"No." Joscelin lounged against the padded seats, unconcerned. "He'll likely show you the latest game of hazard instead, and if you've not brought your dice, I'm sure he's a set to lend. Don't worry, Luc. You'll not embarrass Verreuil."

"I hope not," his brother muttered.

Amilcar is a pleasant city, though we saw little enough of it through the drawn curtains of the carriage, alighting in the Plaza del Rey. On one side of the square stood the Count's palace, a solid affair of grey granite with adornments of wrought-iron scrollwork. The quarters of the King's Consul faced it on the opposite side, a lower, more modest building. A pair of guards waved us through the archway into the courtyard, where we were met by a majordomo in the livery of the House of Aragon.

"Comtesse de Montreve," he said in fluent D'Angeline as I stepped from the carriage. "Messires Verreuil. The Lady Nicola will receive you."

We followed him into the marble foyer. It was cooler within than without, light filtering through fretted windows to cast complex patterns, date palms in vast pots lending a suggestion of green shade. He led us to the salon of reception, which had a narrow marble frieze about the walls depicting the King of Aragon pardoning a Prince of Carthage, much gilt trim and a carpet of a startling red hue.

"It's a bit much, isn't it?" Nicola L'Envers y Aragon smiled, coming forward to greet us. "I'm not allowed to make changes to the decor in the reception hall. Phedre, my dear. Well met." A gold seal-bracelet tinkled at her wrist as she raised one hand to touch my face, giving me the kiss of greeting. "And Joscelin."

"My lady Nicola." There was a trace of amusement in his voice as he bent to kiss her.

"You must be Luc." Nicola regarded him with interest. "They breed tall in Verreuil." "My lady." Luc blushed and bowed. Nicola laughed.

It was a familiar laugh, low and intimate, and one that set my pulse to beating faster whenever I heard it-even here, even now. But I have been an anguissette all my life, and I have grown accustomed to dealing with the distraction. "Nicola," I said. "I would that it were otherwise, but we're not here on pleasure. It's a serious matter."

"I assumed as much." She nodded toward a group of over-gilded chairs set around a low ebony table.

Wine and olives awaited us on a tray. "Ramiro should be back before sundown. He's meeting with Fernan's Chancellor of the Exchequer to go over some accounts. Do you want to tell me now, or shall it wait?"

"I'd sooner you heard it first," I said.

Nicola listened without interruption as I laid out the story, her face betraying little of her thoughts. It was odd, seeing her in Amilcar, with her D'Angeline composure and beauty, clad in an Aragonian gown with a square-cut neck, her bronze hair pinned in an elaborate coif, stuck through with a pair of long hair-pins that sported the golden crown of the House of Aragon at the ends. Luc watched her raptly, unabashedly fascinated. I didn't blame him. I continued with my account, tracing our journey through Siovale. It was not until I related what the Tsingano Kristof had told us that Nicola reacted in astonishment.

"What?"Her violet eyes went wide with outrage.

"So he said, my lady," I said. "Carthaginian slave-traders, bound for Amilcar. Do you say it cannot be so?"

"I don't know." Nicola rested her chin on one fist, frowning. The dangling seal at her wrist winked gold in the slanting light from the high windows, the sun's rays turning lucent the cabochon garnet with which it was set. "No. I won't say it's impossible. Count Fernan does his best to see the harbor is patrolled, but there's a good deal of illicit trade goes on anyway."

"The harbor," Joscelin said. "What about the rest of the city? What if they were but passing through en route to Carthage?"

Nicola shook her head in dismissal. "If they were taking the risk of transporting D'Angelina captives to Amilcar, it would be for the seaport. There's no other reason."

"Can you help?" I asked her. "I've sent word to Ysandre, if it needs must go to a matter of state. She would demand Aragonia's aid. But it will be some time before a delegation could arrive, and every day we lose, the trail grows colder."

"Oh, I can help, all right." Her lovely jaw set and a look of cold determination settled in her gaze, familiar to anyone who knew members of House L'Envers. I'd seen it in the Queen, and Duc Barquiel before her. "You may be sure of it." Nicola picked up a small gilded bell from the table and rang it. A liveried servant entered the room in prompt reply, and she addressed him in fluent Aragonian. "I'm sending word for Ramiro to return posthaste," she added to us in unapologetic D'Angeline. "He's like to linger over his cups if I don't. It shouldn't be more than an hour."

"My lady Nicola." Joscelin stood. "With your permission, there are a few things Luc and I must needs procure at the market. Shall we return in an hour's time?" Luc opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. Nicola looked at Joscelin, and what unspoken words were exchanged between them, I could not say. She inclined her head. "As you will, Messire Cassiline. I have given standing orders that you are to be admitted to the Consul's quarters."

"On the hour, then." Joscelin bowed and left, taking Luc in tow.

I watched them leave.

"He's learned a measure of grace," Nicola observed, refilling our wine-cups and sitting back in her chair, relaxed and less formal now that we were alone.

"He likes you," I murmured into my wine. "I don't think he wanted to, but he does."

"And why not?" She gave her cat's-paw smile, like unto her cousin Barquiel's, but more subtle. "I'm likeable enough, after all."

"You are." I lifted my head and met her eyes. "Truly, I'm sorry to come to you like this, my lady. It was never my intent."

"Phedre." There was a mix of resignation and genuine affection in Nicola's voice. "Much as I would enjoy it, I never expected you to turn up on my doorstep on a pleasure-jaunt. I know what you are. I've known from the beginning, Kushiel's Chosen. It is folly, to make claim on one whom the gods have marked for their own. And unlike the others, I am no fool, to grasp at that which burns to the touch.

What you have given . . ." she raised one hand, palm upward, the garnet seal dangling at her wrist, "... I hold in an open hand."

It reminded me of Emile, closing his fist in the Cockerel; it reminded me of Hyacinthe's vision of Kushiel, holding a key and a diamond in his grasp. It reminded me that I had known too few people in my life with the courage and wisdom to hold that which they valued in an open hand. It reminded me of why I had commissioned Nicola L'Envers y Aragon's garnet seal to be made in the first place.

"You wear it," I said softly.

"Yes." She laughed. "Ah, Phedre! I always wear it. 'Tis the only one of its kind, after all. Aragonians may not know what that means. I do."

A cabochon garnet, as vivid a crimson as the mote in my left eye, bearing a single emblem carved in relief: a dart, exquisite in detail, from the sharp tip to the fine lines etched in its fletching.

Kushiel's Dart.

I have only ever given a lover's token once in my life, and that this seal, to the Lady Nicola. She was a patron, once; a friend, after. I have never forgotten that had I trusted to her advice, had I not been ruled by my suspicions, a good deal of harm would have been averted. It was at a time when Barquiel L'Envers and I were at cross-purposes to each other, both of us seeking Melisande Shahrizai, neither of us willing to believe the other. How Melisande must have laughed, safely ensconced in the Little Court of La Serenissima, watching us circle each other in mistrust! If we had shared information, if we had joined our forces, we would surely have found her sooner.

And my beloved chevaliers Fortun and Remy would not have died, nor many others besides. Imriel de la Courcel would not have been sent to the sanctuary of Elua, would not now be missing, stolen byslave-traders.

An outsider, exiled by marriage to the courts of Aragonia, Nicola had seen our folly. She had tried to tell me, though I would not hear it. And when I would not, she entrusted me with the sacred password of House L'Envers, the words which compelled aid in direst need. By the burning river . . .

Not even the Queen had broken with the protocol of her mother's House to trust me with those words.

Only Nicola. It taught me something I never learned elsewhere. And some eight years ago, I returned the favor, giving her that which I never gave any other.

"I am glad," I said aloud, "that you value it."

"Ah, well." Nicola turned the seal-bracelet absently on her slender wrist. "I am glad, my dear, that you do not regret it. I am passing fond of your Cassiline, too, but he is a jealous consort."

"Joscelin ..." I spread my hands, ". . . is Joscelin."

"Yes." She smiled. "And probably a worse torment to you than I could devise. Well, it must be hard on him, that you serve Melisande's will in this."

"Hard?" I pondered it, shaking my head. "Truly, Nicola, I'm not sure whose will I serve, anymore. What am I to make of it, when Melisande's will accords with Ysandre's? I am Naamah's Servant, twice-pledged-and yet Naamah has no role in this, none I can see. I am Kushiel's Chosen, yes, and Kushiel ..." I shuddered. "Kushiel is architect of this horror, if I am no fool. Do I serve his will to thwart it? I thought, when I began, that it was my own will I served, my sole true goal to free Hyacinthe, my friend."

"And now," Nicola murmured, "you are not so sure."

"No." I drained my wine-cup and set it down. "Now that I have spoken to the warders and companions and parents of children, innocent children, who have suffered for Kushiel's justice, I am not so sure, not so sure at all whom I serve. There is something at work here. I do not know what it is."

A lesser friend would have spoken easy words of comfort. Nicola didn't. "I can make no promises, Phedre. As you say, the trail is cold. But if it is to be found in Amilcar, Count Fernan's men will find it."

Her smile this time was grim. "I don't care if it serves Melisande Shah-rizai or the Khalif of Khebbel-im-Akkad. If there is trade in D'Angeline flesh going on in Amilcar, I will see it stopped."

"Thank you," I said simply.

Nicola shrugged. "This one needs no thanks. I have some influence. I am pleased to have a good reason to exercise it. They're few and far enough between as it is."

"Speaking of which ..." I eyed her. "Will I find Marmion Shahrizai in residence?"

"Marmion?" Nicola relaxed again, looking amused. "No, Lord Marmion stayed at court, attending on the King. He has carved out a place for himself, and anyway, we quarrel if we are in the same place over-long, he and I."

I will own, I was relieved to hear it. 'Twas Marmion Shahrizai who betrayed Melisande, many years ago, giving her over to Quincel de Morhban, sovereign Duc of Kusheth, who brought her in tow toTroyes-le-Monte. He paid for it in the end, for his ally, his sister Persia, had proved duplicitous, and Marmion had inadvertently-so he claimed-caused her death, his men-at-arms accidentally setting the fire that took her life. Whether or not it was true, I cannot say; of a surety, he was banished for it. I daresay House Shahrizai would have had his head, had not Nicola offered him sanctuary in Aragonia.

It was well-done, for whatever the truth of Marmion's crime, he had indeed been loyal to the Queen.

Still, I was glad not to have to face him.

It was enough to have one Shahrizai in my life again.

TWENTY-ONE.

In AN hour's time, I told the story all over again to the King's Consul, Nicola's husband.

Ramiro Zornin de Aragon was a minor lordling of the House of Aragon, and a drunkard in the bargain.

For all of that, I rather liked the man. He was good-natured and harmless, and capable of flashes of passion when prodded to it.

The rumor of Carthaginian slave-traders in Amilcar did just that.

I have no doubt Nicola would have urged him had it been necessary, but Lord Ramiro needed no prompting. Whether he liked a life of ease or no, he knew full well where his country's alliances lay, and knew too that his wife was cousin to the Queen of Terre d'Ange and his sons-two boys whom I never met-were half-D'Angeline themselves. By the time I'd finished the tale, he was already shouting for Count Fernan and the Captain of the Harbor Watch to be summoned.

It was rare, I gathered, for Ramiro to exercise the full authority of his role as King's Consul. He did it now, his narrow cheeks flushed with emotion, brown spaniel's eyes alight. Nicola watched him with affectionate pride; it had surprised me, when I first met him, that there was genuine fondness between them. In Terre d'Ange, she had spoken only of his shortcomings, but the bond went deeper than I had reckoned. Nicola was D'Angeline, after all, and no matter what the politics involved, none of Elua's children were likely to linger overlong in a loveless union.

And love takes many forms.

We had a hasty meal before the Count and his Captain of the Watch arrived, and then Fernan was there, black-bearded and broad-shouldered, slow to ire, but clearly unhappy at being summoned thusly by a man he regarded as the King's tame Consul. I saw him rethink the wisdom of it upon being introduced to me, and twice-over to meet Joscelin and Luc, the sons of Verreuil. Joscelin's cool Cassiline bow, crossed vambraces flashing, would have given pause to any man of sense, and Luc . . . bless his Siovalese heart, was an earnest specimen of all that is good and true in the old lines of D'Angeline country nobledom, with his wide-set blue eyes and his father's courtesies on his lips in hard-learned Aragonian.

In time, between us, we roused the Count to full-blown anger. It took some doing, for he was a large man and stolid with it, secure in his holdings and misliking this sudden insistence on the part of the King's Consul. But he was a proud man, too, and the implications of our news cut him to the quick.

"Carthaginians," Count Fernan rumbled, switching to Caerdicci, a tongue we all held in common. "Whatdo you say, Captain Vitor? Do we harbor Carthaginian slavers in Amilcar?"

Vitor Gaitan, Captain of the Harbor Watch, shrugged his shoulders. He was a lean man, with cheeks pitted by a childhood pox. "The lady's Tsingani may say so, but Tsingani lie. Give me your leave, my lord Count, and I will tell you ere daybreak."

"My leave." Count Fernan pounded one massive fist on the table. "My leave! By Mithra, you have my leave to turn Amilcar upside down!"

So it was done.

We rode out, that night, to see it done. Nicola, reckoning it folly to observe the rude proceedings, would have no part in it-and I did not blame her. It was an unpleasant business. Still, I had set it in motion, and I felt I should bear witness to it. Let us see, I thought grimly, how much bitter truth there is in the words of the lady's Tsingani; mayhap the Aragonians will not be so quick to condemn Hyacinthe's folk one day. We went with Lord Ramiro and an escort of his guards, as well as Jean-Richarde and Donan, the men-at-arms of Verreuil.

It was a night streaked with torchlight and steel, the air filled with the tang of salt water and the protests of desperate men. Captain Vitor's troops were ungentle, travelling in mass, rousting ship after ship in the harbor, turning out the inhabitants of dockside inns and flophouses and putting them to question at sword's-point.

I sat astride my steady mare, shuddering as three members of the Harbor Watch took to clubbing a poor Carthaginian sailor about the head and shoulders with the pommels of their swords on suspicion of lying. "My lady!" he shouted with a blood-reddened mouth, catching sight of me. "Gracious lady, I cry you mercy!"

Would that I had not understood the pidgin Aragonian he spoke- but I did. My ear was good enough for that. I turned my head and looked away, murmuring to Lord Ramiro, "Can they not question him more gently?"

To his credit, the King's Consul looked ill, though not so ill as Luc. "I've invoked Count Fernan's aid, Comtesse. I must let him proceed as he sees fit." He raised a silver flask and took a healthy swig of brandy, then passed it to me. "Here. It helps."

So we watched, and the methods of Captain Vitor and the Harbor Watch, brutal though they were, proved effective. One rumor, gasped from a split-lipped Carthaginian mouth, led to another. Under duress, an unspoken code of silence crumbled. Members of the Watch converged from every vector, bearing blood-stained scraps of gossip and hearsay. There was a man-no, two men, or three-who rented lodgings in the mean alleys, Carthaginians, yes, of a surety, eking out rent in copper coins, known to have met with the Menekhetan slaver Fadil Chouma, yes, known to buy opium in significant amounts .

Among all of us, I daresay it was Joscelin who bore the investigation with the most composure. While I averted my eyes and Luc leaned over his mount, retching, and the men of Verreuil breathed hard and grew pale, and Lord Ramiro gulped at his flask, Joscelin's features were set with Cassiline stoicism.

I had seen him look thus in the early days, when he escorted me to assignations.

By the time dawn broke sullen and grey, the smiling dolphins breaching in the harbor, blowing spumefrom their blowholes, Captain Vitor Gaitan had his answer. He grinned like a wolf as he led his men through the twisting alleys, his eyes gleaming above his pock-marked cheeks. A blowsy woman emerged on a second-story balcony, shrieking protests and imprecations as his men lent their shoulders to the door below. The Harbor Watch ignored her, heaving to with all their muscle. The lock burst, flimsy wood splintering around it.

We sat our mounts in the alley, watching as two Carthaginian men were shoved out into the grey light of dawn, blinking with shock and dishevelment, shackled half-unawares. Captain Vitor strode toward us.

"My lord," he said in Aragonian, bowing to Ramiro. "My lady."

He turned to me, and I saw in his fierce, pitted face a father's fury. "You will want to see this."

Needing no translation, I slid down from my mount, Joscelin an unthinking half-step behind me, following with his hands on his daggers as I raised my skirts and stepped across the threshold.

Inside, it was dark, and stank of cabbage and near-spoiled meat. There was a table and chairs, a few personal effects in the front room, an empty jug of wine tipped on its side. A member of the Harbor Watch sidled past me, a torch raised high. I saw the back room it illuminated, shrouded in darkness, reeking like a kennel. Two pairs of eyes, low to the ground, reflected the torchlight. I gasped, unable to help myself.

They were children, two of them, their fine-boned features marking them clearly as D'Angeline. A boy and a girl, ten or twelve at most. They clung to one another, scrabbling in the urine-fouled straw given them for bedding, pale-skinned with lack of sun, the irises of their eyes swallowed in the vast, dilated blackness of their pupils.

Behind me, I heard Joscelin utter a curse like it was a prayer.

Ignoring him, I knelt slowly, letting the skirts of my riding gown fall heedless over the filthy straw.

"Agnette ecot?" I asked softly, keeping my gaze on the girl's face. I had seen, in her hollow eyes, her hungry cheekbones, an echo of the dairy-crofter's wife.

Pushing herself into the corner as hard as she dared, the girl nodded slowly; once, twice. Yes. The boy, younger, sought to press himself behind her, ducking his head, a tangle of hair like autumn oak-leaves falling over his brow.

Whoever he was, he was not Imriel de la Courcel.

"Agnette," I said in steady D'Angeline. "My name is Phedre. I was sent to find you. These men are your friends." Sitting on my heels, I extended one hand to her. "You're safe now. Will you come out?"

A pause, then a flurry in the shadows, two heads shaking, lank hair flying, scrambling fear and mistrust.

Joscelin took a step past me, squatting in the straw, the torchlight gleaming red on his polished vambraces. "Do you see these? No one will harm you further," he said, his voice flat and dispassionate.

"In Cassiel's name, I swear it on pain of death."

With a sound like a sob, Agnette ecot flung herself at him, burying her face against his chest, slender limbs clinging to him monkeylike. Joscelin rose, straightening, with the girl in his arms, his head brushing the low rafters as he carried her out. "Come," I said to the strange boy, my heart breaking at his wideeyed terror at being left behind. He took my hand in a death-grip, letting me lead him from the Carthaginians' lodgings. No sooner had we reached the grey dawn-light of the alley than Luc stepped forth, his face haggard and drawn, and the boy fixed on him with a wordless cry, catching him about the waist, seeing somewhat he recognized in his kind, Siovalese features.

I stood in the street, my arms empty.