Kushiel's Mercy

that the Carthaginian slave-traders had sold me to a Menekhetan merchant. It was from this very harbor that I’d set sail toward horror; and now I was back, seeking sanctuary in a besieged city. Strange, indeed.
    There was a large contingent of armed men awaiting us on the dock. Archers with crossbows were arrayed in two ranks, one kneeling, one standing behind them. All held their weapons cocked and ready. A mounted man watched us intently, a lean fellow, his cheeks pitted with old pox scars.
    “Peace!” I called in Aragonian. “We come seeking sanctuary!”
    His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Fifty-Two

    I got carefully to my feet, raising my hands to show they were empty, and made my way forward to where Sidonie was shivering in the prow. “Are you all right?” I whispered to her.
    She nodded. “Cold.”
    I helped her stand. None of Deimos’ men moved. The archers on the dock kept their crossbows trained on us. “We bear her highness Sidonie de la Courcel, the Dauphine of Terre d’Ange,” I called. “Freed from Carthage’s grasp.”
    The mounted man spat. “Carthage’s bitch!”
    “No longer.” Sidonie was wavering on her feet, but her voice was steady. “Messire, if you bear any love for either of our countries, you will welcome us ashore.”
    For a long moment, he hesitated, surveying our exhausted, singed, sooty human cargo.
    Kratos was huddled in the prow, grimacing. Sidonie and I stood. Everyone else, Deimos included, simply leaned on their oars.
    “Down,” the mounted man said at last to his archers. “I am Vitor Gaitán, captain of the Harbor Watch,” he said to us. “I will take you into custody. What happens then is for Serafin to decide.”
    “He’s my kinsman,” Sidonie said. “I need to speak with him immediately.”
    Vitor Gaitán eyed her. “That’s for Serafin to decide.”
    “She needs a chirurgeon is what she needs,” I said. The man opened his mouth to reply.
    “And no, that’s not for Serafin to decide.”
    Gaitán’s men secured the landing-boat and helped us ashore, then marched us through the streets of Amílcar. Gods, we were a sorry lot! Kratos was among the worst, blisters rising on his back, his shirt scorched to holes. To compound matters, he’d broken a rib or two in the fall when I’d heaved him over the railing. Still, he shrugged off my apologies. “One of the last fellows didn’t make it,” Kratos said soberly. “Like as not that would have been me. I’m not as quick as you, my lord.”
    There were a good many folk on the streets, watching with curiosity. The mood in Amílcar was markedly different than New Carthage. It was a city holding out in the early stages of a siege, tense, jubilant, and defiant.
    That, I thought, would change.
    Vitor Gaitán led us to a park where a makeshift infirmary of tents had been erected and called for chirurgeons to attend our wounded.
    “I’m off to report to Serafin,” he said to us. “What happens then—”
    “Just go,” Sidonie said wearily.
    I sat with her on one of the cots while we waited. There were two chirurgeons on hand, but she wouldn’t allow either of them to examine her, insisting that they tend first to the injured among Deimos’ men.
    “How many of them died?” she asked me.
    “Seven or eight,” I said. “I’m not sure.” I took her hand. “Sidonie, Bodeshmun threatened to have my eyes put out and my tongue cut from my head if I was merely careless.
    Astegal might have kept you alive as a hostage if they’d caught us, but I think the rest of us would have been dead or wishing we were. And if we succeed, far more lives will be saved than lost.”
    “I know.” She gazed into the distance. “It’s still a hard cost to bear. None of them had any stake in this. They were just obeying orders.”
    “I know,” I said.
    She glanced at me. “Thank you for not trying to soften it.”
    It wasn’t long before we heard the sound of a carriage approaching, and then a woman’s voice angrily addressing the guards Vitor Gaitán had left posted to watch over us. It was a voice I knew, and one I never thought I’d be so grateful to hear. We got to our feet as Nicola L’Envers y Aragon entered the chirurgeons’ tent.
    “Name of Elua!” She stopped short, staring at Sidonie. “It is true.”
    “Well met, Lady Nicola,” Sidonie said a bit unsteadily. “I regret the circumstances.”
    “What . . .” Nicola paused, then shook her head. “I don’t even know where to begin.”
    “It