Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [59]
“Speak.”
I had nothing left to lose. I told him everything.
Claudia Fulvia, the Unseen Guild and their threats. Canis and my mother. My letter to Diokles Agallon, the bargain. Carthage. The eunuch Sunjata, Gillimas. What had happened the night of the full moon. Ptolemy Solon and Cythera. My month-long madness, and the madness I’d awoken to.
“Sodding Carthage,” L’Envers said when I’d finished. “I knew it.”
“Then I’m not mad?” I asked.
“You were.” He studied me. “Barking-mad, from the sound of it. But in this, it’s hard to say.” He quaffed his brandy and refilled it, regarding the glass. “Truth be told, I heard rumors of this Guild of yours years ago in Khebbel-im-Akkad, though I couldn’t vouch for them. Of a surety, the whole damn City is convinced, man, woman, and child, that Carthage is our new best friend, and the Dauphine of Terre d’Ange made a love-match with a Carthaginian prince and sailed away merrily with him. You’re right about that. Somewhat was done to them.”
“But it’s only the City?” I said hopefully.
Barquiel L’Envers snorted. “The City, and all who were in it that night. Damn nigh all of Parliament. The Royal Army and its commander. The Royal Admiral and a good number of his men. The Cruarch of Alba.”
I felt sick. “All the powers of the realm.”
He nodded, looking aged and weary. “And Ysandre’s minded to dispatch the army to the Aragonian border in support of Carthage’s threat.” He scrubbed his face with one hand. “I tell you, lad, if this is some elaborate scheme of your mother’s to place you on the throne, I’ve half a mind to go along with it. I’d sooner see Melisande’s treasonous spawn warming his arse on the throne than my own niece acting as Carthage’s pawn. And outside the City walls, there are hundreds of thousands of folk who’d agree.”
“I don’t think it is. The eunuch said he served two masters.” I shook my head. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I can’t stay here.”
“Oh?” L’Envers raised his brows.
“Sidonie needs me,” I said simply. “I have to go.”
Barquiel L’Envers looked at me for a long, long time, an incredulous expression slowly dawning over his worn features. He gave a short, choked laugh. “Oh, Blessed Elua bugger me! You actually love her?”
Tears stung my eyes. “Very much so, my lord.”
“Blessed Elua bugger me,” L’Envers repeated, bemused. “So what in the seven hells do we do, Imriel de la Courcel? Raise an army? Wrest Quintilius Rousse’s fleet from his control and sail against Carthage? How do we do it without setting off a civil war in Terre d’Ange?”
“We can’t,” I said. “We have to break the spell.”
“Cythera.” He raked a hand through his short-cropped hair. “You’re sure that part’s not a fever-dream?”
“As sure as I can be. Sunjata said the fever would break in a month, and it did. I have to try,” I said. “I’ll grovel and beg, if that’s what it takes. If Ptolemy Solon knows how to undo this, I’ll do whatever is needful. But I need your help to get out of the City, my lord.”
“If it’s not a piece of your madness, you know damned well what he’ll ask for,” L’Envers said wryly. “A pardon for Melisande Shahrizai.”
I was silent.
L’Envers sighed. “I wish to hell I knew whether or not to believe you.”
“I’m not lying,” I said stiffly.
“No.” He eyed me. “No, I don’t think you are. But I’m not sure you’ve got your wits back altogether, and of a surety, I’m not convinced you aren’t a pawn in some unknowable scheme of your mother’s. Are you?”
You’re lucky your mother loves you.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “If I am, can it truly be worse than this?” He didn’t answer. I sipped my brandy, thinking. “Send to Alba, my lord. There’s still one member of House Courcel fit to sit the throne. Alais. If you raise a large enough delegation of D’Angelines and Albans alike to petition Ysandre and convince her that there’s somewhat amiss, if you reason with her instead of shouting, mayhap she’ll be willing to let Alais assume the throne until we can undo what was done.