Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [132]
A simple thing, a knot of gold. A love-token. Sidonie had given Prince Imriel the original. I slid the copy on my finger, wondering what it had meant to them. Some bit of girlish folly, I’d assumed when Ptolemy Solon had explained it to me. That seemed a very long time ago, when I’d been a different Leander Maignard, a callow young man still capable of imagining a Sidonie de la Courcel prone to girlish folly.
Lamplight gleamed softly on the gold. I felt a knot tighten in my throat, tighten around my heart. I tightened my hand to a fist.
“Astegal,” I said aloud. “I’m coming for you.”
Thirty-Seven
We departed for New Carthage on a sullen day, the skies grey and cloudy, spitting fitful bouts of rain. I stood beside my borrowed palanquin, watching hired porters carry my trunks onto Captain Deimos’ ship. Everything was packed away, the Amazigh garb and the false ring safely hidden once more.
I’d arrived early, hoping for a glimpse of Sidonie. A glimpse was all I got. I saw her ornate palanquin in the midst of a considerable entourage, flanked by her Amazigh guards. They escorted her aboard the House of Sarkal’s flagship. Her figure was cloaked and hooded against the chilly drizzle.
Still, I knew her.
I knew her by the way she moved, at once controlled and deft. There was a neatness to it, a precise grace. I’d seen it every time she left or entered a room. I’d seen it sitting opposite her, a chess board between us, in the way she had made her choices and moved the pieces.
Oddly, it made me think of the time my father had taken me to see the Cruarch’s entourage pass. They’d had that quality, some of Drustan mab Necthana’s Cruithne warriors. The Cruarch himself had had it. I’d shouted along with all the other children, tossing petals in his path. He’d glanced my way. His eldest daughter had inherited his black eyes, too.
Beside me, Sunjata shivered. “Gods, Leander! You are truly a man besotted.”
I jerked my chin at the ship. “Go aboard, then.”
“I will,” he said, suiting actions to words.
On the flagship, Sidonie vanished from view. On Captain Deimos’ ship, all my things were loaded. There was no more reason to linger on the quay. Kratos waited patiently to accompany me, blinking against the drizzle, his grey-brown hair plastered to his skull. I’d paid one of the porters to take his place at the palanquin, returning it to the villa of Maharbal’s cousin. Once that was done, my briefly held slaves were all freedmen. Ghanim eyed me hungrily, eager to enjoy his freedom and pursue his vengeance.
“Go,” I said gently to them. “May Blessed Elua hold and keep you.”
They went at a swift jog.
I watched them go, wondering. Wondering what had prompted me to speak the words of a blessing I hadn’t uttered since childhood. Wondering what private tale of great and terrible romance Ghanim inhabited. Wondering whether the Carthaginian brothers would turn freedom into success or sink back into abject poverty. Wondering what story the hired porter had to tell. All four of them trotted lightly, carrying the empty palanquin. Soon they were out of sight.
Gone.
I sighed. I had the strangest feeling that I’d been here before, done this before. That there had been too many leavetakings in my short life. It wasn’t true, but I felt it all the same.
Kratos put his hand beneath my elbow, steadying me. “Ready, my lord?”
I gazed at his stolid face. The squashed nose, the shrewd eyes. “Yes.”
He nodded. “Then let’s board.”
As Jabnit had indicated, the journey was a fairly short one. New Carthage was an old name; the port city had been founded by a Carthaginian conqueror before Blessed Elua walked the earth. Aragonia had been part of Carthage’s empire, that was true. And then it had been a Tiberian holding, even as Terre d’Ange itself had been long ago. But Tiberium’s star had set, and like Terre d’Ange, Aragonia had been an independent and sovereign nation for many centuries.
At least until now.
Throughout the short journey, the weather continued to be miserable. It wasn’t truly cold this far south, but it was cool enough