Kushiel's Mercy

meal was served, although I ate without tasting, distracted by my own thoughts and the sight of Astegal, several seats away, paying court to Sidonie in a manner light-handed enough to be inoffensive. She was being pleasant without encouraging him.
    Elua knows, it wasn’t that I was worried about her loyalties, but I was on edge, and it only made me edgier.
    Fortunately, I was seated across from the Chief Horologist, who spun a tale compelling enough to prevent anyone from noticing my distraction. He was a kinsman of Astegal’s; Bodeshmun was his name. Another tall fellow, older, grave, and serious, with deep-set eyes and a long black beard. In a sonorous voice, he described the promised marvel, in which twelve silver-backed mirrors were to be placed around the walls of the City, and one great mirror in the very center.
    “When the moon is wholly obscured,” he said, “the light is such that when one gazes into the great mirror, one sees reflected all that is hidden between the stars.”
    “Why not simply gaze at the sky itself?” Tibault de Toluard inquired, knitting his brows in perplexity. He was a Siovalese lord with a considerable knowledge of science. “Why use a mirror? Surely a reflection is less true than the thing itself.”
    Bodeshmun turned his head. “Silver has the quality of revealing much that is hidden.
    Have you not found it to be so?”
    “Not especially,” the Marquis de Toluard said frankly.
    The horologist smiled into his beard. “You will.”
    “What may we expect to see, my lord?” Roxanne de Mereliot, the Lady of Marsilikos, asked with interest.
    “Ah, no!” Bodeshmun laughed deep in his chest. “I will not spoil the surprise, my lady.
    Let the secrets of the cosmos reveal themselves.”
    After the meal was concluded, at least one secret was revealed. Ysandre, good-natured, acceded to Astegal’s request, at least in part. They both drank to one another’s health from the carnelian chalice, although she stopped short of toasting the shared future of Carthage and Terre d’Ange. Astegal seemed pleased nonetheless. He called for the veiled treasure to be brought forth. The silk draped over the large square frame was whisked away to reveal what appeared at first glance to be a painting in a gilded frame.
    A painting that glittered.
    Not pigment, but ground gems in pure form, used with exacting care. It depicted a tall, black-haired man with a scarlet beard and a blonde woman, standing before a tree, their hands clasped in friendship.
    “Thank you, my lord,” Ysandre said, sounding surprised. “It is surpassingly lovely.”
    Astegal bowed. “As are you and your land, your majesty.”
    I glanced down the table toward where Phèdre was seated. In the midst of this polyglot mayhem, I’d not had a chance to speak with her or Joscelin all night. Her head was tilted and she wore a faint, familiar frown, as though she were listening for the strains of a distant sound no one else could hear. But when I caught her eye, she merely shook her head, perplexed.
    I knew the feeling.
    The gem-painting was placed on an easel in a position of honor. The tables had been cleared of all plates and platters, but the wine and cordial flowed freely. And I found myself approached for a second time that evening.
    “Prince Imriel.” A hawk-nosed Carthaginian I’d not met earlier approached. He bowed deeply, addressing me in Hellene. “I am Gillimas of the House of Hiram, magistrate to the Council of Thirty.” He placed a gilded, gem-studded coffer on the table. “It is our wish to present this small token to you in acknowledgment of the unpleasantness you endured at the hands of our countrymen.”
    “Thank you, my lord,” I said.
    He shrugged. “A small token. The wood is cypress from the isle of Cythera.”
    “Cythera?” I echoed.
    “The fragrance alone tells the tale,” Gillimas said.
    I opened the coffer. The inner lid was also worked in gold, but the coffer itself was bare wood. The scent of cypress wafted out, and from the inside of the lid, the image of a lamp leapt out at me. Both caught at my memories. A barrel outside an incense-maker’s shop, Canis the beggar giving me a clay medallion with a lamp on it.
    “Very nice,” I said slowly.
    “Oh, it is nothing, nothing.” Gillimas made a dismissive gesture. “A mere token, fit for storing letters.”
    I ran my fingers over the edge of the coffer’s lid, feeling for hidden messages. There were none. “It gives a pleasant