Kushiel's Mercy

I’d been able to show him the beauty in what remained.
    He’d always said no one else had done that for him. So I waited.
    “No,” he said at last. “All right.”
    “If you don’t—”
    Sunjata reached for me, kissing me with fierce passion, his tongue sliding past my lips.
    We tumbled on the bed together, half wrestling, tugging at one another’s clothing. I wanted to go at a leisurely pace, but he was unwontedly hurried and urgent at first.
    “Slow down,” I teased, easing his shirt over his head. I kissed his sleek dark-brown chest, slender and hairless as a boy’s. “You’re the one who told me men always rush too fast.”
    “I can’t,” he whispered.
    He did, though. When we were both naked, Sunjata grew quiet and still, gazing at me in the sunlight spilling into the bedchamber. His fingers stroked my hair, undoing my braids until my hair fell loose and waving over my shoulders.
    “Take out your eardrops,” he murmured.
    I laughed. “Now?”
    He nodded. “I want to see you mother-naked.”
    Giving him a quizzical look, I complied.
    Sunjata gazed at me for a long, long time, lips parted as though to drink in the sight of me.
    I let him, wondering what in the name of the gods was going through his mind. But then, I often did. “You can put them back,” he said at last. “It was a mistake.”
    I did. “Better?”
    He didn’t answer, only closed his eyes and reached for me again.

Twenty-Eight

    In the days that followed, I spent a pleasant afternoon drinking palm wine and listening to the old scholar Hamilcar reminisce about his youth and the intellectual shooting star that had been Ptolemy Solon when he had tarried in Carthage and studied in her academies. I received more invitations in response and attended a dinner party hosted by Gemelquart, a prince of the House of Zinnrid and a member of the Council of Thirty.
    He was a shrewd, well-informed fellow who wasn’t taking part in Astegal’s campaign due to a childhood illness that had left him with weak lungs. According to Sunjata, he was a Guildsman, though I liked to think I would have discovered it quickly for myself.
    There is a certain tenor one learns to listen for when someone asks a question to which the answer is already known.
    “So tell me,” Gemelquart said with deceptive ease. “How does a D’Angeline come to be in the bidding of the Wise Ape of Cythera?”
    “Oh, ’tis a long tale of treason and exile, hardly fit for dinner conversation.” I glanced at a nearby lamp and offered one of the Guild’s coded phrases. “That burns with a passing clear flame, my lord. Is the oil pressed locally?”
    His eyelids flickered. “Yes, indeed.”
    I smiled at him. “I thought so.”
    Gemelquart chuckled, then coughed. “I see. And what does Cythera hope to accomplish by your presence here?”
    “I merely bring assurances of Cythera’s goodwill.” I spread my hands. “Inadvertent or no, Carthage’s actions have served to resolve a certain . . . dilemma. For that, we are grateful.
    If I may be indiscreet, let me say that whatever the future may bring, we hope this goodwill is reciprocated.”
    “Of course.” Gemelquart steepled his fingers. “The Governor of Cythera enjoys a happy situation.”
    “He does,” I agreed. “And he would be loath to see it change.”
    “Doubtless.” The Carthaginian lord looked amused. “Well, you may surely tell Ptolemy Solon that Carthage has no designs on his happiness. Perhaps someday in the future he may return our inadvertent favor, given his intimate knowledge of the workings of Khebbel-im-Akkad.”
    I hoisted my winecup to him. “Doubtless he would be pleased to do so, were his happiness assured.”
    Gemelquart gave a wheezing laugh. “Yes, yes!” He lowered his voice. “Tell me, is she as beautiful as the rumors claim?”
    “Yes,” I said simply, picturing her ladyship. “She is.”
    “Ah.” He sighed. “I’d hoped so.”
    It was an exhilarating feeling, like walking balanced atop a very high ledge. I’d seldom felt more alive than I did intriguing in Carthage. And the feeling only intensified when I got my first look at Sidonie de la Courcel.
    The idea was Sunjata’s. I’d not yet received a reply from her or Bodeshmun or any representative of the House of Sarkal. But through his own sources, Sunjata learned that the princess was dining at the house of certain Carthaginian lady on a particular evening.
    He came to the villa to inform me.
    “There’s a