Kushiel's Mercy

before Ysandre.
    “Your majesty, august peers!” His voice boomed in the hall. “I bear greetings from Astegal of Carthage, Prince of the House of Sarkal, appointed General by the Council of Thirty. He wishes to pay tribute to Terre d’Ange on behalf of Carthage.”
    Ysandre eyed the chalice. It was wrought of translucent red carnelian, the stem shaped like a pair of clasped hands, the base adorned with gold. “Why?”
    Quintilius Rousse cleared his throat. “There is a letter. May I read it?”
    She inclined her head. “Please do.”
    I knew what it said; Ysandre had already read it, of course, and so had Sidonie.
    “Since I was a boy,” Rousse read aloud, rather badly, “I have longed to see for myself the splendors of Terre d’Ange and its Queen famed for her beauty; and yet, the shadow of misfortune has hung between our two great realms, born of deeds carried out by people too low to mention. I come at the behest of the Council of Thirty, anxious to dispel this shadow and restore amity between us.”
    “Keep reading!” someone shouted when he paused.
    Rousse cleared his throat again. “For myself, it would suffice to gaze upon the fabled white walls of the City of Elua, and gaze on your face. I dare to present this small token, this chalice, in the hope that the clasped hands wrought thereon might prove emblematic of a restored amity between us.” He squinted, holding the parchment at arm’s length. “It in itself is a mere token, emblematic of the gifts the Council of Thirty wishes to bequeath to your majesty and her people, to evince the sincerity of Carthage’s desire. These gifts are as follows . . .”
    In his resounding voice, Quintilius Rousse read a long litany of the tribute-gifts that Carthage offered. Gold, gold in abundance. Ivory and salt. Spices, exotic seedlings gathered from many places. Bolts of cloth dyed Tyrian purple. Furniture made of fragrant woods.
    I watched the avid faces of my peers and felt uneasy.
    “. . . and as your majesty’s horologists will doubtless have informed you, a great event is pending. With your permission, my own horologists will consult with yours to show you a great marvel,” Rousse finished.
    Excited murmurs arose.
    “Hold!” Ysandre said crisply. “What great event?”
    There was a delay, then, while the Court horologist was sent for and found. I listened to the peers gossiping among themselves, stirred by the manifest Quintilius Rousse had recited. At length, the horologist arrived, bowing apologetically.
    “Forgive me, your majesty—” he began.
    Ysandre waved one hand dismissively. “No doubt you’ve informed me. I’ve been distracted. What event?”
    He was a small fellow, sweating and anxious. “It is the belief among those of us who study the stars and the planets that in three weeks’ time, the full moon will pass through the earth’s shadow, and its light shall be dimmed.”
    “She has been distracted,” Sidonie murmured beside me.
    “Is this an omen?” Ysandre asked.
    “No!” The horologist shook his head. “No, no, no. Merely a natural phenomenon, your majesty.”
    “And what marvel might we expect to see?” she asked.
    The horologist licked his lips. “Although I have not seen it for myself, it is said that the moon takes on extraordinary hues while it lies beneath our shadow. Beyond that, I cannot guess.” A scholar’s hunger surfaced in his features. “All knowledge is worth having. I would be eager to partake of the wisdom of Carthage’s horologists.”
    Ysandre inclined her head. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, adding to Quintilius Rousse,
    “You may continue.”
    Rousse read the remainder of the letter aloud: more fulsome compliments, nothing of substance. No indication that this visit was aught but what it purported to be, a grand diplomatic overture. I suppose that was to be expected, and the more subtle overtures would follow if Ysandre accepted Carthage’s tribute. Still, I couldn’t shake a sense of lingering unease.
    A period of open discussion followed, but it was already clear that the promise of extravagant gifts and a marvel to follow had swayed the majority of the peers. There were a few who argued against accepting the offer, fearing it would suggest we meant to abandon our alliance with Aragonia, but others pointed out that, despite Aragonia’s fears, Carthage had not lifted a finger in its direction.
    And there were a few—Barquiel L’Envers among them—who were deeply suspicious