Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [95]
Days at sea, and the man picks a crowded harbor to ask. Gods above, people could be stupid. I gave him my blandest smile. “Spreading goodwill, my lord captain, that Cythera may be left in peace, untouched by any trouble. Happiness is the highest form of wisdom.”
“So I’ve heard,” Deimos said dryly.
I clapped his shoulder. “I’ll send word.”
The porters and the palanquin-bearers were waiting. The latter lowered their poles, allowing me to step lightly into the palanquin. As soon as I was seated, they raised the poles and began moving forward at a smooth, steady trot. The porters followed, carrying my trunks, and a sealed trunk I’d found that bore an engraved plate with Sunjata’s name. I’d no idea what was in it, but it wasn’t listed on the manifest, and I’d thought it best to take it with me. Some business of her ladyship’s, no doubt.
We passed a sanctuary dedicated to the goddess Tanit, who I understood presided over Carthage along with Ba’al Hammon, and a vast, open space marked by a multitude of carved stelae. One of the porters freed a hand to touch his brow in a gesture of deference.
“What is that place?” I inquired.
“It is the tophet,” he said. “Many children are buried there.” After a moment, he added, “Not for a very long time. The gods have been merciful.”
What a thought! I couldn’t imagine gods cruel enough to demand such a sacrifice. “Do you have children?” I asked the porter, curious. “Could you offer them if the gods demanded it?”
“I have a son.” He jogged along, holding Sunjata’s trunk balanced atop his head. “To save my people from famine or conquest? If the gods demanded it, yes.”
“I think I’d find a gentler god to worship,” I murmured.
The porter shrugged, or made a gesture that would have been a shrug if he hadn’t been carrying a heavy trunk on his head. “What use is a gentle god?”
It was an interesting question; oddly, it made me think of the shrine of Blessed Elua in our garden when I was a boy. There had been a field of . . . no, not poppies. I’d no idea what had made me think of poppies. Elua’s effigy had stood beneath a trellis laced with climbing sweet-pea vines. My mother used to send me out there to pray and contemplate when I’d done something bad, like poked Darielle with a pin to make her scream. I’d usually fall asleep, basking in the scent of sweet-peas, feeling safe and content beneath Elua’s enigmatic smile.
I supposed Blessed Elua was a gentle god.
“I’ll think on it,” I said to the porter, who merely grunted.
They took me to an inn on the slopes of the hill, which was indeed quite acceptable. The proprietor as an unctuous fellow, dressed in loose robes of good quality, jewels flashing on his fingers.
“Maharbal is here to serve you, young lord,” he said with a bow, then paused. “My lord is from Terre d’Ange?”
“By birth, yes.” I smiled at him. “But no, my lord is from the Governor of Cythera, and it is there that my loyalties lie.” It was true enough in its own way, so long as his purpose accorded with her ladyship’s. “Leander Maignard. I come bearing gifts of goodwill for General Astegal’s bride.” I gestured loosely toward the harbor. “They’ll be transported once I’ve arranged for a proper household, naturally.”
“Naturally.” Maharbal touched his fingertips together. “I would be pleased to assist your lordship. As it happens, I have a cousin . . .”
“There’s always a cousin,” I observed.
“Indeed.” His smile faded somewhat. “I think you would find her accommodations most suitable for a D’Angeline lord of style.” He cocked his head. “How passing odd that you find yourself in the service of Cythera.”
“’Tis a long, long story.” I spread my hands. “His eminence thought the young princess might take kindly to seeing a fellow countryman. One without loyalties to Terre d’Ange.” Another broad smile. “Although of course the princess need not know this. It is understood that there is some delicacy to the situation.”
“I see,” Maharbal said dubiously.
I laughed and patted one of the