Kushiel's Mercy

duty.”
    Claude had leveled a hard gaze at me. “Palace gossip says this Astegal’s made a bid for her highness’ hand. He knows she’s in love with you. No, I’m not your man, but I’m Sidonie’s, and I know for a surety she doesn’t want you dead by mysterious misadventure.
    I’m not willing to entrust this duty to men whose loyalties are uncertain.”
    I smiled. “You sound like Joscelin.”
    He laughed. “I wish!”
    We went first to Eglantine House, where we were treated to an extraordinary feast, entertained all the while by dancers, tumblers, singers, and musicians of surpassing skill.
    Several of the Carthaginian lords succumbed to their charms. I explained to them in Hellene the laws regarding consensuality, to which they readily agreed, and after which I made arrangements with the Dowayne. Astegal reclined on a couch, taking it all in through half-slitted eyes.
    “You lead a good life here,” he observed.
    “We do, my lord,” I agreed. “But what passes here is sacred, too.”
    “Of course.” His gaze slid sideways toward me. “No doubt you heard of the offer I made.
    I hope you do not take it amiss.”
    I spread my hands. “Politics.”
    He nodded. “Nothing more.”
    After Eglantine House, we went to Bryony. Dusk had fallen and the evening was balmy, the air soft on one’s skin. Gillimas of Hiram was one of the lords attending this night’s venture. I was hoping by the night’s end he would be sufficiently drunk to speak candidly to me. At Bryony House, where money is reckoned an aphrodisiac, I bribed an adept to see that his winecup was never empty.
    It was a good investment. The Carthaginians, who had built an empire on trade and lost it through military overreach, loved Bryony House. They were willing to wager on anything: who could out-drink the other, which lean-muscled, oiled adept might wrestle the other into submission, whether or not an adept could peel an apple in a single, coiling strip. And they had a fine time doing it, encouraged all the while by Bryony’s adepts.
    “You fatten our purses at Carthage’s expense,” commented Janelle nó Bryony, the Dowayne. “My thanks.”
    I smiled at her. “You fattened mine, once.”
    “True.” She traced a finger down my chest. Once upon a time, the Dowayne of Bryony House had lost a bet to me. “At the time, I didn’t know your heart was given elsewhere.”
    “Nor did I.” I caught her hand, halting its progress. “Now I do.”
    “You’re faithful to her?” she asked.
    “Unless requested to be otherwise,” I said, thinking of Amarante.
    Janelle nó Bryony laughed and kissed me. “You inspire us, Prince Imriel. The Night Court stands behind you.” Her eyes sparkled. “And if there is any truth in gossip, it may be that her highness will not prove adverse to certain adventures in the future.”
    “Probably not,” I agreed.
    An idea was beginning to take shape in my mind. There had been debate over which of the Houses to visit. Astegal had wished to experience the genius of Eglantine House and the carnival atmosphere of Bryony. After some deliberation, he had settled on Jasmine House for our final destination.
    The central tenet of Jasmine House was pure, unadulterated sensuality. It was palpable, too. It struck like a wave the minute one was ushered into the salon of reception. It was an undulating space, filled with semiprivate niches. The floor was piled with thick Akkadian carpets and massive cushions on which patrons and adepts reclined. Fretted lamps hung low from the ceiling, wrought with images of love-making. Incense and opium burned in tiny braziers, and servants circulated with wine, cordials, and delicacies.
    With the assistance of Claude de Monluc, I got the Carthaginians settled in a niche, happily drinking wine and reviewing those adepts willing and available to serve them, and begged a private word with the Dowayne, Yolande Caradas.
    “I have a great boon to ask, my lady,” I said.
    “Oh?” Her brows rose. She was a stunning woman, with perfectly straight black hair that fell to her waist, and a mouth made for sin. “I’m . . . curious.”
    I’d never heard anyone invest so much sensuality into so few syllables. It made the room feel hot. “That man, the hawk-nosed fellow.” I nodded slightly toward Gillimas. “I wish to have a quiet word with him without General Astegal’s knowledge.”
    “Why?” Yolande asked.
    I shook my head. “’Tis a matter of state I cannot