Kushiel's Avatar - Jacqueline Carey [219]
Our arrival in Tyre was auspicious. The skies were a bright, hard blue above and a good steady wind blew southwesterly. The Lugal's couriers had been there ahead of us, arranging for our varied transports. 'Twas no difficulty for those of us bound for Menekhet, as trade ships travelled regularly, but the longer journeys—Hellas, Illyria, Caerdicca Unitas, Carthage, Aragonia, Terre d'Ange—required special commissions.
His highness Sinaddan-Shamabarsin had been the soul of generosity. The ships were ready and waiting, the finest money could buy, captains and crew hailing the women of the Mahrkagir's zenana as noble-born passengers.
It was a considerable shock, albeit a pleasant one, to some, especially those who had been slave-born. By some means they did not fully comprehend, the horrible dross of their lives, the degradations of Dar-śanga, had been converted to status. I was glad, for they deserved it. I hoped it would enable some of them to find happiness, or at least contentment. There are many things wealth cannot buy, and most of those are enumerated by philosophers who have never woken wondering if this day would be their last. It pleased me to know that the survivors of Daršanga would, at the least, not have to worry about buying bread.
For the rest, it was up to them. The living must carry on for the dead.
Rushad . . . Drucilla . . . Erich. There was no ship bound for Skaldia. I never even learned his story, never knew how he came to be a Drujani captive. All I had done was hold his hand, and sing him songs as he died. I hoped he'd gotten his answers from All-Father Odhinn.
It was no longer in my heart to hate or fear the Skaldi.
There were tears aplenty upon parting, and if I dared now leave no written trail, I left a good many instructions, whispered in the ears of a dozen women—safeguards, hedged bets, messages for a half-dozen D'Angeline ambassadors. It was the last great conspiracy of the zenana of Daršanga, and every one of them undertook it willingly.
Our ship, set to leave at midday on the morrow, would be the last to leave; the D'Angeline ship would sail at dawn. We passed one last night together in a fine Tyrean inn, which the Lugal had reserved for our pleasure, even ensuring that there would be no fuss about men and women dining in common. The festivities went long into the night, andI daresay I filled Amaury Trente's ear with more advice than he needed.
At the end of the evening, I bid farewell to Imriel, who would bunk with Lord Amaury's men. "Be well," I whispered, holding him close. "Be safe. Remember what I taught you."
"I will." His voice was muffled, lost in my hair; his arms wound hard about my neck. He let me go, sniffling and blinking at Joscelin, one hand on the prized Akkadian dagger that was thrust through his belt. "Will you teach me to use this, when you come back?"
"I swear it, my prince." There was a strained tone to Joscelin's voice as he bowed, the movement a halting approximation of his old Cassiline grace. He closed his eyes as Imriel hugged him, and I thought I saw tears spiking his lashes. "Ward yourself well until I do."
And then it was ended, and we went to our quarters, which seemed strangely empty without Imriel's presence. There was no need for either of us to keep watch, no need for Joscelin to post himself before the door. It is odd, the things to which one can become accustomed.
"Funny," Joscelin said, unbuckling his vambraces. His left forearm had lost the calluses of a lifetime, and the leather straps had chafed it raw. "I never expected to like him."
"Melisande's son," I murmured.
"Yes." He prodded the oozing patches of flesh and winced. "Melisande's son. Do you want to see them off in the morning?"
"Yes," I said. "I'd like that."
And we would have done, had we not slept overlate. Small wonder, I thought, waking to see the first low rays of the sun penetrating our window. It had been—how long?—weeks, at least, since both of us had slept through a night undisturbed. I roused Joscelin, who came awake with customary