Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [44]
As a result, conversations were difficult, and those of us who did speak Hellene were often forced to do double duty, making introductions and translating. My Hellene was good; one advantage of being Phèdre nó Delaunay’s foster-son was that I’d been taught to read and speak in a number of tongues. Still, it was exhausting, and I will own I felt relieved when a plump Carthaginian fellow hovering near the veiled treasure introduced himself to me in D’Angeline.
“I am Jabnit of the House of Philosir,” he announced with an exacting little bow. “And I have already learned you are Prince Imriel. Well met, your highness.”
“Well met, my lord,” I replied.
“Oh, no lord!” His black eyes twinkled. “Merely a well-connected merchant.” Jabnit patted his considerable belly. “Well-connected and well-fed.”
“Too well-fed,” a light voice said in amusement.
“Sunjata!” The merchant glanced around. “Come meet the prince.”
A young Nubian man stepped around him and bowed gracefully. He was of middling height and slender, with plum-dark skin and gently rounded features. “It is an honor, your highness.”
“Sunjata is my assistant.” Jabnit patted his shoulder with the same comfortable familiarity with which he’d patted his own stomach. “Tell the prince of our role in this venture. I spy a servant with a laden platter of delicacies.”
“Who will care for me if you stuff your belly to bursting, you old glutton?” Sunjata asked, but there was fondness in it. “Go, go.”
“Your role?” I asked politely as the merchant waddled away.
“The House of Philosir provided the gems for the gift to be unveiled this evening.” Sunjata looked at me under his lashes. “At a considerable discount, for the privilege of being part of this excursion. But surely you cannot be interested in that.”
Somewhat in his manner, in the smoothness of his skin, in the light timbre of his voice struck an old chord of memory in me. I had known eunuchs in Daršanga.
My reaction was subtle, but Sunjata read it. “Ah, yes,” he said with a seeming ease that didn’t quite belie the bitterness beneath it. “There is something we share in common, is there not? I too fell into the hands of Carthage’s slavers as a boy. Only in my case, the effects were more . . . lasting.”
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.
His slender shoulders moved in a shrug. “I don’t begrudge you your manhood. ’Tis no fault of yours that mine was taken. And I am a free man these past few years, insofar as I may call myself a man. Jabnit is a fair patron.” He gazed after the merchant, then back at me. “And I am rude and insolent,” he said, putting out his hand. “Thank you for your kindness.”
I took his hand. “Of course.”
He squeezed my hand, his thumb pressing on mine. I glanced down involuntarily. Sunjata sported a silver signet ring on his thumb, a lamp carved on the seal. “Perhaps we will speak again later,” he said, releasing my hand. With one deft, unobtrusive gesture, he twisted the ring, hiding the seal against his palm.
I met his gaze. “I would like that.”
For the balance of the evening, my thoughts were in a whirl. Exactly what I had expected of the Unseen Guild, I couldn’t say, but it wasn’t a eunuch in the employ of a gem-merchant.
And the night only got stranger.
A sumptuous meal was served, although I ate without tasting, distracted by my own thoughts and the sight of Astegal, several seats away, paying court to Sidonie in a manner light-handed enough to be inoffensive. She was being pleasant without encouraging him. Elua knows, it wasn’t that I was worried about her loyalties, but I was on edge, and it only made me edgier.
Fortunately, I was seated across from the Chief Horologist, who spun a tale compelling enough to prevent anyone from noticing my distraction. He was a kinsman of Astegal’s; Bodeshmun was his name. Another tall fellow, older, grave, and serious, with deep-set eyes and a long black beard. In a sonorous voice, he described the promised