Kushiel's Mercy

stables, shouting for an ostler.
    Ah, gods! Quickly, quickly, quickly. I waited in an agony of suspense, terrified at the thought that Joscelin would awaken and come in pursuit of us, terrified that someone would find him, terrified that the guards would grow suspicious at his absence and forbid us passage. But no; Kratos had rattled them and they still regarded him as their revered Astegal’s sole representative in the City. The ostlers came at a run, leading the blaze-faced bay I’d been riding and the sturdily built chestnut that Sidonie had given Kratos.
    Kratos mounted with a grunt. I could see blood darkening the fabric of his blue breeches and moved my mount unobtrusively to block the sight, then swung astride.
    “Do you need an escort?” the guard asked Kratos.
    “No,” he said curtly. “Just open the gates.”
    The order was given, the gates were opened. “You’d best take the lead,” I murmured to Kratos. “They’ll make way for you when we reach the Square.”
    He nodded and set his heels to the chestnut’s flanks.
    We burst through the gates and began racing through the City. The streets were as empty as I’d ever seen them. Everyone was gathered at the Square, just as they had been the night of the marvel.
    Only this time it was to hear a declaration of war.
    How long did we have? I wasn’t sure. Kratos thought I’d been unconscious a quarter of an hour. I didn’t imagine my head was any harder than Joscelin’s. When he woke, he’d be in a fury. Once he denounced us, it would be over.
    Kratos didn’t ride well and his injury made it worse. He jounced awkwardly in the saddle.
    His horse wasn’t swift. Again and again, I had to check my own mount, fearful of clipping the chestnut’s hooves, reining in my own impatience.
    When Joscelin awoke, he would ride very, very swiftly in pursuit.
    We passed empty townhouses, empty stores, empty wineshops. The thunder of our passage made my aching head swim.
    We glimpsed the outer edge of the throng, ordinary citizens clogging the street. “Make way!” Kratos began shouting. “Make way in the name of Astegal of Carthage!”
    People turned and stared. They knew him, knew his homely face with its squashed nose.
    They knew his heavily accented D’Angeline. They moved, sluggish, their bunched ranks parting with frustrating slowness.
    Kratos plunged into their midst and I followed.
    People stared after us.
    If I failed, if I was wrong . . . Kratos was dead. I didn’t doubt it. He’d aided me and assaulted Joscelin. The same twisted malevolence that had led the City to hail him as Astegal’s trusted right-hand man would turn on him. They would tear him to pieces for his betrayal.
    And likely me too.
    The street opened. We had reached the outer edge of Elua’s Square. It was packed with soldiers. They were slower to move, but they did, giving way reluctantly at the name of Astegal of Carthage. I gazed above a shining sea of helmets.
    Elua’s Oak.
    It rose, vast and majestic, its spring canopy spreading over the Square. I’d stood beneath it as a boy when Ysandre de la Courcel announced an end to Phèdre’s sentence of penance and gave her blessing to the quest to free the Master of the Straits. I’d sat beneath it as a young man, beside a dry and empty fountain, suspected of treason thanks to Barquiel L’Envers’ machinations. Almost a year ago, I’d groveled at its roots, succumbing to madness. And only a few hours ago, I’d knelt beneath it and prayed.
    I prayed now, sick and dizzy.
    A wooden dais had been erected beneath the oak. There they were: Ysandre, Drustan, and Sidonie. Drustan’s sword was in his hand. I guessed the speech had already been given, the salutes exchanged.
    “Make way!” Kratos called, forging a steady path through the crowd of soldiers. “In the name of Astegal of Carthage, make way!”
    I followed in his wake.
    Far behind us was the sound of a new commotion arising.
    Joscelin.
    No time.
    No time for fear, no time for uncertainty. No time to try to explain what I was doing. I left that to Kratos. As we reached the oak, I draped my mount’s reins over his neck, kicked my feet free of the stirrups. I drew myself up and stood atop my saddle, swaying unsteadily. My heart thudded in my breast. I caught the lowest limb, hauled myself atop it.
    Below voices rose in furious argument.
    “. . . sorry, your majesty, but he’s had a vision ,” Kratos was saying, his tone stubborn.
    “Your men were too hasty.”
    I