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“So.” The Mahrkagir cocked his head. “One sword, and one woman. I have swords, and men to bear them; I have women, and boys, too. Already I have paid dear for D’Angeline flesh, pure and inviolate. Why should I accept a lordling’s cast-off? Perhaps this offer is not so sweet as the price on your head, Jossalin Veruy. After all, I have a debt to reclaim.” His tone was mild. “Either way, Angra Mainyu feasts, and your futile hope will make the banquet sweeter.”

Tizrav whispered urgently to Joscelin, who pushed him away. Tizrav stumbled and fell on the flagstones and Joscelin laughed, a terrible laugh, filled with despair, high and wild.

I knew, then, that I had driven him into the deepest depths of his own personal hell.

“You have no sword like mine, my lord, and no woman like this one.” He yanked back the veil and twined his hand in my hair, jerking hard and forcing me to my knees. I went, the breath gasping in my throat, desire hitting me like a fist to the gut, awful and unexpected. “You see her,” Joscelin said through gritted teeth. “This is no one’s cast-off, but Phèdre nó Delaunay; Naamah’s Servant, Kushiel’s Chosen and the veritable Queen of Whores, my greatest passion, my sole downfall. I offer unto your keeping, Lord Mahrkagir, that which Terre d’Ange holds most precious. Do you say anyone will match her price?”

It was all there in darkling, twilight air of the hall, truth and lie woven together as seamlessly as a Mendacant’s cloak, a polyglot mix of Habiru, Akkadian and Old Persian. The flagstones bruised my knees and my neck ached, wrenched back at an unnatural angle. I heard the scrabbling sound of Tizrav adjusting his eyepatch. I knelt at Joscelin’s feet, the hem of his sheepskin coat brushing my cheek, his hand fisted in my hair.

And I felt the presence, not of Elua, Blessed Elua, but cruel Kushiel, beating in my blood.

I heard the Mahrkagir’s footsteps.

He reached out to touch my cheek and his hand was cold, so cold. It was cold in the great hall of Daršanga. I felt his touch like fire, setting me ablaze between my thighs. At a touch, he knew me to the core. I shut my teeth on a moan. He was neither comely nor unattractive, the Mahrkagir, his features regular, clean-shaven. Only his eyes were beautiful; lustrous, long-lashed, the pupils dilated until the welling blackness wholly swallowed any other color.

Beautiful … and utterly, utterly mad.

“So this is what you offer.” The Mahrkagir of Drujan raised his mad, beautiful eyes from my face to Joscelin’s, showing even white teeth in a smile. “My lord Veruy of Terre d’Ange, I do believe I will accept it.”

Joscelin let go his grip on my hair and I collapsed in a heap at his feet, dimly aware that he gave his Cassiline bow above me. “My lord Mahrkagir will not have cause to regret it.”

“Let us hope not.” The Mahrkagir looked down at me where I groveled on the flagstones. “Tahmuras, take her to the
zenana
.”

Forty-Three

THE
ZENANA
, or women’s quarter, of Daršanga palace was a world unto itself.

It was the Mahrkagir’s giant, Tahmuras, who escorted me there. He said nothing along the way, and I would have wondered if he were deaf and dumb, were it not for the alacrity with which he had obeyed the Mahrkagir’s command. Tahmuras strode down the halls, descending a stair, all but ignoring me as I stumbled in his wake.

Of what was befalling Joscelin and Tizrav, I could only guess and hope. I had made my choice and committed myself-and lest I forget, the awful pulse of desire, inflamed by the Mahrkagir’s touch, throbbed between my thighs. I fixed my gaze on the broad back of Tahmuras, concentrating on following him. He bore no blade, but only a single weapon thrust through his belt; a morningstar, a spiked ball-and-chain mace, the steel rod jutting against his thigh. No scavenged armor would fit him, not this man. He wore a leather jerkin laced with crude plates of steel.

My mind was frozen, between fear and desire; I did not hear what Tahmuras said when he scratched for entry at the latticed door of the
zenana
. It was opened, I know, and I was thrust through it, given unto the care of the Chief Eunuch.

I began to realize the vastness of the
zenana
.

It had to be, to hold so many people; a large pool-room, honeycombed with darkness beyond. And it was warm, for a mercy. I sighed as the door closed behind me, feeling the warmth of the space seep into my bones. The Chief Eunuch surveyed me, pursing his lips.

“You see?” he asked in pidgin argot; a tongue that owed something to Persian, Caerdicci and Hellene alike; zenyan, it was called, but I learned that later. With a sweeping gesture, he indicated the room, the stagnant waters of the tepidarium, the surrounding couches on islands of carpet. “Here, you stay. Find a place that is empty.”

“My lord.” I swallowed and licked my lips, seeking my voice. “I speak Persian, a little.”

“You do?” His brows rose. “Well, find a place. There are always some who have died. You should have no trouble making room.”

I looked across the space, the knots of intrigue and scheming, like drawing to like. There were women, more women than I could have guessed at, from every nationality on earth. There were Persians and Akkadians with skin like old ivory; there were Ephesians with sultry eyes. There were amber-skinned Bhodistani and even Ch’in, whom I had never seen, with straight black hair caught up in combs and skin the hue of honey. There were Caerdicci of every shade and Hellenes, too; modest Illyrians, and there were Chowati, with light hair and slanted, pale eyes. There were proud hawk-nosed Umaiyyati maidens, and Menekhetans, too. Of a surety, there were Carthaginians and Aragonians as well, and Jebeans and Nubians with ebony skin.

And there were boys.

Not many; only a few, with terrified, defiant eyes, clinging to the couches of the women of their homelands. None of them were D’Angeline.

“I have heard there is one,” I said to the Chief Eunuch. “A boy, so high …” I gave a vague indication with one hand, having no idea how tall Imriel stood, “from the same country as I. He would not speak your tongue, but he has blue-black hair and eyes …” I hesitated, “… the color of twilight.”

“That one.” The Chief Eunuch rolled his eyes. “The Shahryar Mahrkagir would have such a one from your country for his three-fold path. I would that the Âka-Magi had found a less troublesome one. Yes, he has been taken to spend time alone, for stabbing an attendant with a serving fork. You heard me, lady. Find a space.”

And with that, he left me.

I made my way around the pool, the walls of which were coated with greenish slime. The water had a fetid odor. Stalwart eunuchs stood at guard around the perimeter of the room, their faces suffused with bitterness. I did not know why, then; now, I do. These were members of the Akkadian garrison that the Mahrkagir had captured. He’d had them all unmanned. A good many had chosen death instead. Those who hadn’t, he’d set to guard his seraglio. And they did it, too, clinging to life, filled with rage.

It all served Angra Mainyu, who fed on hatred as surely as death, and longer.

Here and there I paused, asking in this tongue and that: Do you know of this boy?

They knew him; of a surety, they knew him. Children, I gathered, did not last long in the Mahrkagir’s
zenana
, being altogether too fragile for his attentions. This one had lasted longer than anyone had bargained; it seemed the Mahrkagir wished him kept alive for some special purpose. With a slow-dawning sense of horror, I realized that they had bets on his survival.

It is a different world, and a harsh one.

I was new to it, then; I do not know if I can convey the sense of what it was to live there. It was not like a traditional hareem or
zenana
, no, where the lord’s attention was sought and a matter of pride. Here, the lord’s attention was death, or akin to it. Even so … how else to gain rank? Those whom the Mahrkagir favored had special privileges; private rooms, personal attendants. It won them pity and envy.

For the rest, they established their own hierarchy, based on force of personality.

“Speak to
him
,” a Chowati woman said to me, deigning to understand my Illyrian, jerking her chin at a young man huddled in foetal position at the edge of an outer carpet. “
He
can tell you how the Mahrkagir treats with boys.”

I tried to do so, crouching low before him, peering at his hidden face. He was Skaldi, I realized with a small shock, recognizing the cast of his features, the butter-yellow hair that curtained his face. I addressed him in his native tongue. He groaned and turned away, hands clutched over his groin.

“What is wrong with this man?” I asked one of the attendants, indignation overcoming my common sense. “Why does no one call for a chirurgeon?”

“He has been cut,” the attendant replied, “and does not wish to live.” His eyes glittered feverishly, and I knew by his accent he was Akkadian-that was when I began to understand, then, at least a little. “Do you blame him, lady? I do not. He is no longer a man.”

I understood, though I didn’t wish to. The Skaldi lad wanted to die; and I, I could not blame him. He was alone, the only one of his kind. It was not right, but there was no help for it. What fell on him would not fall on someone else, not that day. He was alone, and so was I.

So I sought an empty couch, and lay coiled onto my own perfect despair. I had attained my goal, the goal I never wanted, becoming a concubine of the Mahrkagir of Drujan. I had come a thousand miles to destroy the only true love I’d ever known. I had condemned Hyacinthe to age forever on his lonely isle. Of my own will, I had done these things. And for all of it, I had not found Imriel de la Courcel, whose face had haunted my dreams. It was fearful to contemplate what abuse he had undergone in this place, and I could only pray he had been spared the worst of it. What did it mean that the Mahrkagir kept him alive? For his three-fold path, the Chief Eunuch had said. I thought of the Skaldi lad and shuddered. If the Mahrkagir had a special purpose in mind, it could only be worse.

There was no comfort in the distant memory of Blessed Elua’s presence. The gods are cruel, to lay such burdens on their mortal heirs. How can immortals reckon the cost to mere flesh? I did not know if I could endure this.

I slept, and prayed I would awaken elsewhere.

I didn’t.

I awoke, stiff and sore, on a couch in the
zenana
of Daršanga, huddled in my stained travelling clothes and Valère L’Envers’ marten-skin coat. Well and so, I thought; I am still Phèdre nó Delaunay, and I will be no less. The
zenana
was stirring, attendants bringing wheat-porridge on platters, and honey to a select few. Though I had no appetite, I made myself eat. Charcoal braziers were chasing off the night’s chill, though the hypocaust which warmed the stagnant pool and the floors kept the
zenana
temperate. I thought with rue of my visit to the bath-house in Iskandria.

“Is it possible to bathe?” I asked the attendant when he returned. He stared at me a moment and jerked his chin toward the pool, clearing my tray. I shook my head. I had smelled that water, and I would have to become a good deal more desperate before I let it touch my skin.

Some women, I saw, had better luck; here and there, a few had small luxuries-a ewer of clean water, a comb, a bottle of scented oil. These held court on their islanded couches, sharing out their favors, combing one another’s hair, lowering their gowns to dab scent between their breasts with the dispassionate immodesty of women condemned to live publicly with one another. There was no joy in it and little pleasure.

“You are new.”

It was one of the eunuchs who addressed me, speaking in the zenyanargot; Persian, I guessed by his tone. He was young and slender, and had a gentle look to him.

“Yes,” I said.

He shifted the tray he carried, balancing it on one hip. “If you wish … if you wish, I will bring you a basin, and soap.”

If his hands had been free, I would have kissed them. Instead, I made myself incline my head and answer graciously. “You are very kind.”

He went away. I sat cross-legged on my couch and watched the
zenana
. In the Night Court, pageants are often staged for wealthy patrons; the Pasha’s Hareem was a common one, with scant-clad adepts reclining on cushions and disporting themselves in erotic play to the accompaniment of musicians. This was a dreadful parody of that sensual fantasy. The only pleasure I saw taken was in the smoking of opium, for there were water-pipes at many of the islands, and those women who smoked them fell back in heavy-lidded dreaminess. I saw one Ephesian woman tend to a crying boy of some eight years by blowing a thin stream of blue smoke from her own mouth into his. Presently he ceased to cry, and lay listless at her breast.

“It seems a kindness,” I said aloud, watching.

“It is.” It was the Persian eunuch returning, kneeling carefully to set a steaming basin of water on the carpet before my couch. “Until the Mahrkagir takes it away. Then they will suffer fresh torments and wish anew to die.” He looked up at me. “I am Rushad, lady.”

“Thank you, Rushad.” Since there was nothing else for it, I undressed with the ease of long practice, kneeling opposite him in front of the basin. Rushad drew in his breath in a hiss, seeing my marque.

“What is
that
?”

“A sign that I am dedicated to the service of our goddess Naamah.” I plunged both arms to my elbows in the steaming water, then took up the soap and
began
to raise a lather. “I am Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève of Terre d’Ange.”

“Terre d’Ange,” he repeated. “Yes. There is one … a boy … who looks like you, who has your… your beauty. But he does not speak our tongue. How is it that you do?”

“You have seen him?” I paused in the middle of my ablutions.

“Yes, of course.” Rushad seemed surprised. “He is being … confined.”

“For stabbing someone with a fork. I heard.” I sat back on my heels, thinking. “Can you take me to him?”

“No!” He shook his head in alarm. “I would not dare. I am not like the Akkadians, who are unafraid to die. I have done you a courtesy. You must not ask such things of me.”