greetings with curt nods. I was a veiled Amazigh bent on some unspeakable errand.
    I was a ghost.
    An