Kushiel's Mercy

terror and incomprehension. For some reason, the sight made me feel sick inside.
    “I think not,” the Carthaginian woman said decisively. She gestured to her attendants.
    “Next!”
    The boy gazed after her as she swept away toward the next tent full of human merchandise, unsure what had transpired. Knowing only that he was alone in the world, friendless and bereft.
    “Forgive me.” Strytanus approached, bowing. “You have made your choice, my lord?”
    “Indeed.” I wrenched my gaze from the Aragonian boy.
    Strytanus noticed. “Is my lord . . . interested?”
    “Alas, no.” I forced a smile. “Shall we talk?”
    We haggled over the bearers I’d chosen. In the end, I daresay I got a fair price, since I’d chosen men the slaver was eager to dispose of. Not so good a price as I might have gotten.
    I was distracted by the boy.
    “Very good,” Strytanus said smoothly when our deal was concluded. “I shall have them delivered to your household in a matter of hours.”
    I inclined my head. “My thanks.”
    Our business finished, Maharbal and I departed. I felt the Aragonian boy’s eyes burning holes in my back, starved for some word or gesture of kindness. I wished I could have spared him. But I’d already told Maharbal I wasn’t in the market for aught but bearers.
    And as the slave-trader had said, he was but the first of many. The spoils of war. There would be others.
    Many others.
    I could best help them by completing my mission. By undoing Carthage’s magics—those that bound the princess, and those that bound Terre d’Ange itself. For the first time, it began to feel like a noble cause. It was a novel sensation, and one I quite enjoyed contemplating.
    We ventured to the inner harbor and located Captain Deimos aboard the Cytheran flagship. I made arrangements to have Ptolemy Solon’s tribute-gifts delivered to the villa I had rented. And then, back to the inn, where Maharbal made arrangements to have my things delivered and his bearers to escort me. He bade me farewell, covering my hands with his own. “If I may be of further service . . .”
    “Of course.” I pressed his hands warmly. “You have been most helpful.”
    He bowed. “We seek to please.”
    I gathered my things, making them ready for the porters. I spied the chambermaid I’d rejected lurking around a corner. I gave her a cheap gilt ring set with a flawed garnet.
    “A token,” I said somberly. “For your beauty. An apology for the lack of what might have been.”
    The chambermaid beamed at me. “My lord is too kind!”
    I smiled at her. “I try.”
    It was a relief to get free of the place. Gods above! It took so little time for folk to attempt to set hooks in one. I rode in Maharbal’s palanquin to his cousin’s villa, then dismissed his bearers with a word of thanks and a few copper coins.
    The servants at my new villa were bustling about, dusting, waxing, and scouring with an alacrity that I daresay they’d not shown since their mistress departed. I wandered the rooms and the grounds, familiarizing myself with the place. The chamberlain, a sober fellow named Anysus, assured me that he would be pleased to procure anything I required. After the cloying manner of Maharbal, I was pleased by his demeanor.
    Everything arrived in good order. My possessions, sent from the inn. The tribute-gifts, under the watchful eye of Captain Deimos and his men. Deimos gave me the name of the dockside inn where they would take lodging, and I assured him I’d send word if I had need.
    My bearers arrived, looking sullen and suspicious. The steward Anysus took charge of them and led them to the servants’ quarters. I’d told him I wanted them washed and fed on arrival. I waited until they were eating, then went to have a word with them, closing the door of the small room in which the household servants dined. The aroma of lamb stew filled the space.
    “Listen, lads,” I said to them. The Carthaginian brothers put down their spoons with pained looks. I laughed. “Go ahead, keep eating.”
    They hunched over their bowls, shoveling down food. The Hellene wrestler waited, regarding me with equanimity. The Amazigh continued eating, slow and measured, his gaze hooded.
    “I’m a stranger here,” I said. “And this place, these servants . . .” I waved my hand.
    “Rented. I’d like to know I’ve a few loyal men at my side. Give me that, and I’ll pledge you your freedom when I’m done here.”
    “Where would we go?” one of the