Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [41]
I watched the avid faces of my peers and felt uneasy.
“. . . and as your majesty’s horologists will doubtless have informed you, a great event is pending. With your permission, my own horologists will consult with yours to show you a great marvel,” Rousse finished.
Excited murmurs arose.
“Hold!” Ysandre said crisply. “What great event?”
There was a delay, then, while the Court horologist was sent for and found. I listened to the peers gossiping among themselves, stirred by the manifest Quintilius Rousse had recited. At length, the horologist arrived, bowing apologetically.
“Forgive me, your majesty—” he began.
Ysandre waved one hand dismissively. “No doubt you’ve informed me. I’ve been distracted. What event?”
He was a small fellow, sweating and anxious. “It is the belief among those of us who study the stars and the planets that in three weeks’ time, the full moon will pass through the earth’s shadow, and its light shall be dimmed.”
“She has been distracted,” Sidonie murmured beside me.
“Is this an omen?” Ysandre asked.
“No!” The horologist shook his head. “No, no, no. Merely a natural phenomenon, your majesty.”
“And what marvel might we expect to see?” she asked.
The horologist licked his lips. “Although I have not seen it for myself, it is said that the moon takes on extraordinary hues while it lies beneath our shadow. Beyond that, I cannot guess.” A scholar’s hunger surfaced in his features. “All knowledge is worth having. I would be eager to partake of the wisdom of Carthage’s horologists.”
Ysandre inclined her head. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, adding to Quintilius Rousse, “You may continue.”
Rousse read the remainder of the letter aloud: more fulsome compliments, nothing of substance. No indication that this visit was aught but what it purported to be, a grand diplomatic overture. I suppose that was to be expected, and the more subtle overtures would follow if Ysandre accepted Carthage’s tribute. Still, I couldn’t shake a sense of lingering unease.
A period of open discussion followed, but it was already clear that the promise of extravagant gifts and a marvel to follow had swayed the majority of the peers. There were a few who argued against accepting the offer, fearing it would suggest we meant to abandon our alliance with Aragonia, but others pointed out that, despite Aragonia’s fears, Carthage had not lifted a finger in its direction.
And there were a few—Barquiel L’Envers among them—who were deeply suspicious of Carthage’s motives.
“You know they want something for this, Ysandre,” he said, sounding remarkably practical. “Alliance, a promise of non-interference . . . or somewhat else.” His gaze rested briefly on Sidonie. “Why not send a delegation to meet with them in Marsilikos and find out what it is?”
“They’re bound to reveal their hand one way or another,” a Siovalese duchese observed. “Here or there, what does it matter?”
“I don’t know,” L’Envers muttered. “But I don’t like it.”
I didn’t either. For once, I was in agreement with Barquiel L’Envers. Somewhat in this offer didn’t sit right. But it held a promise for me far greater than any gilded treasure or celestial marvel—secret knowledge of my mother’s whereabouts, the ability to cut through the Gordian knot of her intrigues at a single, swift blow instead of spending torturous years trying to unwind it.
And then it would be done.
I would be free. Free of her taint, free of her long shadow. Free to wed Sidonie and spend the rest of my life with her without incurring suspicion and bitterness. And she would be free to spend it with me without having to endure the contempt of those who reckoned she was weak enough to have been seduced by the cunning blandishments of a traitor’s son, or an endless series of suits from foreign princes who reckoned her fair game.
So I voted to accept Carthage’s offer.
Sidonie did, too.
It wouldn’t have mattered. It wasn’t even close. There