Joscelin bowed to her, his forearms crossed. "It is. Do you send to Verreuil, I give my word that my family's discretion will equal our own."

"I doubted it not." The Queen looked at me. "What will you do now?"

"Now?" I squared my shoulders against the burden of it. "I have some few things to be done in the City, my lady. There is a Yeshuite scholar I would consult, and some others. Then ..." I drew a breath. "Then we ride to La Serenissima. I have a promise to fulfill, and a name to garner. Elua willing, we will be in Iskandria not long after Lord Trente."

"I thought as much." Ysandre's expression softened. "Ah, Phedre! If you must do this thing, must you do it on Melisande's terms? Surely a courier could bear the news, and some other guide be found. I will not demand it of you, but Blessed Elua knows, if you are going to Iskandria, I would be passing glad to have your presence at Amaury's side. What do you owe Melisande, that you must deliver this news yourself?"

It caught me out; I'd not expected the offer, nor the question. They were looking at me, all of them, awaiting my answer. I felt my heart beat, slow and thudding, in my breast, the blood beating in my ears.

"I don't know," I said. My voice sounded small. I raised my hand unthinking, reaching for the diamond that no longer hung at my throat. "Forgive me, my lady, but I truly don't."

"So be it." Ysandre sighed. "You are bound on this quest to free the Tsingano?"

I nodded mutely.

"And you will go with her?" She bent her gaze on Joscelin.

"I have sworn it." His voice was flat.

Ysandre raised her brows. "Is there aught I may do to aid you in it?"

Joscelin shook his head. "Pray for us, your majesty."

"Wait. There is one thing." I met Drustan's eyes. "You will return to Alba come autumn? And Sibeal with you?"

"We will," he said slowly, catching the shape of my thought. "You think that the Master of the Straits will hear her?"

"I think he will." I swallowed. "They are seers alike, Anasztaizia's son and Necthana's daughter. I didn't understand it, when we met on the waters; her dream, that is. I see more clearly, now. If you ... if you do not seek to land, but only to converse, I think he will allow it. And I might give her a message to bear. It is a long road, truly. We will be a year and more upon it. A word of hope ... it might help him to endure."

"Speak with Sibeal," said Drustan mab Necthana. "If it be her will, I will see it done."

TWENTY-FIVE.

I MET with Sibeal, Drustan's sister, in the Royal Mews.

There had been, I gathered, no few offers of lover's tokens or of marriage for the Cruarch of Alba's sister during her time in Terre d'Ange. Insofar as I heard, Sibeal had refused them all, with a serene grace against which no one could take offense. Instead, she preferred to spend her time in the unlikeliest of pursuits.

Currently, it was visiting the mews.

The Head Falconer, a slight, dark man with the aquiline features of his own charges, clearly adored her.

He watched with doting eyes as she assumed the duty of feeding the fledglings, carrying a basket filled with gobbets of meat. Awkward and still partially down-feathered, the young birds craned their heads toward her with beaks parted, maws agape.

"Drustan said you wished to see me," Sibeal said in her soft Cruithne accent, setting down the basket.

"Yes." A bell rang beside my right ear, on the jesses of a perched hawk as it roused, then preened. I sidled to my left. "I have a message for Hyacinthe."

Her dark eyes were calm and unsurprised. "And you wish . . . ?"

"I wish you to bear it for me," I said firmly. The Head Falconer, clucking, hurried past me with gauntleted arm extended, untying the hawk's jesses and coaxing it onto his arm. It was not my choice of venue, but I had little time to waste.

"I do not think," Sibeal said reflectively, "the Master of the Straits wishes to let any vessel draw nigh."

"He'll let yours." I kept a wary eye on the hawk as the Head Falconer eased it onto a distant perch near the doorway onto the courtyard. "Unless I miss my guess."

"He might." The words were murmured, her head bowed. "I cannot say."

"You love him." I made the words blunt. It cost me, to say it; more than I had reckoned. It struck home in my own heart, and I saw her head rise, eyes startled. "He's D'Angeline, Sibeal, Tsingano or no. Love as thou wilt. I saw it, on Alba, all those years ago."

"Moiread." She breathed her sister's name; youngest of them all, slain in battle in Alba these many years gone by, a loss still grieved. "It was Moiread who made his heart glad. He might have loved her, and she him. Who can say? There was you, then and now. And I, I am only ..."

"Alive." I said. "Alive, and in love. Well and so, Sibeal, we too are sisters in this, for he is dear to my heart. But Moiread is dead, and I ... I have a long road to follow. Hyacinthe will understand that, if anyone will. Tell him I walk the Lungo Drom on his behalf, Joscelin and I. He was right about that. He saw it before I did. Tell him . . . tell him I go seeking the Name of God. Will you do that for me?"

"Yes. If he will allow it, I will tell him." Sibeal extended a hand toward one of the fledglings, stroking its half-grown plumage with one slender brown finger. "They are called eyasses, did you know? The young birds. Eyasses. It is a lovely word, I think." "It is." I thought of the acolyte Liliane at the sanctuary of Elua, and our mounts following her in a line. I thought of the Battle of Bryn Gorrydum, where Moiread had died, and the black boar that had burst from the treeline there, giving the element of surprise into the hands of Drustan's forces. Truly, there were things in this world beyond my understanding. "Thank you, Sibeal."

"Come back." Her dark, visionary's eyes held mine. "It is what he would ask of you. However far you go, whether you find what you seek or no. Whatever is to become of us all. Come back."

A shiver brushed my skin, a touch of magic that was ancient when Elua was young. Earth's Eldest Children, they call themselves; barbarians, Drustan might jest, but they are older than we. "I will try," I promised, bowing my head to Necthana's daughter and taking my leave.

Joscelin was awaiting me in the courtyard-the weathering yard, the falconers call it, where the birds are trained on long lines. He had padding wrapped about his vambraced forearm, a peregrine's talons biting deep into the leather as one of the Head Falconer's apprentices instructed him. "Phedre!" He grinned, hoisting the bird to display it. "What do you think? Shall we build a mews at Montreve?"

"Elua willing." I stood back a healthy distance, regarding the peregrine's fierce, round eye, its raptor's beak. I had seen that look on my patrons; I did not need to endure it from a bird. "We may build a bestiary, if you like, providing we return in one piece. Are you ready?"

With some reluctance, Joscelin returned the peregrine unto its keeper, and we departed. It was only one of several meetings I had arranged prior to our leave-taking, and 'twas the next I dreaded the most.

I have learned, in my trade and in my life, to deal with monarchs and their kin, with seers and scholars, priests and pirates alike. But if there is one person capable of striking fear into my heart, it is my couturiere, Favrielle no Eglantine.

To be sure, she owed me a debt of gratitude; and never let me forget for an instant that it was a most unwelcome debt, no matter how much she prized the end result-which was, indeed, her freedom and her fame. If I had not paid the price of her marque to Eglantine House, she would have toiled in obscurity long into her middle years. Well and so; I do not think it was such a terrible thing to have done!

Nonetheless, Favrielle misliked the burden of gratitude.

"Short notice," she said in the antechamber of her salon. "What a surprise, Comtesse." As if I'd not gone to the trouble of making an appointment. "Are you in need of a gown for the Queen's piquet tournament, or is it some new patron you must now impress?"

"Neither." I strove to be gracious, ignoring Joscelin's suppressed laughter. "It's naught that requires your personal attention. I need two riding outfits, nothing more, fit for long travel."

"Nothing more." Favrielle no Eglantine raised her brows, red-gold, like her mop of curls and the freckles sprinkled across her impish nose. On anyone else, it would have looked charming; Favrielle managed to convey unspeakable disdain. "All the world looks to Terre d'Ange to set the mode of fashion, and all Terre d'Ange looks to the City of Elua. And in the City of Elua, everyone looks to Phedre no Delaunay, the Comtesse de Montreve, because they know I clothe you, on the road no less than in the ballroom. Do not presume to tell me, Comtesse, what does and does not require my personal attention. So. Where do you travel?"

"La Serenissima and Menekhet," I said humbly. "And afterward, Jebe-Barkal." "Jebe-Barkal!" It took her by surprise, but only for an instant. Favrielle's green eyes narrowed in thought. "You'll want somewhat light in weight, then, and none too close-fitting, but sturdy enough to wear. Light colors, too, but naught that will show the stain of travel." She nodded decisively. "Come. I'll show you some fabrics."

Casting a backward glance at Joscelin, I followed Favrielle into the depths of her salon; two floors, it occupied now, an entire building in the clothiers' district. The building, she owned outright. Her staff of drapers and cutters and embroiderers, seamstresses and tailors, watched us with amusement and an obvious fondness for the irascible mistress of their salon.

In the end, I chose two fabrics-a saffron wool, fine-carded and light as a cloud, and a raw silk of pale celadon green.

"You can wear it," Favrielle said critically, holding a length of the bolt near my face. "Although it's not your best color." She surveyed me, scarred lip curling. "I suppose I'll need to take your measurements anew?"

"They've not changed since you measured me last," I said with some heat.

"If you say so." Her eyebrows rose again. I sighed, and let her measure me anew, standing patient as the knotted cord was wrapped around my breast, waist and hips. Favrielle made notations on a piece of foolscap.

"Well?" I asked.

Head averted beneath the tumbled mass of red-gold curls, she hid a smile. "It seems your measurements are unchanged, Comtesse."

"I told you as much."

"You did." Without lifting her head, Favrielle made a rough sketch of riding attire in a series of swift, elegant lines. "This is what I'm thinking, do you see? Conventional, but with a looseness of drape that affords better motion and permits the flow of air. And an overgarment, broad-sleeved and hooded, that will keep off the sun's glare or the night's chill. Will it suit?"

"Yes." I looked at her handiwork and sighed. "Beautifully. How soon can you have it done?"

"Come back in two days for a final fitting." She sketched a fine border of embroidery, then looked up at me. The indirect light caught the genuine curiosity in her green eyes, showed plainly the scar tissue that twisted her upper lip. If not for that, Favrielle would have been an adept of Eglantine House, a Servant of Naamah in her own right. "Why Jebe-Barkal?"

"Because," I said. "There is somewhat I must do there. It is a debt I owe a friend."

"A debt." She cocked her head, lip curling. "You're very keen on debts, Comtesse."

Anger born of long frustration blossomed within me, and I met her gaze with a level stare. "Mock me if you will, but you are of Eglantine House, Favrielle, and trained there nigh to adept status. You know the art of telling tales as well as that of draping cloth; it was you who told me the story of Naamah's daughter Mara, the first anguissette. Do you know the tale of how a Tsingano half-breed called the Prince ofTravellers became the Master of the Straits?"

For once, Favrielle no Eglantine's regard held something in it that saw me as a fellow mortal being, and not an inconvenience and an unpleasant reminder of an unwanted favor. "I know it," she said softly. "I have heard it told."

"Well." I ran a length of cloth-of-gold between my fingers. "It is not ended. And that is why I must go to Jebe-Barkal."

"So." She bent over her drawing, adding an unnecessary fillip of embellishment. "Two days. And,"

Favrielle looked up, eyes gleaming, "you might pay a visit to the marquist, Comtesse. You've need of a good limning."

In her own infuriating way, Favrielle was right, of course; 'twas on my list of things to be accomplished ere we departed for La Serenissima. I thought on it with amusement and annoyance as I lay on the limning-table in the marquist's shop. It was an exquisite torture, the keen, ink-dipped needles piercing my skin, rendering the lines of my marque clean and bold. Whatever claim Kushiel may have on me-and it is a prodigious one-I am Naamah's Servant too, twice-pledged of my own volition. It would not do to set out on a journey of this magnitude with my marque ill-tended.

When it was finished, I regarded myself in the mirror of the marquist's well-heated shop, gazing over my shoulder. It was well done. The black-thorn vine designed by Master Robert Tielhard was immaculate against my fair skin, twining the length of my spine, accented by crimson petals. The marquist bowed, honoring the work more than the wearer. I paid him generously nonetheless. The Marquists' Guild tithes to the Temple of Naamah. A gift to one was a gift to the other.

Naamah, I prayed silently, do not forget your Servant.

There was a good deal more to be done, and much of it dull and prosaic. I met with my factor, Jacques Brenin, to discuss my finances. We agreed on arrangements for the coming year-which is to say, I acceded to his suggestions, which were always good-and he gave me promissory notes for the Banco Tribune in La Serenissima and a money-lending house he knew by repute in Iskandria.

I paid a visit, by day and sober, to Emile in Night's Doorstep. To him I gave my heartfelt thanks, and a purse of gold coin, which he made to refuse. "No." I closed his fingers over the purse. "Keep it, Emile.

Half for yourself, or the Didikani of the City if you wish, and half for Kristof, Oszkar's son. Let it be known that it is out of gratitude, in honor of Hyacinthe, Anasztaizia's son. I ask nothing in return but silence."

"Tsingani do not meddle in gadje affairs," Emile said automatically, then grinned. "Not those who walk the Lungo Drom, any mind. So you found the missing prince?"

"I found his trail," I said. "And I will cross it again, Elua willing. But my duty is done to the best of my ability. It is Hyacinthe's quest I undertake now."

TWENTY-SIX.

On THE following day, I was no less idle, meeting with Audine Davul at the City Academy and listening spellbound as she told me aught that she might of Jebe-Barkal. In my ignorance, I had conceived of itsolely as a desert land, like unto the Umaiyyat; but there were mountains, she assured me, and valleys dense with foliage, vast inland lakes and one of the most spectacular waterfalls in existence.

Our journey, as best I could guess, would take us through all these terrains and more.

"Show no weakness," Audine Davul cautioned Joscelin and me alike. "They are a proud folk, and capable of great generosity and great cruelty alike. These descendents of Shalomon of whom you speak-I know nothing of them save what is told in story. But in the north . . . Jebeans are jealous of their pride. Give every courtesy, and never reveal fear."

We thanked her, and Joscelin bowed deeply. I tried to imagine him showing fear, and failed. Then I remembered him in the hut in Waldemar Selig's steading where he had wished to die, enchained, his hands raw with chilblains, lank-haired and wild-eyed.

All things are possible.

Even the worst of things.

I'd made a fair-copy of Audine's translation of the Jebean scroll upon our return to the City of Elua and had it sent to Eleazar ben Enokh, my favorite Yeshuite scholar. It was upon Eleazar that I intended to call that afternoon-and I will own, it was an encounter I anticipated with some excitement. Ten years of my life I'd given to the pursuit of the Name of God. To be sure, I was a long way from finding it, but I looked forward to hearing Eleazar's thoughts with a scholar's arcane passion.

"I'll send the carriage back for you," Joscelin promised, dropping a kiss upon my brow. His mouth quirked in a half-smile. "I am eager to hear the shortened version of Rebbe Eleazar's impressions. I fear the full might of them would be too much for Cassiel's simple servant to endure."

"Liar," I said affectionately. He laughed and took his leave.

Within, I found Eleazar aquiver with excitement, sitting cross-legged on his prayer mats and slapping his bony knees, the translated Kefra Neghast on the floor in front of him. "Phedre no Delaunay!" he exclaimed. "What a treasure you have found! Come, and let us share our thoughts on this matter."

I took my place opposite him, kneeling, and opened the original scroll with its painted illustrations, weighting it carefully at the corners. "You think there is merit in it, father?"

"Merit, of a surety. It is a tale, is it not?" He shrugged. "You ask if it is true. Who can say? You must go and see for yourself."

"But you think it may be so."

Eleazar ben Enokh paused, then nodded. "I think it may be so, at least in part. Trade and war alike existed between the Habiru nation and Jebe-Barkal in the old days. This Queen, Makeda- " he pointed at the parchment, " -it is not impossible. Shalomon had many wives, including Pharaoh's daughter. The ring ..." He tapped his lower teeth in absent thought. "Folklore says it bore the Name of God, and with it Shalomon commanded demons to build the Temple. What is the grain of truth at the heart of that pearl, eh? Perhaps with the ring of his father's authority, Melek al'Hakim commanded the architect Khiram, whose father was of the Tribe of Dan. His mother . . . ah!" His brown eyes glinted. "Perhaps she followed other faiths, yes? And Khiram's workmen also? Worshipping Asherat-of-the-Sea, and Baal of the high places." "Mayhap," I said slowly. It made sense, though I was reluctant to own it. "Then you think it is a myth, no more?"

"Shalomon's Ring." Eleazar's voice softened, growing kinder. "Forgive me, for your scroll poses answers to mighty questions, and in my joy, I forget they are not the answers you seek. If you ask me, do I believe in my heart that Shalomon's Ring was inscribed with the Name of God . . . the answer is no, Phedre no Delaunay. I do not believe it. I have sought too long on the paths of prayer to believe the Word is writ on a mere gem." He leaned forward, touching the diamond of the Companion's Star on my breast. "Here is etched the sigil of Elua, yes? It commands a mighty boon. But it is a human token, no less and no more, and it is the Queen who must answer to it, and not Blessed Elua himself. This I know to be true. So, I believe, of Shalomon's Ring."

I closed my hand over the brooch and stared at the scroll. "Then you do not believe this Melek al'Hakim carried away the Name of God?"

Eleazar shook his head. "I do not say this. There are paths of prayer the Children of Yisra-el have forgotten. It may be that Melek al'Hakim and the Tribe of Dan remember. And there is this," he added, indicating a line.

' . . . and Melek al'Hakim was anointed by Zadok the priest, Melek-Zadok he became, and with Khiram son of Khiram and his people who were of Dan, and twenty of the Tribe of Levi, that is, Aaron's line, they did despoil the Temple of Shalomon of its vessels and treasures, and fled amid the strife to Menekhet,' " I read aloud, then sat back on my heels. "What do you make of it, father?"

"Whatever Melek al'Hakim took with him, he had the priesthood's blessing," Eleazar said simply. "I do not know. Perhaps it was the Name of God. What other treasure is worth protecting more?"

"The Temple was built to house the Signs of the Covenant," I said.

"Yes." Eleazar nodded. "Moishe's Tablets, Aaron's Rod, and a jar of manna. So it is written, and it is written that the Ark which held them was taken to the mountains and hidden in the time of Judah Maccabeus." He shrugged. "Perhaps it is so. If it is, it has passed beyond mortal knowledge. But this object..." He pointed to the Jebean scroll, the original, where two men carried a cloth-covered chest on long poles. "It is shrouded, yes. And yet to my eyes, it looks very like that Ark which is described in the Tanakh. Do you not discern, here, the outline of two cherubim, facing one another?"

I squinted at it. "It may be so."