Kushiel's Mercy

another day to think and prepare. I braced myself for the harbor-master’s reaction when he saw Melisande Shahrizai’s face reflected in mine.
    It wasn’t quite what I expected.
    He whistled through his teeth. “Ah, I see! One of hers, eh?”
    I wasn’t sure how to answer. “I’ve come to petition the Governor.”
    “Solon, eh?” The harbor-master blinked. He was a slight fellow with pock-marked olive skin and an accent that reminded me of Canis’. “All right, then. No doubt he’ll see you.
    He’s always interested in curiosities. You’re that, no doubt.” He watched the Bastard being led ashore. “Nice horse. What’s your name?”
    “Cadmar,” I said. “Cadmar of Landras.”



Eighteen
    The harbor-master, whose name was Mehmed, had one of his men direct me to a suitable lodging-house; it was not an inn, but a gracious villa overlooking the western edge of the harbor, surrounded by bougainvillea and tall, swaying date palms.
    It was owned by a widow named Nuray. Her eyes widened at the sight of me, but she said nothing, only bowed and escorted me to my quarters, which were airy and pleasant and well-appointed.
    I was in the city of Paphos, breathing the same air as my mother.
    It felt very, very strange.
    Mehmed had promised to bear word of my request to Ptolemy Solon. Oppius had promised not to set sail without my blessing.
    I tended to the Bastard myself, refusing the aid of Nuray’s stable-lad. The Bastard suffered my attentions, eyeing me with a look of deep reproach.
    “I’m sorry,” I said to him. “Truly.”
    What had I been thinking? I shouldn’t have subjected him to a lengthy sea voyage. It hadn’t been necessary. I hadn’t wanted to be alone, that’s all. Weeks without exercise, without sunlight. The Bastard was in worse shape than I was now.
    And why had I given Mehmed a false name? I wasn’t entirely sure. One of hers , he’d said.
    One. What did that mean?
    I didn’t know and it made me uneasy. I didn’t trust myself. Driven by the memories of my madness, the urgency of my cause, I’d been careless. I thought about Bodeshmun the horologist, aligning his mirrors in the City of Elua with exacting care. Thought about him smiling into his beard when Sidonie and I reviewed his preparations, sure in his knowledge of what was to come.
    I couldn’t afford to be careless.
    I couldn’t afford to make mistakes.
    So I waited. I availed myself of the villa’s baths. Nuray sent a laundress for my clothing, all of it salt-stained and foul. While it dried in the sunlight of a hidden courtyard, I sat on a terrace above the harbor, wrapped in a thick linen robe, and ate a luncheon of grilled octopus, potatoes cooked in olive oil, and sausage seasoned with coriander. I watched waves breaking over a rock formation westward, foam jetting skyward. There was a place, only a few leagues away, where it was said the Hellene goddess of love had first touched mortal soil.
    I inhaled the sea air, the same air my mother breathed. A moist, salty tang, sweetened by blooming flowers and ripening fruit. Salt and sweet. My mind wandered. I remembered kneeling for Sidonie, wearing her discarded blindfold. The tap of the tawse between my shoulder blades. Her fingers, loosing the fabric of the blindfold, forgiving me. Her scent, salt and honey. The smile in her voice as she bade me do penance. Ah, Elua! The love in it. I’d done my penance with pleasure.
    The taste of her.
    Gods, it hurt.
    “My lord?” A Cytheran voice speaking Hellene, the same soft accent that blended different cultures. It belonged to a young woman, one of Nuray’s servants. “There is a message for you.”
    The sun sparkled on the sea. I straightened. “Yes?”
    She bowed. “The Governor wishes you to dine with him this evening. He will see you at sunset.”
    When it came time, I went.
    I was apprehensive. I didn’t know what to expect. I rode the Bastard along the palisade, pacing him slowly. The sun was hovering low over the harbor, drenching everything in liquid gold. Somewhere, my mother was here. I wondered if I would see her tonight. The thought made my skin prickle.
    The palace was a charming structure built for pleasure, not defensibility. Its high, arched doors and windows took advantage of the cool sea breezes. I was received courteously and escorted into a salon overlooking the harbor, the setting sun framed in its windows.
    Ptolemy Solon was there.
    Alone.
    The Governor of Cythera was a small man with brown skin