"It is well known," Nesmut offered helpfully, "that such things happen."

By this turn of the conversation, I gauged it time and more that we returned to Metriche's inn to confer with Amaury Trente. Indeed, Nesmut was filled with plans and ideas for undertaking his quest, and nothing loathe to part company for the day. We settled our account with the proprietor and Nesmut led us out the door of the beer-shop . . . only to stop dead in his tracks, one slender, brown hand flung into our path.

"Skotophagotis!" he hissed, flattening himself against the wall of the shop and urgently gesturing for us to do the same. Joscelin's daggers rang free of their sheaths and he went into an automatic crouch. Caught behind the two, I peered over their shoulders.

At the end of the street, which intersected a canal, a lone figure stood, clad in loose black robes, illuminated in the slanting afternoon sunlight. The sunlight glinted oddly upon his head, though I could not make out why; either his skull was shaved and oiled, or he wore some manner of curious cap. He paused, glancing this way and that, before proceeding, picking his way with a long steel-shod staff topped with an obsidian ball.

Nesmut sighed and relaxed as the figure moved out of sight, lowering his arm.

"Skotophagotis?" I said quizzically, even as Joscelin straightened and sheathed his daggers. It was Hellene, but no word I knew. "Eater-of-darkness?"

"Gracious lady." Nesmut shuddered all over. "Do not ask me. These things are known. Do not look on the Queen's portrait, lest the stone crack for envy. Do not cross the shadow of a Skotophagotis, lest you die before sunrise. Come, I will take you to Kyria Maharet's."

It must be, I thought, some priest of Serapis, the god of the dead. They are much obsessed with death, the Menekhetans, and spend a good deal of their lives in preparation for it. It was a cleverness of the Ptolemaic Dynasty to unite this worship with that of Dis, the Hellene deity. Now, I daresay, not even theruling descendants of Hellas knew where one began and the other ended. They have become more Menekhetan than they reckoned, the Ptolemies. How not, in a thousand and a half years? But I, I had endured the mysteries of the Temenos on the isle of Kriti, and I knew some little bit about the living worship of its eldest scions.

Well and so; mayhap Serapis was like unto my lord Kushiel, who once maintained the brazen portals of hell for the One God of the Yeshuites. If it was so, I thought guiltily, I owed him a prayer. Only I was still wroth with Kushiel, the pattern of whose justice I had yet to decipher. If there was a greater purpose at work, I could not discern it.

With such thoughts did I occupy my mind until we returned to the Street of Oranges, and Nesmut remanded us unto the hospitality of the lady Maharet, or Metriche, as she would have it. He left us with promises to return in the morning, and with that I had to be content, wondering if my lord Delaunay had felt the same misgivings when I departed, full of cheer, to some violent assignation.

I'd have felt the same with Hyacinthe, if I'd known where the Lungo Drom, the Long Road of the Tsingani, would lead him. But I had been younger then, and more ignorant.

"You know who he reminds me of?" Joscelin asked as Nesmut took his leave, his quick grin flashing in the gathering twilight.

"Yes," I said softly. "I know."

"Well." He regarded me. "We need to talk to Amaury Trente."

At the dinner-table that evening, we found Lord Amaury full of his conversation with Ambassador de Penfars. There were, it seemed, numerous candidates for Pharaoh's most dangerous enemy, but Raife Laniol's favored contestant was one General Hermodorus; a cousin, it transpired, through the Ptolemaic bloodlines, and eligible for the throne should it suddenly become vacant.

"Comte Raife suggests," Amaury informed me, "that you and messire Joscelin might call upon the General, my lady. We cannot, without giving offense to Pharaoh, but you might. If it is remarked upon by the aristocracy, they will suppose that you are rivals to our mission, come to court Pharaoh's opponents."

"We will send a letter of introduction on the morrow, my lord," I said. "My lord Trente, I have heard another theory proposed today, from a Menekhetan source."

"Oh?" he inquired.

I saw the Lady Denise Fleurais, who had spoken of the divide between Menekhetan and Hellene society, take notice. And I saw too that the Menekhetan servant who hovered with a tray of fish was the same who'd attended us last night, lingering with the beer-jug. We had been speaking, in company, in D'Angeline. I continued in the same tongue without altering my tone. "My lord," I said, "there is a serpent in the corner."

A full half the company heard and startled, turning to stare; Joscelin was on his feet in an instant, a dagger in his hand, reversed for the throw. I kept my eyes on the Menekhetan and saw that he did not react to my words but looked instead at the reactions of our party, slow and perplexed, before glancing around.

It paid to be cautious. "What serpent?" Amaury Trente asked, half-risen from his seat and irritable. "Which corner?"

"Forgive, my lord," I said. "I thought I saw somewhat in the shadows, and ..." I nodded imperceptibly toward the Menekhetan, "... I needed to be sure."

Amaury sat, comprehension dawning. Melisande was right; he was not a subtle man. Then again, it is an eternal failing of those born to the peerage, forgetting that those who attend them hand and foot have eyes and ears and minds that think. Joscelin shook his head, sheathing his daggers and returning. I waited until the rest of our company was seated.

"It is believed among the folk of the city," I said in a low voice, "that Pharaoh has taken the boy for his own and plays a game of concealment."

It hadn't occurred to them; I saw it in their faces. I couldn't fault them for it. It hadn't occurred to me, either. If Amaury Trente was not subtle, he was no fool, either. He grasped the ramifications quickly enough, his expression somber.

"If it's so, we've lost the lad," he said grimly. "Ptolemy Dikaios could never own to it. And we've played our hand too close to the vest to threaten to renege on the deal over a mere slave-boy." He shook his head. "Ysandre was clear on that much. She doesn't want the boy's identity known. If we let slip his importance . . . Elua! He's a walking target, and she doesn't have the means to protect him. And if someone were to use him against her ..."

"I know, my lord," I said. "Believe me, I do. I am doing what I can to learn if the rumor is true."

"And if it is ... ?" It was the Lady Denise Fleurais who dared to ask it.

I looked squarely at her. "We will do whatever is needful. Naamah's Servants have always known that there are ways into any palace, and what was stolen, may be stolen back. If Pharaoh has not admitted the gain, he cannot acknowledge the loss."

"How would you-" Lord Amaury began to ask, then cut his words short. "No, never mind. We will speak of it later, if it comes to it."

"Thank you, my lord." I inclined my head to him.

Amaury sighed and fixed his brooding gaze upon Joscelin and I. "I'll speak to Raife Laniol again tomorrow and see if he thinks this rumor may have merit. Say what you will, Comtesse, but trouble seems to follow you like a lover, you and messire Cassiline here."

Neither of us disagreed.

It was not until we were in bed that night that Joscelin spoke of it.

"What if it comes to it, Phedre?" he asked, leaning on one elbow and gazing down at me. "Would you accept an assignation if needs be to gain access to Pharaoh's seraglio? Is it worth so much to you to see Melisande's son safe?"

I played with a lock of his hair, avoiding his shadowed gaze. I had not told him, yet, that I had made her a promise. With all that lay between us, all of us, it was too hard to say. "There need not be anassignation made in truth. It may be only a matter of convincing Pharaoh's attendants one such exists. I'd try that route first."

"And if more is required?" he asked softly.

"I don't know." I met his gaze, then. I had to. "Joscelin, he's a child. You saw the ones we rescued in Amilcar. This will be worse, much worse. Does it matter whose son he is? Naamah lay down in the stews of Bhodistan with common men when Blessed Elua hungered.

Should I- " my voice broke, "-should I scruple at less?" He was silent for a moment, then shook his head. "No." "It would fall to you to get him out whole and safe," I said. "By whatever means."

Joscelin smiled. "Do you doubt me?"

"No," I said fervently, wrapping both arms about his neck. I didn't, either. He had come for me on La Dolorosa, the prison-fortress no one could assail. Joscelin had done it, crawling beneath the underside of a bridge. If it came to it, freeing Imriel de la Courcel from Pharaoh's Palace was as naught to that. "Not for an instant."

"Then we are agreed." He lowered his head to kiss me. I held him hard, praying it was so.

THIRTY-THREE.

NESMUT CAME in the morning and informed us that the word had been spread and his contacts were keeping a sharp lookout in the Palace of Pharaohs. A friend of his mother's-the laundress-had a daughter who was responsible for polishing silver and gilt fretwork lamps within the Palace, and thought she might be able to secure an assignment within the concubines' quarters. Nesmut was bubbling over with excitement, scarce able to contain himself.

I cautioned him again in the strongest language I could muster, watching his eyes glaze even as he nodded obedience. Joscelin added his warnings to mine with a different emphasis, touching the hilts of his daggers and reminding Nesmut that we would know who to blame if our search was discovered. I daresay the lad took his words more seriously, looking warily at Joscelin.

It would have been amusing, had I not been so worried; like as not, Joscelin would sooner cut off his own hand than harm the lad, but Nesmut had no way of knowing it. And I must own, Joscelin could look quite dangerous when he had a mind to. Ten years as my consort hadn't dulled the edge of that implacable Cassiline discipline.

We sent Nesmut on his way with a bulging purse of coin; mostly coppers, and a few silver obols. He left at a trot, grinning broadly and fingering his jangling purse. I shook my head, feeling heavy-hearted, and went to pen a letter of introduction to General Hermodorus and his wife.

Afterward, since there was naught I could accomplish elsewhere, I accompanied the Lady Denise Fleurais on an excursion to the baths.

There are a good many bath-houses in Iskandria, and this one was recommended by our hostess Metriche as a suitable one, frequented by women of the middle aristocracy. It was built in the Tiberian style, with separate pools of water-cool, tepid and steaming hot. 'Twas a different world, there, from the one I had glimpsed with Nesmut yesterday. Here, there were no men save the attendants, quiet and unobtrusive. It was filled with women, young and old, chattering voices raised in a mixture of Hellene and the occasional word of Menekhetan. We bade the carriage-driver to wait and paid our fee, entering the bath-house. A bowing attendant handed us each a thick cotton towel and robes of fine-spun linen at the door to the changing-room.

It is the Tiberian fashion to commence in the cold waters of the frigidarium; a custom I have always found unnecessarily rigorous. We went straight to the caldarium, with its vast pool. It was here that the majority of patrons lingered. Conversation did not exactly cease as Denise Fleurais and I entered the heated bathing-chamber, but there was a lull, followed by a murmur of resumption. Looking at Denise, I could understand why. Her intelligent face had a high-boned beauty, and even wreathed in steam, her hazel eyes shone. The careless grace with which she had piled her hair atop her head, the way an errant lock coiled over one shoulder as she removed her robe . . .

We were D'Angeline. It was enough.

The tiles, emblazoned with fish, were slick beneath my bare feet, heated beneath by an unseen hypocaust. I slipped the robe from my shoulders and descended the steps into the steaming water, ignoring a collective gasp as I did so.

"It is your marque, Comtesse." Sinking into the bath with a sigh of pleasure, the Lady Denise glanced at me with heavy-lidded amusement. "They've not seen the likes of you before."

Betimes I forgot it myself.

A pair of Menekhetan noblewomen, giggling, dared one another to approach us. The braver of the two drifted near, addressing us in excellent Hellene. "Kyria," she said. "My friend and I, we were debating. Is it customary for D'Angeline women to . . ." she pointed at me with her chin, "... to so adorn themselves?"

I opened my mouth to reply, but Denise answered for me. "It is the marque of Naamah, who is our goddess of pleasure," she said with candour. "And the Comtesse Phedre no Delaunay de Montreve is sworn to her service. Do you not have such things in Menekhet?"

"No!" blurted the shy one of the pair, and they dissolved in laughter, clutching at one another. "It is true, then?" she asked. "Your gods demand you do service . . ." her voice dropped, ". . . in the bedchamber?"

I raised my eyebrows and looked at Denise.

"Oh, yes," she said blandly. "But only the most noble and beautiful, such as my lady Phedre. You can see, can you not, that she is fit to serve only princes and kings?"

It seemed they could, from the merriment that ensued. One, greatly daring, asked if she might touch it; if one might, they all must. I endured it with good grace, standing waist-deep in the steaming water as tentative hands stroked my skin, tracing the elegant black lineaments etched the length of my spine, the cunning crimson accents. It is a unique torment for an anguissette.

"It feels no different!" the bold one said in astonishment. "I thought it would be raised, like a scar . . .

Auntie, come here, feel, her skin is like silk," she added before switching to Menekhetan, beckoning to a veritable grandmother with wizened breasts and bright, curious eyes. All of them crowded round me, oohing and prodding. "For this, you brought me here?" I asked Denise Fleurais.

"My mother was an adept of Bryony House," she said in D'Angeline, head bobbing low above the water, giving me her shrewd smile. "Amaury Trente may not care to guess how you might gain access to Pharaoh's quarters, but I can. If you mean to bring your Cassiline, you'll need to allay suspicion and let it be known it is a pearl of great price you bestow, worthy of guarding with the utmost care. To gain the upper hand in any trade, it is best to establish an outrageous value at the outset."

"Ah." I turned to face my admirers, inclining my head politely; curiosity satisfied, they acknowledged the tacit dismissal and withdrew, laughing and splashing as they went. "I have not made that decision," I said to Denise. "It would be premature to consider it."

"To decide, yes." She shrugged, cream-white shoulders rising from the waters. "Not to lay the foundations." She regarded me through the steam. "Her majesty assigned me to this delegation because I am skilled in matters of trade," Denise Fleurais said quietly. "Whatever transpires, she would not have the Cruarch of Alba make a bad bargain for her sake. And yet it is a merchant's gift to know the secret desire of her client's heart, and her majesty wants the boy, Imriel, restored to his place. I know this. I do not pretend to understand what desire motivates you, Comtesse, but you are committed to finding the boy. If you are willing to pay the price, do not disdain my aid."

Women's voices echoed over the waters of the caldarium, blithe and unconcerned. I looked at Denise, silent. I thought of the children we had found in Amilcar. I thought of Pharaoh, bejeweled and unknown.

My skin still tingled from the touch of strange hands. I thought of Nesmut's valiant grin, that so reminded me of Hyacinthe. And I thought, too, of Melisande Shahrizai closing her eyes in pain, and of her lips on mine.

And of Joscelin. Always Joscelin.

"I don't know if I'm willing to pay the price," I said honestly.

"No?" Denise Fleurais smiled, sadness mingled with her shrewdness. "Most people don't, until the bargain is struck. I cannot answer for you. I do not bring the bargain, but only set the table for it."

Her words stayed with me as I went to submerge myself in the cooler waters of the tepidarium, and long afterward. I had thought of it, of course; the Lady Denise was right. But it had been a long time since I had sold myself for aught but love or the pleasure of Naamah's service. When I was younger, I thought, I would have done it unthinking. Now, 'twas somehow different.

Still and all, there was naught to be done and no point to agonizing over it until we knew for a surety that Imriel de la Courcel was held in the Palace of Pharaohs . . . and on that score, to my dismay, our investigation began to stall.

Nesmut reported on the following day, his expression glum. Despite an overwhelming eagerness to contribute to the search in covert defiance of the aristocracy, no one within the Palace had yet seen anyone matching the description of the D'Angeline boy-and, he assured me, they had a better idea what it meant now that descriptions of me were circulating, born of my encounter in the baths.

Against my own misgivings, I recruited Nesmut to aid us in searching General Hermodorus' house and interviewing his servants. Our letter of introduction had been received, and an invitation to a dinner party with a few of their friends came in short order. Naturally, we accepted; and contracted Nesmut to serve as our torch-bearer for the evening.

Of that encounter, I will say little, save that it proved tedious in the end and unproductive. I daresay I met a good many Menekhetan malcontents that night, and they were eager to determine our motives for visiting Iskandria. I smiled and made polite allusions to the fact that Ysandre de la Courcel, the wise and gracious Queen of Terre d'Ange, wished it known that she had no interest in having a political say in the affairs of Menekhet, but only to trade freely with whosoever held power. Who knows? Like as not it was true.

Most of their questions, they directed toward Joscelin, eventually quizzing him on D'Angeline alliances and battle-tactics. What he did not know, he invented, describing fabulous war machines and siege-engines that I was fairly sure did not exist.

General Hermodorus himself was a bandy-legged man with a round belly and an intent stare, brows meeting over a beak of a nose; Horns, his companions called him, in a Menekhetan jest that eluded me. I neither liked nor disliked him. His wife, Gyllis, scarce spoke above a whisper, and I thought I might have pitied her if I had known her better. So we dined and made empty conversation, and my heart pounded all the while to think of Nesmut supping on bread and beer in the kitchen, making innocuous queries of the General's household staff.

I needn't have worried. Nesmut was waiting at the door as we made our farewells, carrying a fresh-kindled torch to light our way home. He met my eyes as he bowed, shaking his head imperceptibly, his expression disappointed. For all my fears, I cannot say I was surprised. General Hermodorus, whether he loved Pharaoh or no, did not strike me as a man willing to take risk for carnal passions.

So much for that thought.

Indeed, the only item of note in the entire evening passed nearly unnoticed, save by me; a small matter, scarce worth noting. One of General Hermodorus' serving-maids was Hellene and island-bred, got in some skirmish I could not name. I would not have known, had she not paused ever so slightly in laying a dish on the table before me, bowing her head as I thanked her. "Lypiphera," she murmured in acknowledgement, moving onward.

Pain-bearer.

I had been called that only once before, on the island of Kriti, by slaves.

I do not know how they knew, then.

THIRTY-FOUR.

A WEEK passed, and we were no closer to an answer; in another week, we must leave or forfeit our place in Radi Arumi's caravan.

Lord Amaury Trente was pulling his hair again.

Frustrated, I asked Nesmut to arrange a meeting with Fadil Chouma's widow and serve as translator.This, he did, and it too proved sublimely unproductive. We brought gifts of sweets and D'Angeline fabrics and jars of Menekhetan beer, spending a tongue-tied afternoon of pleasantries and abortive inquiries in Chouma's courtyard, where his wife maintained a stoic mien and his concubines giggled and whispered behind their hands-all except one, who hid her face behind a veil and said nothing. They do not care that Chouma's third concubine will have scars, Nesmut had said.

I cared. But Fadil Chouma's third concubine kept silent behind her veil. She would speak no ill of Pharaoh; nor would Chouma's widow nor his other concubines, for all their whispers. Nesmut only shook his head sadly. And the only item of note from that sojourn was that we saw once more one of the dread priests Nesmut so feared, walking boldly down the center of Canopic Street in the midday sun.

It is the broadest street in Iskandria, lined with immense effigies of Menekhetan deities whose faces bear a Hellene influence. This time, I saw the priest in advance of Nesmut's hissed warning.

" Skotophagotis!"

We who are D'Angeline are bastard-born of the One God's lineage, raised to respect the gods of all places. I stepped to the side of the street unthinking, and Joscelin followed suit, not going for his daggers this time. Nesmut crouched, baring his teeth as if in challenge. This time, I had a better look at the priest, until the chariot came. At close range he did not appear Menekhetan, I noted in surprise. No; his skin had a pallor theirs did not, and his square beard curled. This I saw, and why the sun glinted oddly on his head, for he wore a helm of bone, a boar's skull or somewhat like it curving over his pate, with plaques of ivory sewn onto it with gold wire.

And then the chariot came, advertising for the games held weekly in the great amphitheatre of Iskandria, the charioteer with green ribbons tied around his upper arms hauling on the reins and cursing. His team drew up hard, champing and foaming at the bit.

It was a pair of matched chestnuts. I remember it well, how they tossed their heads, spume flying, and the heat and the dust. I remember the hot stink of horse-flesh, and how the skotophagotis stood unmoving, hoisting his staff. In the midday sun, his truncated shadow lay cut like a knife on the road, jet-black and immobile, crossing the charioteer's path.

Nesmut made a keening sound, then bit the back of his hand to stop it.