Kushiel's Mercy - Jacqueline Carey [99]
We ventured to the inner harbor and located Captain Deimos aboard the Cytheran flagship. I made arrangements to have Ptolemy Solon’s tribute-gifts delivered to the villa I had rented. And then, back to the inn, where Maharbal made arrangements to have my things delivered and his bearers to escort me. He bade me farewell, covering my hands with his own. “If I may be of further service . . .”
“Of course.” I pressed his hands warmly. “You have been most helpful.”
He bowed. “We seek to please.”
I gathered my things, making them ready for the porters. I spied the chambermaid I’d rejected lurking around a corner. I gave her a cheap gilt ring set with a flawed garnet.
“A token,” I said somberly. “For your beauty. An apology for the lack of what might have been.”
The chambermaid beamed at me. “My lord is too kind!”
I smiled at her. “I try.”
It was a relief to get free of the place. Gods above! It took so little time for folk to attempt to set hooks in one. I rode in Maharbal’s palanquin to his cousin’s villa, then dismissed his bearers with a word of thanks and a few copper coins.
The servants at my new villa were bustling about, dusting, waxing, and scouring with an alacrity that I daresay they’d not shown since their mistress departed. I wandered the rooms and the grounds, familiarizing myself with the place. The chamberlain, a sober fellow named Anysus, assured me that he would be pleased to procure anything I required. After the cloying manner of Maharbal, I was pleased by his demeanor.
Everything arrived in good order. My possessions, sent from the inn. The tribute-gifts, under the watchful eye of Captain Deimos and his men. Deimos gave me the name of the dockside inn where they would take lodging, and I assured him I’d send word if I had need.
My bearers arrived, looking sullen and suspicious. The steward Anysus took charge of them and led them to the servants’ quarters. I’d told him I wanted them washed and fed on arrival. I waited until they were eating, then went to have a word with them, closing the door of the small room in which the household servants dined. The aroma of lamb stew filled the space.
“Listen, lads,” I said to them. The Carthaginian brothers put down their spoons with pained looks. I laughed. “Go ahead, keep eating.”
They hunched over their bowls, shoveling down food. The Hellene wrestler waited, regarding me with equanimity. The Amazigh continued eating, slow and measured, his gaze hooded.
“I’m a stranger here,” I said. “And this place, these servants . . .” I waved my hand. “Rented. I’d like to know I’ve a few loyal men at my side. Give me that, and I’ll pledge you your freedom when I’m done here.”
“Where would we go?” one of the brothers asked in bewilderment.
I shrugged. “Wherever you like. You can stay here, or you can return to Cythera with me. You’d be given a position there.”
“What’s your business?” the Hellene asked cynically. “A danger to us, I’ll wager.”
I’d chosen him for the shrewdness in his gaze. The brothers were desperate, which would serve well enough. The Amazigh . . . I don’t know. A bit of a whim, a hunch. Mayhap a desire to irk Maharbal.
“Not if you keep your mouth shut,” I said candidly. “I’m here to pay tribute to General Astegal’s new bride and meet with members of the Council of Thirty. All his eminence the governor asks is that I return with assurances that his position is secure should Carthage turn its gaze toward the east. Assurances best kept quiet, given that the governor serves at Khebbel-im-Akkad’s pleasure.”
“Ah.” His eyes glinted. “Politics.”
“Indeed,” I agreed.
“You want to buy our loyalty.”
“I do.”
A wide smile spread over his ugly face. “Good enough. It’s yours, my lord.”
“Will there be food like this every day?” a Carthaginian brother asked plaintively.
I propped my elbows on my knees. “Every day.”
It was good