Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [42]
Ysandre cast her vote for acceptance.
It was decided.
Carthage was coming.
Ten
A bit over two weeks later, on a bright, sunny day, six Carthaginian tribute-ships sailed up the Aviline River to dock at the wharfs of the City of Elua, preceded fore and aft by D’Angeline war-ships.
It was a considerable spectacle. The Carthaginian ships had massive sails striped crimson and white, gilded figureheads in the shape of horse-heads, lions, and serpents. Even the railings were elaborately carved. Bare-chested rowers manned the oars, oiled skin gleaming in the sunlight.
“Slaves,” I murmured to Sidonie.
There was a tall fellow in the prow of the lead ship, clad in a scarlet tunic with a long cloak of Tyrian purple, a slender fillet of gold around his head. Even at a distance, I could see he had strong features. His thick black hair was swept back from his temples, and he wore a narrow beard dyed scarlet.
“And that, I suspect, would be General Astegal,” she commented.
The ships were docked. Sailors swarmed, securing their moorings. General Astegal bowed deeply in the direction of Ysandre and Drustan, but made no move to disembark. Instead, the rowers laid down their oars and set about unloading chest after chest of tribute.
The crew came from various nations. Many were olive-skinned Carthaginians. Others were a tawnier hue, and there were Nubians and Jebeans, too, with dusky skin and woolen hair. I touched my rhinoceros-hide sword-belt, thinking of distant places and old friends.
At last, when the wharf was heaped with treasure, a score of soldiers carrying gilded spears descended from the flagship, saluted the Queen and Cruarch, then formed a double line. Astegal of Carthage, Prince of the House of Sarkal, appointed General of the Council of Thirty, made his approach, sweeping another low bow.
“Well met, General Astegal,” Ysandre said. “We welcome you to the City of Elua.”
Astegal straightened and smiled. His teeth were very white. “I thank you for the honor, your majesty. Carthage thanks you. It is an honor merely to gaze upon you and your fair city.” His D’Angeline was accented, but excellent. He bowed again, this time toward Drustan. “It is a double honor to be received by the Cruarch of Alba.”
“Small as we are, Alba can but aspire to be the recipient of Carthage’s mighty generosity one day,” Drustan said wryly.
Astegal laughed. “I pray it may be so, your majesty.” He turned to Sidonie, offering yet another deep bow. “Surely you must be the Dauphine, with your mother’s beauty and your father’s eyes.”
“Well met, my lord.” Her tone was neutral.
“Ah.” He smiled at her. “So young to be wary of flattery, your highness! I did but speak the truth.”
“And in surpassingly good D’Angeline, too,” she observed.
He spread his arms as though to embrace the entire City. “It is as I wrote. I have long dreamed of this moment. I have worked and studied long and hard to bring my dream to fruition.” Turning to me, he gave another bow. “You, I think, are also a member of the royal family?”
“Imriel,” I said. “Well met, my lord.”
“Prince Imriel, of course.” Astegal put out his hand, his expression turning grave. “I hope that during my time here, I may make some atonement for the unconscionable acts of my ill-gotten countrymen. And once we have put the past behind us, perhaps you will do me the kindness of showing me your city’s fabled pleasures.” He winked, showed his white teeth in another easy grin. “You strike me as a young man of good appetite.”
He had a firm grip and his sword-hand was callused. For all his diplomat’s charm, I thought, this man was a soldier.