Kushiel's Mercy

“Surely you must be the Dauphine, with your mother’s beauty and your father’s eyes.”
    “Well met, my lord.” Her tone was neutral.
    “Ah.” He smiled at her. “So young to be wary of flattery, your highness! I did but speak the truth.”
    “And in surpassingly good D’Angeline, too,” she observed.
    He spread his arms as though to embrace the entire City. “It is as I wrote. I have long dreamed of this moment. I have worked and studied long and hard to bring my dream to fruition.” Turning to me, he gave another bow. “You, I think, are also a member of the royal family?”
    “Imriel,” I said. “Well met, my lord.”
    “Prince Imriel, of course.” Astegal put out his hand, his expression turning grave. “I hope that during my time here, I may make some atonement for the unconscionable acts of my ill-gotten countrymen. And once we have put the past behind us, perhaps you will do me the kindness of showing me your city’s fabled pleasures.” He winked, showed his white teeth in another easy grin. “You strike me as a young man of good appetite.”
    He had a firm grip and his sword-hand was callused. For all his diplomat’s charm, I thought, this man was a soldier. He was a few inches taller than I, and some ten or twelve years older. Young and ambitious, the rumors had said.
    “Of course, my lord,” I said politely, wondering if there was some hidden message behind the request. “I do not blame Carthage for the acts of a few miscreants.”
    Astegal smiled. “Excellent!”
    There was a grand procession from the wharfs to the Palace. Behind us, slaves continued to work at unloading the other ships, under the supervision of various Court officials who would attend to the other Carthaginian dignitaries and horologists disembarking, all of it taking place under the watchful eyes of a full contingent of the Royal Army.
    Commonfolk lined the streets, gazing in awe at the spectacle.
    As we rode in an open carriage, Astegal offered a running litany of praise: for the gracious lay of the City, for the skill of its architects, for the beauty of its folk. Flattery, but it stopped short of unctuousness. He seemed sincere in his praise, glad to be here, at ease in his own skin.
    I tried to read aught beyond it, and couldn’t.
    When we reached the Palace, he fell silent a moment, gazing at it, then gave his head a little shake. “Lovely. Who would have thought a structure so vast could hold such grace.
    Mayhap your majesty will consent to send architects to advise ours.”
    “Carthage comes courting Terre d’Ange’s architects ?” Ysandre inquired.
    “Of course.” Astegal smiled. “Among other things. Terre d’Ange has grown bolder and more adventurous under your rule, gracious lady, opening its doors to new friendships and alliances, creating strong bonds.” His gaze lingered briefly on Drustan. “It is my wish that Carthage do the same. There are many ways in which we may profit one another,” he added, and his gaze slid toward Sidonie.
    It made my teeth grate.
    Sidonie didn’t take his gambit. “Our horologists are eager to learn of this celestial marvel you promise.”
    “Oh, yes.” He nodded. “You have the wisdom your gods bequeathed you, but Carthaginian horologists were studying the skies long before your Elua roamed the earth.
    We may learn much from one another. And if nothing else”—he made a graceful, self-deprecating gesture—“it is my hope that we shall all part as friends, enriched by our mutual interests.”
    “I’m sure we will,” Sidonie agreed, and I had to stifle a laugh.
    All throughout the day, the Palace bustled with activity. Tribute-gifts were carted and displayed in the great hall, dignitaries, horologists, soldiers, and slaves were lodged, tables were laid, harried servants hurried on endless errands. There was to be a grand fête that night with over a hundred peers of the realm, a handful of Cruithne, and all of the Carthaginian dignitaries and horologists attending. Astegal had expressed the hope that he and Ysandre would share a drink from the carnelian chalice, pledging one another’s health and toasting to the shared future of our nations. He had also promised one final tribute-gift, a surprise not listed in the manifest and kept veiled until the fête.
    “Do you truly intend to prowl the Night Court with him?” Sidonie asked in the bath, as we began to prepare for the evening’s festivities, enjoying what was likely to be our last time