Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [97]
I resolved to do better. I would give the chambermaid some little trinket and an apology; like as not, that would suffice to thrill the lass. And as far as slaking my desire went, I’d err on the side of discretion.
After all, that wouldn’t be a problem. I hadn’t seen Sunjata for a couple of years, but I couldn’t imagine that much had changed between us. And for a surety, one couldn’t ask for a more discreet lover than Sunjata.
Twenty-Six
In the morning, Maharbal escorted me to his cousin’s villa. It seemed the lady’s husband was a minor Carthaginian lord and a captain in the service of General Astegal’s army. While he was away, she had retired to their country estate, and Maharbal saw no reason why the villa should remain empty when there was a tidy profit to be turned.
I liked it. It was a bit small, but then I was accustomed to her ladyship’s vast and labyrinthine estate. The mosaic floors were of good quality and the frescoes on the walls were tasteful. The gardens were pleasant.
It wasn’t in the most elite neighborhood, but it was clearly a neighborhood of quality. The surrounding villas spoke of well-to-do families, ambitious without being grasping. Nothing ostentatious, but nothing overly modest. If I wanted to be careful and discreet, this struck just the right tone.
As an added advantage, the lady in question had left a handful of her household behind to tend to the maintenance and security of the villa. All I’d need to hire were bearers for a palanquin.
“My cousin’s servants would be at your service, naturally,” Maharbal said, pointing out this fact.
I pursed my lips. “I prefer to oversee the hiring of my own household.”
He sniffed. “I assure you, they are more than competent.”
I glanced around. “It’s rather small.”
“You are but one man,” Maharbal observed. “It is space sufficient for a small family.”
“Ah, but I may wish to entertain while I’m here,” I said. “One could not hope to dine with more than a dozen folk.”
Maharbal shrugged. “I suspect you’ll find that many of his eminence’s acquaintances are not in residence during wartime.”
We played the game for a while longer; then I relented and expressed grudging interest. Maharbal made an outrageous offer, which I countered. After copious haggling, we came to an accommodation.
“Very good,” he said. “If you wish, I would be pleased to accompany you to the slave-market to purchase bearers. I can tell you which merchants are reputable, and which beat or starve their wares.”
An edge had crept into his voice. I sensed Maharbal was testing me, waiting to see if I would protest out of delicate D’Angeline sensibilities. “Excellent!” I gave him a bright smile. “Let’s go at once.”
Maharbal bowed. “Of course.”
We proceeded to the slave-market in the inn’s double palanquin. In my opinion, it was a singularly stupid and inefficient manner of travel. I’d sooner ride astride or in a carriage, or even go on foot, which would be just as swift and considerably less jarring. But it was clear, travelling the streets of Carthage, that no one of quality walked. The only folk I saw on horseback appeared to be couriers, and many of the streets were too narrow to admit a carriage.
So, palanquins.
The slave-market was in a forum lined with voluminous silk tents. Maharbal gave his bearers leave to rest in the shade at one end of the forum, while we strolled and perused the wares.
“Will you be wanting a girl?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he pointed at a tawny lovely with a defiant gaze. “Amazigh. They’re desert folk. Stay away from them. The women are as like to stab you as kiss you.”
“No girl.” I shook my head.
“Ah.” Maharbal raised his brows. “A boy?”
“No,” I said firmly. “My friend, it’s been over ten years since I’ve set foot on Terre d’Ange, but there is one part of my heritage I retain. I’ll not take anyone, man or woman, as an unwilling bed partner.”
“A man of scruples,” he said with amusement. “I see.”
“Oh, one or two,” I replied easily.
Maharbal laughed. “Somehow, I suspect that getting willing