Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [14]
Small wonder half the realm mistrusted me.
Sidonie touched my arm. “Let’s go somewhere quieter.”
I nodded. “I think that would be wise.”
The crowds had thinned enough for us to make our way out of the throne hall, escorted by guards and accompanied by a small entourage. We adjourned to one of the smaller salons in the Palace, used for private fêtes. Sidonie looked pale. I would rather have spent this moment alone with her, and I daresay she felt the same, but those who had supported us publicly risked the Queen’s displeasure. It would have been ungracious to dismiss them as mere props. I sent one of the Palace understewards to fetch wine and refreshments.
“So . . . are we celebrating?” Julien Trente asked uncertainly after the wine had been poured.
I shrugged. “We’re not lamenting.”
“What happens now?” Mavros perched on the arm of a couch, swinging one leg. “Do you pack your trunks and head off to La Serenissima to follow your vanished mother’s seven-year-old trail?”
“No.” Sidonie’s voice was fierce. She drank half the contents of her winecup, her color returning. “Not now. Not yet. Not after two years of fear and uncertainty, wondering if Imriel was alive or dead.”
“What, then?” Roshana asked mildly.
“My thought is this.” I glanced at Phèdre. “I mean to write to the Master of the Straits and beseech his aid. He can search for her in his sea-mirror. If she is anywhere on D’Angeline or Alban soil, he will find her.”
Mavros blinked in surprise. “You think he’ll do it?”
“Oh, yes.” Phèdre answered his question, and well she might. The Master of the Straits, the waters that divided Alba and Terre d’Ange, could cause the waves to rise and lightning to strike at his command. He had also once been a Tsingano lad named Hyacinthe and her dearest friend. Like me, he owed her a debt he could never repay. “I am quite sure of it.”
“Do you think she is?” Roshana asked.
“It’s possible.” I smiled wistfully. “Alba, I doubt, but mayhap Terre d’Ange. Of a surety, it would make matters a great deal easier. And if she’s not, at least I’ll know where not to look.”
“In time,” Sidonie murmured. “Gods, I hate this.”
“So do we all, your highness,” Mavros said with a rare note of genuine sympathy in his tone. “Believe me, House Shahrizai does not relish its role in your plight.”
“Will they support me in this?” I asked him. “You know it means my mother’s death.”
“Yes,” he said without hesitating, and Roshana nodded in agreement. “There may be a few who are uncomfortable with it. It goes against the grain, turning on family. But what she did is unconscionable. Her sentence was just. No one likes it, but no one denies it.”
“Our kinsman Marmion Shahrizai did turn on her years ago,” Roshana reminded him. “And Duc Faragon sent him into exile for it.”
“Duc Faragon sent Marmion into exile because he caused the death of his sister Persia,” Phèdre said thoughtfully. “Not for trying to bring Melisande to justice.” She was silent a moment. She had known my mother very, very well. I tried not to think about that. “You know, I wouldn’t put it past her to contact Marmion.”
“Seeking vengeance?” I asked.
Phèdre shook her head. “No. He was always terrified she would, of course. But Melisande’s too cool-headed for vengeance. That’s part of what made her so damnably deadly. If anything, she’d use his guilt and regret to turn him back into an ally.” She glanced at Raul L’Envers y Aragon. “Is Marmion still in Aragonia?”
“Oh, yes.” Raul nodded. “He’s among the King’s favorite drinking companions.”
“Mayhap your mother will make some discreet inquiries.” Phèdre smiled. “Lady Nicola had a certain fondness for him once upon a time.”
“My mother is a woman of varied tastes,” Raul said diplomatically. “I will ask. I am told that matters are uneasy in Aragonia these days and tongues are wagging in all directions.”
“Uneasy?” I asked.
“Carthage,” he said briefly. “The Council of Thirty has elected a new general, young and