Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [168]
Locked.
I cursed silently, then listened intently for a moment. There were no sounds beyond the door. I eased my dagger from the guard’s body, struggling to keep him braced upright. Worked the dagger in between the door and the frame, prying hard until I felt the latch give way with a brittle groan.
That done, I froze. If Bodeshmun wasn’t unconscious, he would have heard the sound, and like as not, the scuffle, too. He might well be waiting on the far side of the door for me, smiling into his beard, prepared to blow a handful of death into my lungs.
For a mercy, the door opened inward. Still holding the guard upright, I pushed the door open with one foot and heaved the guard’s body inside, jumping quickly backward.
The guard’s body fell heavily to the floor.
No Bodeshmun.
I glanced quickly around to confirm no one had come, then stepped inside, closing the door behind me. The narrow antechamber was empty but for the figure of the dead Amazigh. It was a dreadful thing to know how easily men died, fierce warriors or no. I didn’t doubt the Amazigh’s skills, but Bodeshmun had been right. They had no head for intrigue. I daresay Astegal had chosen them for their imposing and mysterious appearance, the very thing that had allowed me to deceive them.
There was a fire burning in the hearth beyond the antechamber, bright and merry. I thought about appearances and deception and drew my sword, approaching with care. A few paces before I reached the room, I paused and unwound my scarf.
I remembered Phèdre’s training.
Leander’s memories of my mother’s training were with me, too.
I could smell wood-smoke and beeswax. Traces of a familiar aroma, sweet and faintly spicy. Perry brandy, doctored with herbs. An unexpected smell of soap.
And a sour odor beneath it.
Vomit.
I stepped into the salon, the blade angled before me. The fire crackled. Two chairs had been drawn up before it, a table between them. An open flagon of perry brandy sat on the table, two empty cups.
Sidonie was slumped in one of the chairs, her head draped over one arm, a loose coil of hair dangling dangerously close to the fire. My heart leapt into my throat at the sight. I couldn’t even tell if she was breathing.
As Bodeshmun would have planned.
He was slumped in the other chair, his bearded chin resting on his chest. One hand lay loose on his knee. The other arm hung at his side, fingers curled. I took a sharp breath, my thoughts racing like quicksilver.
“Sidonie!” I whispered.
There was the merest sliver of a glint beneath Bodeshmun’s eyelids.
I hurried to her side, stooped over her, and tucked the fire-heated lock of hair behind one ear. Felt at her throat for a pulse and sighed with genuine relief when I found it. Only then did I take a deep, surreptitious breath and hold it, turning toward Bodeshmun.
He was already rising from his chair, one palm cupped and raised, eyes glittering with triumph.
Lungs full, lips pursed.
But I was ready, and I blew first.
I’d always been quick.
Dust and ashes, a handful of gritty grey matter. What it was, I couldn’t have said. Ptolemy Solon would have known. Bones of an innocent man hanged for a crime he didn’t commit, mayhap. Gathered under a full moon, burned in a furnace fueled by heartwood, ground to dust by virgins with a mortar and pestle. It didn’t matter. Bodeshmun expelled his breath in shock and gasped for air.
One gasp.
I didn’t. I stepped backward with alacrity, wrenching Sidonie’s chair out of the way. I held my breath until the dust settled, and then I watched Bodeshmun die.
He knew me.
Even dying, he saw through the semblance. I watched his face darken with recognition, fury, the onset of death. I waited, sword at the ready, until I was certain he carried no antidote to his own poison. Then I smiled.
“You know me, don’t you?” I said