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Our table had been cleared of dishes. The Menekhetan servants hovered nearby with pitchers of barley beer, clearly hoping we would retire for the evening. Amaury Trente and his delegates looked at me hopefully. I sat wondering to myself, what would Delaunay do?

“You believe Chouma’s household was telling the truth?” I asked.

“I have reason to believe as much,” Amaury said. “From my understanding, Pharaoh’s guardsmen asked their questions at knifepoint, and none too gently. He sold the lad in a fury, and none knew where. The clerk, Rekhmire, went over his accounts in detail. Slavers pay taxes in Menekhet, the same as anyone else.” He shrugged, his expression showing his distaste. “He’d an entry for the boy’s purchase in Amílcar, sure enough, but naught on the other side of the ledger. It never mentioned he was D’Angeline, but the description matched and no mistake. Rekhmire’s an industrious sort, especially when it comes to protecting the interests of Pharaoh’s Treasury. He’s pursued the matter in the last few days, made inquiry at the slave-auctions and among the libertines and pleasure-houses. Nothing. And believe me, my lady,” he added grimly, “even in Iskandria, a ten-year-old D’Angeline boy would not go unremarked.”

“No,” I said. “I suppose not.” What would Anafiel Delaunay do? All knowledge is worth having. Delaunay would analyze the situation, I thought. And derive … what? Weary with long travel and the soporific effect of a rich meal, I forced my wits to work. “Chouma,” I said aloud, thinking. Fadil Chouma was a clever and exacting man. He had recorded Imriel’s purchase; why not his sale? Mayhap because he sickened too quickly. And yet, he had concealed the information from his household, which suggested otherwise. Who knows what he had meant to do? But given the information at hand, I thought it unlikely that he intended to make a full accounting.

Why?

Political reasons, mayhap; surely, there was danger involved in trafficking in D’Angeline flesh … and yet not so much that he had feared altogether to record Imriel’s purchase. No, it must be somewhat else. Why had he refused to divulge the boy’s fate? The most obvious possibility loomed before me, sickeningly plausible. Imriel had stabbed the slaver. If Chouma had killed him in a fit of rage, knowing his household doted on the boy … then, he would keep it silent.

No. In an act of will, I rejected the notion, summoning the logic to justify it. Fadil Chouma was a slaver; a merchant. He had laid his plans too well and invested too much to dispose of valuable property out of anger. It had to be true,
had
to be, or all my searching was in vain, the bitter bargain, the promises made. Surely Kushiel’s mighty justice must come to more than
this
, a small corpse mislaid, a blind alley in an unknown city.

It made me think of Amílcar, and the children there. A twisting alley, the darkened back room. I thought of the Carthaginians, poor stupid brutes, and Mago with his flame-ruined feet, screaming his lungs raw with his confession.

Fadil Chouma had a buyer in mind; one, only one, mind …

A merchant’s ploy, I’d thought upon hearing it, to get out of a bargain he’d no intention of keeping. And yet… what if it were not? Fadil Chouma had had a buyer in mind. He’d hedged his bets, he’d recorded the purchase-but not the sale. Why? On a deep level somewhere below conscious thought, I felt the pieces of the puzzle fall into a pattern.

“Chouma was protecting his own interests,” I announced. “He had a buyer in mind from the beginning, and whoever it was, it’s someone dangerous. Dangerous to
him;
dangerous to be known, dangerous to be named. He was uncertain of the deal, which is why he recorded Imriel’s purchase-but it happened, the buyer came through. He would have altered his records if he hadn’t fallen ill.” I blinked and realized Amaury Trente and the others were looking blankly at me. It had been a long time since I’d spoken.

“And so … what?” Amaury asked carefully. “What do we do about it?”

“Ask … what’s his name? The ambassador?” My wits were dull with weariness and exertion. “Raife, yes? Raife Laniol, Comte de Penfars. Ask him, my lord. Pharaoh’s a powerful man; powerful men have enemies. It’s an ambassador’s job to be able to name them. It will give us a starting point, at least.”

One of the women among the delegates-Denise Fleurais-cleared her throat. “Ambassador de Penfars’ knowledge,” she said with a certain delicacy, “is confined to the upper strata of Menekhetan society.”

“Hellenes,” someone murmured further down the table. “She means Hellenes.”

There ensued a discussion about the merits of Hellene civilization versus the native component. I listened with half an ear, watching the hovering Menekhetan servants, jugs of barley beer at the ready, waiting with well-concealed impatience for the D’Angeline guests to take to their beds. “Surely,” I ventured, thinking about the polite brown masks of our servants’ faces, “Ambassador de Penfars has contacts among the native Iskandrians as well.”

A brief silence answered me.

“Not many,” the Lady Denise said at length. She had auburn hair the color of new mahogany, and a shrewdness to her face which I liked. “There is the clerk, Rekhmire, or so we gather. But Ambassador de Penfars does not speak the argot of the land.”

“
What
?” The word came out with more force than I intended, but in truth, it shocked me. Raife Laniol had been two years and more stationed in Iskandria; time and more, I reckoned, to learn the language. And yet… I saw from the delegates’ faces that few of them shared my astonishment.

“Phèdre.” It was Joscelin’s voice, calm and thoughtful. “If you are right, then there is an avenue of questioning unpursued. Surely Chouma’s household must share his fears. Who would be a client too dangerous to be named?” I looked at him and he shrugged. “No one asked them that, I’ll warrant. But…” he plucked the cup from my hand, peering into the dregs of barley beer, “we’re not like to get further with it tonight.”

“Fairly said.” I placed both hands on the table and pushed myself upright, tiredness dragging at me. “My lords, my ladies … let us adjourn.”

No one gave argument, for which I was grateful. With a solicitous hand beneath my elbow, Joscelin escorted me back to our pleasant rooms, where windows were open onto the night breeze with its citrus scent. Once we were there, he leaned against a wall, watching me with faint amusement as I reclined on the comfortable mattress, my mind filled with thoughts that dispelled sleep.

“Well?” he said at length.

I sighed, propping myself on my elbows. “What would you have me say? That I am clinging to faint hope? That it is a crime that the Menekhetan ambassador does not speak the native tongue?”

He raised his eyebrows. “It’s a start.”

“Hyacinthe’s plight comes first.” I made my voice firm, trying not to think on the promise I had made Melisande. “We will see those arrangements made. Then … mayhap we will see what there is to be learned in Iskandria that lies beyond the Hellene stratum of Menekhetan society.”

Joscelin smiled. “I thought you would say as much.”

Thirty-One

IN THE morning, we reconvened over breakfast, which consisted of pungent bean-cakes, fried in oil and served with a sweet condiment of jellied figs, a strange but pleasing combination of flavors. Amaury Trente had already sent word to Ambassador de Penfars to arrange for an appointment. He was more optimistic than he had been last night; if nothing else, at least my suggestions had given him purpose.

Joscelin and I would explore Iskandria … and no matter what promises I had made to Melisande, I did intend to settle the matter of a guide to Jebe-Barkal first and foremost. Once the arrangements were made, I could dedicate my energies to aiding Amaury in the search for Imriel’s mysterious purchaser with a clear mind.

True to his word, the boy Nesmut appeared while we were still eating, bright-eyed and cheerful. “You have work for me, yes?” he asked with a winning smile. “Gracious lord and lady need a guide to see the city? I show the best places!”

I took the scrap of vellum Melisande had given me from the purse at my girdle and showed it to him. “I am looking for a man named Radi Arumi, who resides at this address on the Street of Crocodiles. Do you know this place?”

Nesmut peered at it. “Gracious lady, I cannot read, but I know the Street of Crocodiles. If you tell me the number, I will take you there, yes.”

After a brief negotiation, we were agreed.

The heat of the day struck us like a blast from a forge as we left Metriche’s inn. It was hard to believe, I thought, that in Terre d’Ange, the fields lay in stubble and the chill autumn rains fell upon the land. In Menekhet, the sun blazed unceasing and the sky was a hard blue, copper-tinged with heat. Although the broad streets were swept clean, there was taste of dust in my mouth.

For all that, the city bustled. It would, Nesmut informed us, grow hotter yet; at midday, everyone retired to the shade until the worst of the heat had passed. It was well that we had risen early. He kept up a running commentary as he led us through the city, pausing to greet a half-dozen people on every block-servants, carriage-drivers, housewives, water-sellers. Everyone, it seemed, had a good-natured word for the lad.

And all, I noticed, in Menekhetan.

“There is the Street of Moneylenders,” Nesmut announced, pointing, “if you like, I take you to a man to change your Serenissiman coin for Menekhetan, yes? Harder then for merchants to cheat you. I know a man who is fair.”

I glanced at Joscelin, who raised his eyebrows. “
You
wouldn’t cheat, us, would you, Nesmut?” he asked the boy in Hellene. “Because if you did …” In a movement too quick for the eye to follow, his daggers leapt from their sheaths and into his hands, crossed tips hovering under the lad’s chin. “I would be very angry.”

Nesmut’s dark eyes widened. “Gracious lord!” he breathed. “Never!”

“Good.” Joscelin put up his daggers and gave a cross-vambraced bow. A faint smile hovered at one corner of his mouth where only I could see it. “Then we will heed your advice. Thank you, Nesmut.”

“Gracious lord,” he said warily, pointing again. “It is this way.”

It was well done of Joscelin, for the rate of exchange proved more than fair, and I daresay a good deal of it was due to the impression Nesmut conveyed of our seriousness. In short order, the transaction was done, and we left having exchanged our Serenissiman solidi for a considerable amount of Menekhetan coin. Nesmut led us to the Street of Crocodiles with a renewed air of importance.

The address Melisande had given me was in the jewelers’ quarter and proved, indeed, to be that of a jeweler’s shop. Tiny bronze bells rang as we opened the door, passing from bright sun into the relative coolness of shadow within the thick sandstone walls. To my sun-dazzled eyes, it was murky as night within the shop. I made out the angular figure of a man hunched over a worktable positioned in a patch of morning sun that slanted through a window. The figure’s head lifted, and I heard a gasp; his hands moved in a flurry, overturning a number of cabochon gems on the worktable and laying them facedown before he arose to greet us.

“My lady.” He addressed me in Hellene, placing both hands together and bowing deeply. His face, when he straightened, was filled with awe. “I am Karem. How may I serve you?”

“Karem,” I said, blinking. My eyes were adjusting to the darkness. He was young, his beard still patchy on his chin, and clearly Menekhetan. “I am Phèdre nó Delaunay, Comtesse de Montrève in Terre d’Ange. I am looking for a man named Radi Arumi. Do you know him?”

“The Jebean.” Karem’s face showed his disappointment. “Yes, I know him, my lady; he rents a room in my father’s lodgings in the back when he is in Iskandria. Wait here, please, and I will tell him you have come.”

With another bow, he vanished out a rear doorway. Nesmut wandered over to a sitting-area to the right of the shop, low-slung leathern chairs arranged about a low table. He clambered into one of the chairs and sat cross-legged, quite at his ease. Karem was gone a long time. I looked at his worktable. Semiprecious gems lay scattered; carnelian, amethyst, chalcedony. I wondered why he’d overturned them. His jeweler’s tools were works of art in and of themselves, tiny blades and picks and chisels, immaculately wrought, reminding me, with an uncomfortable shock, of Melisande’s flechettes, those exquisite little blades capable of causing such exquisite pain.

When all is said and done, I am an
anguissette
. This is what it is to be Kushiel’s Chosen. No purpose, no quest, can change the nature of what I am; for good or for ill.

After a while, Joscelin and I both took seats, waiting. And in time, Karem returned, with a second man in tow, of indeterminate years, black-skinned and leathered with exposure to the sun, an embroidered cap perched atop his wooly hair.

“Radi Arumi,” I greeted him, standing and inclining my head. “In’demin aderq.”

A grin split his creased face at my words, showing strong white teeth. “Ha! It is a dream-spirit that speaks to me in Jeb’ez,” Radi Arumi said in pidgin Hellene. “Do I dream? My friend Karem dreams, and covers his groin with embarrassment.”

I colored, although I daresay I grew no redder than poor Karem. “Messire Arumi,” I said directly, ignoring it, “I am looking for the descendants of Melek al’Hakim, the Queen of Saba’s son. And I am told you know where to find them.”

“Ah.” Radi Arumi sat down, eyeing me and my companions. He wore loose-fitting, brightly colored robes, frayed at the edges. “There was a man, a Hellene man, asking about such things, a year or more gone by. He served a mistress in La Serenissima, he told me. He wanted to know if the stories were true. I guide the caravans to Meroë. He wanted to know if I could guide him to the scions of Saba. I told him yes.”

“You told him yes.” It was Joscelin who spoke, shifting subtly in his chair to show the hilts of his daggers, his sword. “Can you?” he inquired.

Nesmut drew up his knees and looked from one to the other, bright-eyed with interest. “Yes, kyrios,” Radi Arumi answered, giving Joscelin a seated half-bow. “Though it is far, far to the south, I can show you. But…” He held up one hand, pale palm outward, raising a finger. “It is a long journey, and difficult. Do you wish to make it?”