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The Pharaoh of Menekhet grew pale. “
Drujan
.”

“Drujan.” I savored the word, along with the Pharaoh’s pallor and the beads of sweat that stood of a sudden on his balding pate. “Tell me, my lord, what is this Drujan?”

One of his guards stepped forward, and a court soothsayer with a furrowed brow. Ptolemy Dikaios composed himself and waved them back. “Drujan,” he said in a grim tone, “was once a satrapy of the empire of Persis. It is a kingdom, now, in the far north of Khebbel-im-Akkad.”

“A kingdom?” Comte Raife arched his elegant silver eyebrows. “A
sovereign
kingdom, my lord Pharaoh?”

There was a pause. “Yes,” Ptolemy Dikaios said. “So I believe it to be. The Drujani rebelled against their Akkadian overlords a score and ten years ago, and were crushed mercilessly. Every surviving member of royal blood was put to the sword, the women raped and slain.

And then …” He spread his hands, a powerless gesture for all the rings that adorned his fingers. “Eight years ago, something changed. What it was, I do not know, for the Akkadians are loathe to speak of it. But that is when the bone-priests came, the
Skotophagoti
. Sometimes alone, and sometimes with comrades, merchants and mercenaries.”

“And you welcomed them, my lord Pharaoh?” I let a hint of polite disbelief show in my voice. “I have heard it said the Akkadians hate them like the plague.”

“And fear them as much.” He shook his head. “I never welcomed them. It is death to trade with them, death to house them, death to give them succor. That much, the Akkadians decreed. Such was the proclamation of Ishme-la-Ilu, who is Grand Vizier to the Khalif of Khebbel-im-Akkad, and I have obeyed it. The Drujani and their bone-priests are not welcome in Iskandria, nor anywhere in Menekhet. But…” he smiled tightly, “… it is also death to cross them, and not by Akkadian steel, no. Ignoble death, by a falling-sickness, by the bite of an asp, a runaway horse. Believe me,” he added, glancing around. “I have consulted my priests, and I have consulted our great library. Neither have yielded an answer. There are talismans, prayer-scrolls …” He waved a dismissive hand. “Enemies of the Drujani bone-priests die anyway.”

“So they go where they will?” I asked slowly.

Ptolemy Dikaios nodded. “We do as the Akkadians have bidden. Avoid them, and give thanks to all the gods that their numbers are few, and they offer no violence if unmolested.” He gave his tight smile again. “Menekhet is ancient, Lady Phèdre, and she has weathered many storms. Whatever quarrel lies between Drujan and Khebbel-im-Akkad, we can outwait it.”

“Yes, but now …” I was thinking half aloud. “My lord Pharaoh, what do the Drujani come for?” I paused. “Do they buy slaves?”

His face turned stony. “It may be, though it is forbidden.”

“Of course,” I said absently. “But if they did … if they did, would anyone stop them? Your guards? Would they be challenged at the gates of the city?”

Another pause, then he shook his head. “No. Not if a
Skotophagotis
was with them.”

“And the punishment for a Menekhetan merchant caught doing business with a Drujani?”

Pharaoh met my eyes and answered softly. “Death.”

I shuddered, and heard Amaury Trente utter a sound of dismay. It seemed strange and distant, for my ears were ringing with a bronze clash of wings and a haze of red veiled my vision. The unseen pattern was closing upon me. I saw through a skein of crimson Kushiel’s face, cruel and smiling, his mighty hands. One, held close to his breast, held a key-the other, outstretched, offered a diamond, dangling at the end of a velvet cord.

“
Phèdre
!” There were hands again, Joscelin’s, hard on my shoulders, shaking me. I blinked at him, my vision clearing, realized I was swaying on my feet. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” I gripped his forearms, steadying myself, and looked past him at Ptolemy Dikaios. “My lord Pharaoh, I crave a boon.”

He made a slight gesture. “Speak.”

From the corner of my eye, I could see Lord Amaury grimacing and Raife Laniol discouraging me with a discreet shake of his head. I ignored them both. “My lord Pharaoh, you know that her majesty has bade us seek a young D’Angeline boy, stolen by Carthaginian raiders and sold unwitting into slavery in Menekhet. You have aided us most graciously in this search. I ask that you aid us once more, and inquire of your Iskandrian Guard if such a boy was seen leaving the city in the custody of Drujani priests.”

Ptolemy Dikaios relaxed slightly. “It shall be done,” he said, and beckoned to a senior guardsman, resplendent in a white kilt and gilded breastplate, addressing him in Menekhetan.

“My lady Phèdre,” Amaury hissed in my ear, one hand closing hard on my upper arm, “think what you do! You place yourself-”

“Shh.” I waved him to silence, straining to hear the words Pharaoh spoke to the guardsman. He spoke with quiet discretion, but I have an ear for languages, and a memory trained by Anafiel Delaunay. “Amaury, did you give Pharaoh a description of Imriel de la Courcel?” I asked him in a low tone, speaking D’Angeline.

“A description?” He unhanded me and looked puzzled. “No, of course not. Pharaoh would not concern himself with such details. Even his Secretary of the Treasury didn’t deign to hear them. I told the clerk, Rekhmire. No one else.”

Raife Laniol, Ambassador de Penfars, glared at us both, put off only slightly by Joscelin’s warning glance. I paid him no heed, considering the key Amaury had given me and what leverage it granted.

“It is done,” announced the Pharaoh of Menekhet, putting an end to our covert squabbling. He looked at me with a cunning light in his eyes, a smile stretching his broad mouth. “It seems Terre d’Ange has a mighty interest in this young slave-lad, does it not? So, my lady, what boon will you grant me in return?”

Amaury Trente sighed and threw up his hands in despair, turning away. One of his delegates grinned. Juliette de Penfars gazed sympathetically at me, while her husband the Ambassador strove to put a good face on it. Joscelin … Joscelin merely frowned, like a man listening to the strains of distant battle.

“My lord Pharaoh,” I said. “May I speak privately to you?”

Thirty-Six

OF COURSE, he granted my request.

To this day, I cannot say whether or not Ptolemy Dikaios truly believed I would bed him for a trivial favor. Mayhap he did, or mayhap he believed I would reckon the price worth it to buy his silence in the matter of the D’Angeline slave-lad our Queen so ardently desired. After all, he knew his worth.

Either way, I disabused him of the notion.

“My lord Pharaoh,” I said to him in his private reception-chamber, attended only by impassive fan-bearers. “This is my boon: In exchange for your aid, I will not tell Ambassador de Penfars nor Lord Amaury Trente that you have been in league with the Lady Melisande Shahrizai de la Courcel.”

He looked at me for a long moment without speaking, reclining on a couch, head propped on one hand. “Now why would you say such a thing?”

“Because, my lord.” I raised my eyebrows at him. “No one described the lad to you. And yet I heard you tell the guard he was a D’Angeline boy of some ten years, with black hair and blue eyes. Either you have seen the lad yourself… or someone else has described him to you. And I can only think of one person like to do such a thing.”

At that, he had the grace to blanch a little. “You do not speak Menekhetan.”

“No,” I agreed. “I don’t. But I listened to a young man in my employ translate those very words into Menekhetan for the benefit of Fadil Chouma’s widow and concubines. I have an ear, my lord, for language.”

“Indeed.” After a moment, Ptolemy Dikaios rose from his couch and paced the room, his hands clasped behind his back. He regarded his couch, his impassive slaves, his frescoed walls. In time, he regarded me. “I have never seen this boy. Iskandria enjoys free trade with La Serenissima. This woman of whom you speak was wife to the sole D’Angeline presence in that city-state. Our acquaintance is of long standing.”

“Her fortunes,” I said, “have changed considerably from when first you knew her.”

“Imprisonment.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Or sanctuary, if you will. Yes. Even so, I am given to understand that her
son
…” he gave the word a subtle emphasis, “… stands third in line for the D’Angeline throne.”

“He does,” I said. “Which is why her majesty Ysandre de la Courcel would as like see him safe. It does not alter the fact that his mother has been condemned for treason and is sentenced to die should she set foot from her sanctuary.”

Much to my surprise, Ptolemy Dikaios laughed, and did more than laugh. It was a deep and considerable laugh, roaring from his gut, until his eyes watered and he must needs use the fringed end of a sash to wipe them. “Ah, Phèdre nó Delaunay! Why did your Queen not send you to begin with? We would have saved a tedious dance. I have heard of you, indeed I have. This woman of whom we speak warned me of your wits.”

I waited for his mirth to subside. “I have other business in Iskandria. My Queen only wants the boy returned.”

“Yes, of course. His own mother asks nothing more.” He sat back down on his couch, sighing and dabbing at his eyes. “Oh, my! The gods themselves weep for laughter. You thought I had him?”

“Until today,” I admitted.

“Would that I did.” Ptolemy Dikaios heaved another great sigh and composed himself. “I’d have restored him, my lady, one way or another. I promised … our friend … as much, and she, I know, would not hold it overmuch against me had I sinned unknowing. A pity I did not, for she promised a formidable alliance should he take the throne. But no, my taste does not run to boys, not even D’Angeline boys.”

“I would that it did, my lord Pharaoh,” I said quietly. “If the boy were to appear, dazed and unsure, with some wild tale on his lips … there would be no questions asked. Only gratitude.”

“You can guarantee that much?” he asked shrewdly. “You would swear to it?”

I thought of the brooch Ysandre had given me, the Companion’sStar, and the boon unasked. “Yes, my lord,” I said to him. “I would swear to it. If it were true.”

Our gazes locked, and it was the Pharaoh who looked away. “I spoke the truth,” he said. “I’ve never laid eyes on the boy nor heard whisper of his existence until your Lord Amaury inquired. A letter came from La Serenissima, on the very ship that brought you, and I learned more. Believe me, I’ve conducted a search of my own, to no avail. And now …” He looked back at me. “If I were you, I would pray, to any god who would hear me. Because if there is any merit to your guess, if that boy’s been taken by the Drujani…” He shook his head. “I cannot help you. No one can.”

“Well,” I said, light-headed with despair. “We will have to see. Do we have a bargain, my lord Pharaoh? My silence for your aid?”

He paused, and nodded. “We have a bargain. For all that it is worth.”

It was then that there came a discreet rap at the door, and the Captain of the Iskandrian Guard entered with the news that would sunder my world in twain.

I had struck my bargain too late. Imriel de la Courcel was gone, far beyond the boundaries of any aid the Pharaoh of Menekhet might render. Once again, I was three steps behind, and only Kushiel knew into what dire darkness the path led.

Drujan
, I thought, and shuddered.

Ptolemy Dikaios looked at me with pity. It frightened me more than I could say.

To his credit, Lord Amaury Trente received the news with fatalistic aplomb. “I knew it,” he said glumly when we were able to reconvene and I gave the guardsmen’s testimony verbatim. He put his head in his hands and tugged at his hair. “Blessed Elua, things
always
get complicated when you’re involved, my lady! No chance, I suppose, that they’re mistaken?”

“No,” I said sadly, refilling his beer-cup myself. “I’m afraid not.”

There was no great secret to it, when all was said and done. Sure that the boy was within Iskandria, no one had asked. Yes, Pharaoh’s gatekeepers had testified readily, they had seen a Drujani party leave the city by the Eastern Gate, some five months gone by-high summer, it was-a
Skotophagotis
and three warriors, with a D’Angeline boy in tow. They described him readily: a face like a jewel, set in fear and anger, skin like milk, yes, and blue-black hair that fell in ripples, eyes the hue of twilight.

I rendered the translation exactly, lest Lord Amaury doubt.

He didn’t, not really.

“So,” he said, peering at me between his hair-clutching hands. “It seems I, at least, am bound for Khebbel-im-Akkad, to see how strongly the ties of marriage bind the loyalty of blood. Dare I ask you to accompany me, Comtesse? I would not presume, only … it is rumored that you have mastered the Akkadian tongue. And I fear I could use your aid.”

I didn’t answer, not right away. Our hostess Metriche, having heard that we had attended upon Pharaoh, had taken it upon herself to serve us with her own hands, that night. With a good deal of fanfare and many attendants, she brought a rack of lamb to our table, bowing her head and setting it before me. She had heard I’d merited a private audience. I gazed at her averted face, the elaborate gilt cap that covered the bun of her hair. I’d meant to buy one of those, to carry with me or to send to Favrielle nó Eglantine, who would find it of interest.

Radi Arumi’s Jebean caravan left on the day after tomorrow, and our passage was already booked, a deposit paid for passage as far as Meroë.

In my vision, Kushiel had held forth the diamond.

Phèdre
! cried the voice in my dreams … Hyacinthe’s, or Imriel’s? I was no longer sure.
Lypiphera
, it said to me, and the voice might have been Nesmut’s, the soft accented Hellene tones. We had found him, Joscelin and I, on the quai; found him, and paid him for one last task, going back once more to the household of Fadil Chouma. I don’t know why. We had the gatekeepers’ testimony. But I needed to hear it, to be sure. “Ask her,” I’d said to Nesmut. “Ask her if her husband knew a
Skotophagotis
.”

If Chouma’s widow knew aught of it, she had hidden it well, shaking her head in horror at the very thought. It was his concubine, his third concubine, who hid her scars behind a veil, who fell weeping to the floor, covering her head. I had asked the questions as gently as I could, and Nesmut coaxed the story out of her. Between muffled sobs, she admitted it was so. That was the secret she had kept, even upon questioning at knife-point. Twice, she had seen Chouma speaking with a
Skotophagotis
. The first time, he had beaten her for it and threatened to kill her if ever she spoke of it. The second time, she had fled in terror from the bone-priest’s shadow, and did not hear what had transpired. But there had been money exchanged, and Imriel was gone. She did not doubt the nature of the bargain.