Kushiel's Mercy

sidelong look. “Much, much improved.”
    “What about the ribs?” I asked Kratos.
    He took a deep breath, his chest swelling. “Better.”
    I was glad.
    We passed a pleasant hour talking with Kratos. Somewhere in the back of my thoughts, I’d hoped he’d have some clever perspective on our plan for escape that no one had conceived; but he didn’t. He merely shook his heavy head, running one hand over his cropped, greying hair.
    “You were right, my lord,” Kratos said soberly. “I’d only slow you down. It’s dicey, but I don’t see another way.”
    “Pray for us?” I asked.
    “To all the gods I know,” he affirmed.
    Sidonie stooped and kissed his cheek. “Remember your promise.”
    A blush suffused his homely face. “To dance at your wedding?”
    She smiled. “To dance with me at my wedding, Kratos. I mean to make it a point not to forget those who’ve saved my life. And the other thing, too. The word I taught you. Keep the knowledge quiet, but don’t forget.”
    “Emmenghanom,” Kratos said softly.
    Sidonie nodded. “Exactly right.”
    We didn’t spread the word throughout the entire city. At this point, it was dangerous.
    Blockaded, besieged Amílcar was a hotbed of gossip. If it were to fall in our absence or failure, if word were to leak that we’d disseminated the key to undoing Carthage’s spell far and wide . . . well, it was Sidonie’s fear that Astegal would have every man, woman, and child put to the sword rather than risk word carrying to Terre d’Ange. And with that, I agreed.
    But we made sure it wouldn’t be lost.
    General Liberio agreed in a bemused fashion that those soldiers serving as couriers carrying word of Amílcar’s plan to neighboring cities would carry it. I’m not sure he believed, not entirely. He was a pragmatic fellow. Still, he agreed. And Sidonie and I taught the word to half a dozen bright-eyed, impassioned young men. If any of them survived, the word would be passed onward.
    Emmenghanom .
    Beholden.
    We taught the word to Captain Deimos, lodged in a harbor inn, posing as the captain of a fishing vessel. He didn’t want to hear it, not really, but he’d been Ptolemy Solon’s man too long. In the end, the desire for knowledge won out.
    “Emmenghanom,” he whispered, closing his eyes.
    “If all else fails, the Wise Ape of Cythera will know what to do with it,” I said. “And if we succeed, I will keep my promise. Terre d’Ange will reward you.”
    Deimos shuddered. “Goddess save me from wisdom. I hope to be an ignorant man in my next life.”
    We gave the word unto the safekeeping of Nicola L’Envers y Aragon. To her, I showed the talisman; the scrap of lacquered leather filched from an inner pocket of Bodeshmun’s robes. A whirlwind sprouting horns and claws, a word inscribed in Punic.
    “This is it?” Nicola inquired. “On this you pin your hopes?”
    Sidonie and I nodded.
    “Emmenghanom,” Nicola murmured. “I’ll remember.”
    “Write it down,” Sidonie said, fetching pen and paper. “Write it as it sounds when I speak it, my lady.” She knelt beside Nicola’s chair, her face earnest and pleading. “I know it sounds absurd. But if we fail—”
    Nicole cut her off. “You won’t fail.”
    Sidonie shrugged gracefully. “But if we do . . .”
    “Emmenghanom,” I echoed. “Beholden. We are beholden. We will all be beholden to you. Sidonie and I, Ysandre, Alais, Drustan, Phèdre and Joscelin, your son, Raul, the whole of Terre d’Ange . . .”
    Nicola raised her hand. “I understand.”
    She wrote the word, mouthing the syllables to herself.
    There was little else we could do, save wait.

Fifty-Seven

    Slowly, slowly, the moon waxed. At its halfway point, it would have shed enough light to stage a sortie, but the weather was foul: cold, grey, and drizzling. The mood in the city grew tense and strained. When the weather showed no sign of breaking, Lady Nicola decided to hold a fête.
    “Are you sure that’s wise?” I asked her. I couldn’t help but think of Gallus Tadius’ orders during the siege of Lucca. He’d have been apoplectic at the waste.
    “People need something to keep their spirits up,” Nicola said pragmatically. “And my husband’s wine-cellar can withstand the blow. Besides, there’s someone who’d like to meet you, but he’s felt awkward about it. This will provide a nice opportunity.”
    I was intrigued despite myself. “Who is it?”
    She smiled. “You’ll see.”
    It wasn’t an