Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [93]
Imriel . . . Imriel was different.
Well, of course he hadn’t been gelded. Two quick cuts of a slaver’s knife, and good-bye to the ballocks. Small wonder Sunjata was bitter. He’d been eleven years old. But from what I’d heard about the mad ruler of Drujan, Imriel had cause of his own to harbor soul-twisting bitterness, ballocks or no. And I hadn’t sensed that in him.
Anger, yes. Of course he was angry. Either Astegal of Carthage had stolen his beloved, or he’d been unexpectedly thwarted in playing a very, very deep game to place himself on the throne of Terre d’Ange. I wondered which was true. If it was the latter, he played it very well.
But then, he was her ladyship’s son.
Such were the intriguing puzzles that occupied my mind during my voyage to Carthage.
I pored over the manifest, making notes in my mind about which items were suitable for what purpose. Good hard coin was always suitable for a bribe, and I’d need a fair bit of it to set myself up with a decent household. There were various baubles and trinkets that might suffice for lesser personages. I might need them to gain access. Access to the Dauphine Sidonie, access to the magus Bodeshmun. Access, in time, to Astegal himself. I went over the things that Solon had told me.
So much to be done.
There was a very fine chess set listed in the manifest, with jeweled pieces of onyx and ivory. That, I decided, was meant for the princess. It was an excellent opening gambit. Once the opportunity to present it was established, I could offer to match wits with her and enjoy a game together.
Sidonie.
My thoughts kept returning to her. I couldn’t help but wonder what she was like. Weak-minded, I thought. Surely, to fall so thoroughly under the influence of her ladyship’s son—and then to abandon him for Astegal—she must be weak-minded.
Well and good.
Weakness could be plied, most especially when it failed to know itself. In Astegal’s absence, I would ply her. I would woo her. I would find her fault-lines and break her wide open, gently turning her against herself—or at least against Bodeshmun’s spell. After all, it was for her own good, more or less.
Gods, that was an intoxicating thought.
And Imriel deserved it.
That was another thought I’d never dare voice in his presence—nor her ladyship’s. It was true, though. What manner of son sought his own mother’s life? Oh, I knew what she’d done, or at least what the world claimed she had done. They didn’t grasp the scope of her vision. And Melisande Shahrizai had kept her word, at least to the Maignard clan. The rest of the world couldn’t claim as much. When her ladyship gave her word, she meant it.
Always.
“I will make you proud, my lady,” I vowed aloud.
And to myself, I vowed silently that I would succeed on my own terms. I liked, very much, the idea of being the lynch-pin of this mad scheme. The thought of bringing down Carthage single-handedly made me shiver to the marrow of my bones. But too, I relished the thought of cuckolding Imriel de la Courcel. Of exposing him as a hypocrite, mayhap even excising her ladyship’s single weakness. Him.
Once I had ensconced myself betwixt the Dauphine’s thighs, that would do it. I’d strip her bare of Astegal’s token. I’d claim her, albeit temporarily, for my own. I’d plunder her to the core and make her mine. I’d been taught the arts of the bedchamber. I was of Kushiel’s bloodline, albeit not so pure a strain. I would make her crave me, bend her pliable will. I’d leave my own mark on her.
Of that, at least, I was sure.
The only thing I couldn’t fathom was why the thought made my heart ache.
That made no sense at all.
Twenty-Five
“Carthage!”
The cry came from the crow’s nest, was taken up aboard the ship. Captain Deimos flung out one lean-muscled arm, pointing the way.
“Carthage,” he echoed.
It was an elaborate harbor; and well it ought to be, since Carthage sought to dominate the western world. We showed our papers, and after