Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [171]
A door.
I threw the bar and wrenched it open, feeling a blast of cool night air on my veiled face. Elua, it felt good!
There was no moon, but there were hazy stars. What light there was was faint, not nearly enough to illuminate the cellar, but I could make my way to it. All I had to do was retrace my steps in darkness. I sidled back along the wall. Twelve swift steps; I’d counted. Left, then left again. Right, seven paces. Five paces forward. I stooped, feeling along the floor.
No carpet.
I closed my eyes again and fought off a wave of panic. What was wrong? I’d been cautious on the outward journey. I’d hurried back. I’d taken bigger steps. Somehow, I’d reached a wrong aisle.
I made my way back to the open door and tried again, taking careful little steps. When my reaching fingers brushed the rolled carpet, I nearly wept with relief. Once more, I shouldered my burden.
Outside, the air tasted so sweet, I had to loosen my scarf for a moment and breathe it deeply. I thought about laying Sidonie down, unrolling the carpet to make certain she was alive. But then I heard Carthaginian voices muttering in the gardens—some of Astegal’s guards, making their rounds. So instead, I retucked my scarf and set out at a brisk walk.
The carpet was still dead weight.
It wasn’t long before my left shoulder began to ache. I shifted my burden to the other shoulder, heaving and ducking. Heavy, so heavy! I’d carried Sidonie in my arms a dozen times, a hundred times. But this was the one that mattered.
Blessed Elua, please let her live.
At least it was downhill. We entered the streets of New Carthage. There were no Aragonians abroad at this hour, only Astegal’s patrols. I strode past them, acknowledging their curious greetings with curt nods. I was a veiled Amazigh bent on some unspeakable errand.
I was a ghost.
An aching ghost.
I carried Sidonie. I carried my guilt—our guilt. The murdered guards. My slain wife, Dorelei. Our lost son. All of it. I carried all of it, tired and terrified. I kept going. I thought about the night that Phèdre, Joscelin, and I had rowed to Kapporeth. Joscelin, his bleeding hands on the oars. We had both known failure once. In Skaldia, he’d surrendered to despair. In Vralia, so had I.
Not there.
Not here.
I prayed to Blessed Elua and his Companions, making every step a word in my litany. And as I neared the harbor, with the night sky dimming, I felt the burden on my right shoulder stir feebly. I hurried my steps, hurried to the wharf.
“Hey!” I shouted at Captain Deimos’ ship. “Lend a hand!”
Kratos hustled down the plank, blessed Kratos, his blunt-featured face suffused with alarm. He eased the carpet from my shoulder, carried it in both arms aboard the ship. I followed. Deimos was waiting, watchful, arms folded. On the deck of his ship, Kratos and I unrolled the carpet with reverent hands. I knelt beside it, anxious.
A very tousled Sidonie blinked sleepily at me. “Imriel?”
My eyes stung. “Yes, love.”
She blinked again, touching my veiled face. “Look at you. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to drink, but Bodeshmun was suspicious. I had to do it. Are we aboard the ship? Why aren’t we fleeing?”
I nodded at Captain Deimos. “Tell him.”
Deimos leaned over her. “Your highness?”
Her eyes flashed. “Name of Elua, go!”
Fifty
Ptolemy Solon had chosen well in Captain Deimos. He was in truth a man of his word, and he knew a royal command when he heard one. By the time I escorted Sidonie down to the ship’s hold, where we’d both be out of sight until we passed the harbor patrol, the oars were out and the ship was moving.
Safe at last, at least for the moment, we held one another for a long, long time.
“How’s your back?” I murmured at length.
“I don’t know. It hurts.” She