Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [151]
We had played our usual game. At first, I’d thought that Sidonie was playing badly, walking into a rather obvious trap I’d set. Then I felt the pressure of her foot against mine beneath the table as she studied the board.
“I’m in a very precarious situation here, aren’t I, Messire Maignard?” she inquired.
I moved a piece, returning the unseen pressure. “Indeed, my lady.”
Her hand hovered over her queen. “I confess, I don’t fully understand what it is that you’ve done. Will you be gallant enough to advise me?”
I shook my head. “I cannot divulge my secrets.”
Sidonie’s head moved imperceptibly in the direction of the Amazigh guard. I gave the briefest possible nod. The guard stared past us, bored half out of his wits. I’d wager they drew straws to avoid this posting.
“Well,” she said lightly. “Mayhap I’ll find a way to make you talk.”
“Mayhap you will,” I said. “But not today.”
That was all, but it was enough. She knew. She knew something was very, very wrong. Bodeshmun’s spell had been weakened. And Sidonie de la Courcel, terrified and uncertain, was nonetheless playing a cautious and meticulous game of her own.
It was hard, so damnably hard, not to be able to tell her.
Elua, she had courage! I broke into a cold sweat conversing under the Amazigh’s bored gaze. How much worse must it be for Sidonie? She knew, but she didn’t know. Missing memories, false memories. At least I had the surety of my own wits and a loyal ally or two.
Sidonie was all alone.
I didn’t see her again until after the majority of the Carthaginian fleet had set sail and Astegal departed with the army.
The latter was an affair rife with pageantry. It was a vast army. Most of his troops were Carthaginian, but there was a sizable contingent of Nubian mercenaries with striking zebra-hide shields and long spears, and a mounted company of robed Amazigh. We assembled outside the gates of the city to see them off.
“Bastards,” Kratos muttered.
The ceremony began with the sacrifice of a white heifer, a singularly gory and unpleasant ritual. Once the poor beast’s struggles had ceased, the priests slit its belly and withdrew the steaming entrails for inspection. They pronounced the augurs to be good and invoked the blessings of Tanit and Ba’al Hammon on the venture.
Astegal gave a stirring speech full of lies about the glorious era of peace and prosperity that would follow on the heels of Carthage’s victory. His voice carried well, and the army cheered. Clad in gilded armor, he looked every inch the heroic general. Sidonie stood beside him, blank-faced as a doll. Astegal didn’t care. He swept her into his arms and kissed her farewell, proclaiming the hope that he would return victorious to news that she was providing him with an heir to the vast new empire of Carthage. There were more cheers and long blasts on the trumpets.
Then he turned her over to Bodeshmun, who made a speech declaring that the Princess Sidonie and New Carthage alike were under his protection. When it was finished, Astegal mounted his horse and drew his sword.
“Onward, Carthage!” he shouted. “Onward to victory!”
The army roared its approval, soldiers beating their shields and stamping their feet, trumpets blaring. Astegal nudged his mount, and they were off, rank upon rank of soldiers falling in behind him, supply wagons groaning. It was a long time before the last column passed us.
I sighed. “Good riddance.”
Without an entire occupying army, New Carthage seemed much emptier than before. We returned with the remnants of the procession that had accompanied Astegal to the gates. On every street, Aragonians stared at us with bitter hatred, but it was hatred tempered by fear. Not a one of them dared speak. Perversely, I found myself glad for the presence of Bodeshmun and the remaining forces. I didn’t doubt but that every man and woman we passed would gladly see all of us dead.
In that, I was more than right.
On the morrow, I received a