Radi Arumi's Jebean caravan still left on the day after tomorrow.

Amaury Trente was waiting for an answer.

I thought of Hyacinthe, and the terrible despair that lurked behind his eyes. How much worse would it become as he endured the slow death of hope? Another six months, another year - how much harder would it become? I thought of the children we had rescued in Amilcar, their stricken, haunted faces. How much worse had Imriel de la Courcel endured? How much longer could he endure it? Without me, Amaury would never have found his trail. And Amaury was bound for the intrigues of Khebbel-im-Akkad, without even the skills of a trusted interpreter. A capable man, but not a clever one; so Melisande had said of him. He would be dependent on Valere L'Envers, who had wed the Khalif s son. I did not think any daughter of Barquiel L'Envers would be eager to see Imriel found. Unlike Amaury Trente, I had the means to compel her aid. And unlike Amaury, I had the means to untangle the thread of truth from a skein of half-truths and evasions.

In Blessed Elua's name. I promise. I will do what I can. If I had thought it would come to such a choice, I would never have promised. But it had, and a child's life was at stake. In my mind's eye, I saw the shadow of the Skotophagods and shuddered. Branching paths, Hyacinthe had said, and each one lying in darkness. I was afraid, I was very much afraid, that Imriel de la Courcel was already treading one. I did not think I could bear to see his face in my dreams for the rest of my life.

Hyacinthe, I prayed silently, forgive me for this choice I make.

"Phedre?" Amaury Trente asked. "Will you go?"

I gazed at Joscelin, tears standing in my eyes. "I thought . . . truly, I thought we were done, here. Ithought our path would diverge here, truly I did. Joscelin, beloved, if I told you I swore an oath, in La Serenissima ..." I was shaking, I knew I was shaking.

Joscelin looked at me for a long time, and then rendered his Cassiline bow, correct and exacting. "I protect and serve, my lady," he said softly. "Is that what you need to hear? If you believe it needful, it is needful. Besides . . ." One corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. "I am not so overeager to see your Tsingano freed that I will not accompany you on this task."

I laughed through my tears. Oh, Hyacinths! My heart ached, like a flawed vessel fired too hot. "Yes, my lord," I said to Amaury Trente. "I will go with you to Khebbel-im-Akkad."

So it was decided.

On the morrow, we went to the jeweler's shop to see Radi Arumi. There, the gem-carver Karem served us mint tea and we presented our plight to the Jebean caravan-guide, or at least as much of it as I deemed discreet. Radi Arumi heard us out with grave attentiveness.

"Understand, Kyria," he said with regret, "I cannot return your deposit to you. Certain arrangements have been made, provisions purchased, camels leased. You see how it is."

I allowed politely that I did, and speculated that the caravan-master would ensure none of it went to waste. After innumerable cups of tea and negotiations, it was agreed that a portion of the deposit would be refunded and we would forfeit the balance.

"Come again in six months, fair one." Radi Arumi grinned, his teeth a startling white against the lined darkness of his features. "I will be making ready another trip. If you are still wishing to go, I will be wishing to guide you!"

I had leave, thanks to my bargain, to peruse the royal library at will. In the days that followed, I used it to full advantage, little though it gained me. Of history, there was plenty. I learned that Drujan was a small province nestled alongside the Sea of Khaspar, warded by mountains to the east, north and south.

Because it was easily defensible, it had a long history of fierce independence, although its satraps had paid homage to the Great Kings of Persis. I learned that it was a seat of worship for the ancient Persians, who called it also Jahanadar, Land of Fire, due to a phenomenon on the peninsula which jutted into the sea. There, at certain crevices in the rock, fire-spouts were wont to occur.

The Hellene philosopher Stratophanes saw these with his own eyes and gauged them to be a natural phenomenon, born of volatile gases trapped beneath the earth's crust. It was, he owned, nonetheless impressive. The Persians, who worshipped Ahura Mazda, the Lord of Light, built temples around them and tended the Sacred Fires.

Even the Akkadians, who destroyed so much Persian culture when they conquered, did not extinguish the Sacred Fires of Drujan, hailing it instead as evidence that the solar fire of Shamash had descended to earth to put the seal on their victory. The Persian priests-magi, they were called-were allowed to continue to tend their fires . . . only now they must do so in the name of Shamash.

So much did I learn, and then little more for a span of centuries, when Drujan, quiet for hundred of years, rose up in rebellion. At a guess, I would hazard that isolated Drujan, poor in natural resources, ignored by its overlords in favor of lusher lands, gradually returned to its old ways over the course of centuries. Hoshdar Ahzad was the name of the leader who emerged, a prince of ancient bloodlines, and it was in his name that the Drujani took up their swords, slaying the Akkadian vizier and his garrison. All along the border, they rose up against the fortresses and on the peninsula, they took the fortified palace of Daranga, where Hoshdar Ahzad installed himself as sovereign lord, and decreed the worship of Ahura Mazda restored.

Better for him, I thought, if he had kept quiet and seen to his borders first, for no sooner had the name of Ahura Mazda rung freely across the Land of Fires than the wave of Akkadian vengeance broke, drowning it in blood.

It was an Akkadian chronicle I was reading, and the author did not spare in his gleeful descriptions of the revenge they exacted, documenting atrocities that made my blood run cold. In Daranga it was the worst. Hoshdar Ahzad and his family were taken alive. The self-styled sovereign was made to watch the rape of his wife and young daughters. When his cries of grief grew too loud, they cut out his tongue. His infant son was speared and spitted, his roasted flesh fed to the dogs. After that, they decided he had seen enough and put out his eyes. And while he wandered, blind and stumbling, mewling, the Akkadian general ordered a bloodbath. It was as Pharaoh had said. Lowborn or high, every man, woman and child of Hoshdar Ahzad's lineage was put to the sword. The stone floors of Daranga were awash in blood and the corpses stacked like cordwood.

As a final touch, the Akkadian general gave his archers leave to use Hoshdar Ahzad for target practice, commencing with his limbs. It took him, the chronicler reported with pleasure, a long time to die.

I had seen enough, too. I shoved the manuscript away and sat in the cool, vaulted library, sickened by what I'd read. On the painted walls, Thoth, the Menekhetan god of scribes and scholars, strode serenely, ibis-headed, carrying a balance in one human hand. I had known the Akkadians could be brutal. I'd not known the extent of it. The diffident clerk who had aided me in my research approached with a bow and addressed me in Hellene. If the gods of Hellas had not penetrated the royal library, their language had.

"Do you desire aught else, gracious lady?"

"There is nothing further on Drujan?" I asked.

"Nothing." He shook his head. "That is the most recent. There is nothing further."

"Did you look for references to Jahanadar?"

"I looked in all the indices as you bid me," he said with inbred patience. "Drujan and Jahanadar alike, gracious lady. There is nothing further. These things the priests have asked, many times."

"The Skotophagoti," I said. The clerk was silent, but a sudden fear glimmered in his dark eyes. I sighed and rubbed my face, willing the vision of Akkadian bloodshed to dispel. "The kingdom that died and lives, they call it. Well, I have learned well enough how it died. What I want to know is how it lives."

"I do not know, gracious lady." The clerk's voice came out high and strained; he swallowed hard, fingering a talisman strung about his neck. "But I do not think it is the sort of thing scholars set to writing.

Not if they are wise."

THIRTY-SEVEN

WE LEFT for Khebbel-im-Akkad.

It took a week's time to arrange transport and provisions for the journey, not to mention handling the ongoing trade negotiations. It was a good thing, after all, that I'd struck my bargain with Ptolemy Dikaios, for he proved unstinting in his aid. I daresay the price was worth it to him. With Imriel de la Courcel no longer a consideration, Menekhet had a good deal more to gain than Terre d'Ange in this exchange. If Amaury Trente knew Pharaoh had conspired with Melisande, he'd have no qualms in calling off the deal.

I had made as much clear to Ptolemy Dikaios, who understood; and understood too that there was little merit and much danger in continuing a covert alliance with Melisande Shahrizai. As far as he was concerned, her son was as good as dead, her chance of gaining the throne rendered naught. From henceforth, he vowed, he would treat only with Ysandre. I took a certain bitter pleasure in circumventing one of Melisande's last gambits.

Denise Fleurais would stay to conclude the negotiations, and probably, I thought, do a better job of it than Lord Amaury. Comte Raife was adamant in his insistence that Pharaoh would balk at dealing with a woman, but I thought otherwise, and for once, Amaury agreed with me-and as Ysandre had appointed him to head the delegation, the decision was his. The Lady Denise would seal the bargain and return with half the delegation to Terre d'Ange, bearing news of our quest.

She would also, we agreed, ensure the shipment of a gift of salve and other rare unguents and cosmetics to Pharaoh's Queen, poor, silly Clytemne. I felt a certain pity for the girl, and meant to see my promise kept.

Ptolemy Dikaios arranged a meeting for us with the Akkadian consul in Menekhet, one Lord Mesilim-Amurri. Although he looked down his nose at us at first, taking us for merchants, once he heard Ysandre de la Courcel's name, Lord Mesilim became very helpful, assigning four of his men to serve as guides and assisting us in plotting a course.

It was our intention to make for Nineveh, which had the virtue of being the nearest city to Drujan. More importantly, it was the city which the Khalif s son, Sinaddan-Shamabarsin, had been given to rule; the Lugal, or prince, he was called. And most important of all, the Lugal of Khebbel-im-Akkad was wed to Valere L'Envers, daughter of Duc Barquiel and cousin to the Queen. Hence, our tenuous alliance.

Odd to reflect, but I remembered when that union had taken place. Indeed, I'd been among the first to hear of it, from the lips of Rogier Clavel, a minor lordling in the Duc L'Envers' service. A besotted patron, nothing more; my lord Delaunay had used him as a stepping-stone to reach his old enemy L'Envers. And I had been . . . what? Delaunay's anguissette, nothing more.

It seemed so very long ago.

"Do you remember?" I asked Joscelin, aboard the ship which would take us from Iskandria to Tyre.

"When official word of their wedding was released? It was just before you were assigned to Delaunay's household."

"I remember," he said, and was silent a moment. "That long ago?"

"Yes," I said. "Because it wasn't until after that Duc Barquiel returned to Terre d'Ange. And the first time you accompanied me, it wasn't to an assignation. It was to ask Childric d'Essoms to present an offer from Delaunay to the Duc, and ask a meeting." "I remember." He smiled wryly. "He put a dagger to your throat. I tried to tender my sword to Delaunay afterward. He wouldn't take it."

"No," I agreed. "He wouldn't. And then Barquiel's men came and insisted Alcuin accompany them ..."

". . . and you insisted on going, and Delaunay ordered me as well, and you and I and Alcuin ended up eating bread and cheese in the Duc's kitchen while he and Delaunay discussed affairs of state." Joscelin laughed. "Elua! Were we truly that young and foolhardy?"

"Yes." I leaned against him. "And you thought I was the most willful, depraved creature you'd ever laid eyes on."

"You were," he said companionably, putting his arm about me. "As I recall, when Delaunay threatened to sell your marque if you didn't stay put, you reminded him that Melisande Shahrizai might be interested in buying it."

I winced. "I said that, didn't I? I didn't know what she was, then."

"No." Joscelin looked at me. "But you do now. Phedre, why did you swear an oath to her in La Serenissima?"

I was silent for a long while, gazing out at the ocean. It looked much like any other stretch of sea, interminable waves dashed by the wind into curling white crests. I should be glad, I supposed, that the overcast sky merely threatened rain. Though we were only going up the Akkadian coast, it was later in the season than sailors favored. "I don't know," I said finally. "It was only to help find her son. I never dreamed it would lead to this."

"I know." His voice was very soft. "And like as not, you'd have done it anyway. Believe me, love, I know how you feel. No matter whose son he is, he's only a child. I saw the ones in Amilcar, too, and it still makes my palms itch for the sword. But Phedre, you swore it to her."

"I know, I know." All of that, my oath extracted, and she had still written to Pharaoh behind my back.

Well and so; had I expected otherwise? He might have restored her son to her. And I, loyal to my Queen, would give him unto Ysandre's keeping. I had vowed to do no less, and Melisande knew full well that was a promise I would keep. I closed my eyes, feeling her fleeting kiss burn against my lips. "She said I was the conscience she never wanted."

"And you believed it?"

I couldn't fault him for his dry incredulity. I opened my eyes and gazed up at him. "Yes. No. I don't know, Joscelin. The priest of Kushiel, the last time I went- " I couldn't help a shudder of remembered pleasure, " -he reminded me, all the Companions, even Kushiel, even Cassiel, Joscelin, do but follow in Blessed Elua's shadow. I can only believe we do the same."

"Love as thou wilt," Joscelin murmured, "and pray like hell it is enough."

I nodded, my throat too tight to speak. I looked away and stared at the undulating waves until it passed.

"What else can I do? I hate it that my heart should fall to my feet at the sight of her, but it does. It grieves me more than I can say that I have turned aside from my quest to free Hyacinthe, who has suffered so long. I am terrified of my dreams, I am terrified of the Skotophagoti., and I am terrified of the Akkadians,who are supposed to be our allies. And I am well and truly wroth with my lord Kushiel, whose justice seems to me to be monstrous. If I cannot trust in Elua's compassion ..." I shuddered and did not finish.

"Phedre." Joscelin put both arms around me and held me hard. "Hyacinthe has endured a dozen years, and he'll endure a dozen more if he has to. He's stronger than you credit him. He's like you, he's had to be. Your dreams are only dreams, no more, and the Akkadians, fearsome or no, are our allies. As for Melisande . . ." He shrugged. "Who knows? Mayhap you are her conscience. Of a surety, her son should not suffer for her crimes. Not this. No one should. It is a matter of D'Angeline pride to redeem him."

"Pride." I laughed, half in tears. "One of our sins, the Yeshuites would have it. Azza's sin was pride, though we all suffer our share. Joscelin, you've said nothing of the Skotophagoti."

"Ah, the bone-priests." He smiled; I felt his mouth move against my hair. "I am Cassiel's servant, love, no matter what comes. If he does not follow Blessed Elua's unfathomable plan as surely as you pray Kushiel does, we are both lost. But while I have you to protect, I am not afraid to try my steel against any enemy, Eaters-of-Darkness or no."

I turned in his arms, and whispered, "Joscelin Verreuil, I would die without you."

"Probably." He smiled again. "Of melodrama, if naught else."

Against my will, it made me laugh; I struck at his chest with one hand, which he caught and kissed, and then he kissed me some more, until the Menekhetan sailors glanced sidelong and murmured and I had quite forgotten what our original conversation was about, or why I'd been so overwrought in the first place.

Our journey passed uneventfully and we arrived in Tyre, setting foot for the first time on the soil of Khebbel-im-Akkad. It was a mighty city once, in the old empires of Akkad and Persis, but it was sacked by the Hellene conqueror Al-Iskandr, and never restored to its former glory. It is still a thriving seaport, though, and we were able to find all that we needed for our journey overland within its walls.

Unfortunately, one of those items was a veil.

Amaury Trente had spent a good deal of time at sea in conversation with Lord Mesilim's men, one of whom spoke Hellene. The rules of conduct for women differ greatly in Khebbel-im-Akkad from elsewhere in the world; certainly from those in Terre d'Ange. I had known this, of course. I just hadn't reckoned on the rules applying to me.

"Highborn ladies do not show their faces in public," Amaury said adamantly. "Foreign or no. If you don't want to be taken for a commoner or a whore, you'll travel veiled, Phedre."

"My lord," I pointed out to him, "my mother was an adept of the Night Court, and my father a merchant, and I am twice-dedicated to Naamah's Service. I am a commoner and a whore, and ashamed of neither."

"You are also the Comtesse Phedre no Delaunay de Montreve, counsel and near-cousin to the Queen of Terre d'Ange, and I daresay in Khebbel-im-Akkad, you'd prefer to be treated as such." He was right.

I ceded the argument, and accepted the veil. There was only one other woman among Amaury's remaining delegates, Renee de Rives, a Baron's daughter who was the consort of one of the minor lordlings, Royce Guidel. They were young and regarded the entire outing as a lark, a chance to spend long months together without the intervening demands of Guidel's marriage. I am not entirely sure whyLord Amaury chose them, except that they were a charming pair, and Royce Guidel was reputed to be a good man with a sword.

At any rate, Renee de Rives grumbled nearly as much as I over the veil, and we befriended one another over the affair, which was to the good, since we were thrown together for much of the ride to Nineveh, surrounded by our escort of men. On the Akkadians' advice, Lord Amaury had spared no expense, and our company was richly caparisoned. The horses were very fine, tall and clean-limbed, with glossy coats.

I grew quite fond of mine, which was a sweet-tempered dark bay with a white star. Our saddles were in the Akkadian fashion, which is to say scarcely saddles at all, but embroidered blankets with luxuriant silk fringes, a pair of long stirrups dangling on straps. The bridles, by contrast, were elaborate, with chased gold cheek-pieces and tall, plumed headstalls. It would have fretted my grey mare, but the bay thought himself quite fine in it.

After two sea voyages, it goes without saying that we were all of us considerably sore and stiff for the first few days, and I was passing glad that Lord Amaury had been profligate enough to hire a mule train and tenders, with servants to set up camp and cook and clean for us. The first part of the journey took us northward up the coast, skirting mountains and the harsh desert that lay beyond. Eventually, we forded the River Yehordan and made our way inland.

I could not but think of my Habiru studies as we crossed the mighty river, for it is one that features largely in their writings, a remembrance of home for those in exile. To be sure, the home for which they languished was a good deal further south, but it is the self-same river. This land was strange and harsh to me, with pockets of fertility clinging to the riverbanks and great stretches of arid soil between; still, I knew what it was to long for one's home.

We crossed the Yehordan and made our way through a low pass in the mountains, striking out across the vast untilled plains. It was an unmemorable journey and a miserable one, for the rains broke, washing across the hard-packed red soil. Our horses and mules slogged through red mud to the fetlocks, and all of us were splashed with it. It was winter in Khebbel-im-Akkad, and I cannot say I cared for it. The fine silk net of my veil clung damply to my face, making it hard to breathe.

"Take it off," Renee muttered, and I saw she was bare-faced beneath the hood of her cloak. "Who's going to care, in this weather? The mule-handlers? Let them talk."

It was still raining mercilessly when we reached the first of the two Great Rivers of Khebbel-im-Akkad, and crossing the Euphrate proved no easy task. Whatever other skills they might have-surely they are mighty weavers and horsemen-the Akkadians are no bridge-builders. Swollen by winter rains, the Euphrate ran too fast and too deep to be forded. Instead, we must needs cross it on reed rafts, drawn hand-overhand along thick cables of rope.

After crossing innumerable seas, it seemed foolish to fear a river; but this river was like a living beast, turgid and angry. In the spring, one of our guides assured us with unwonted cheer, it would overflow its banks, depositing nourishing silt on the flood-plains, hailed by the Akkadians as a life-giver. Well and good, I thought, clinging grimly to the raft; I hope I am not here to see it. It was worst of all for the horses and mules, who must swim for it. I watched my poor bay, the bedraggled plume on his headstall nodding as he fought to keep his nostrils above water. The Akkadian raft-keepers clapped and cheered, shouting encouragements, seemingly unfazed by the crossing.

When all was said and done, we made it across safely, though considerable worse for the wear. Lord Amaury ordered camp made early that day, and we spent the daylight hours cleaning mud from our tack and clothing, and endeavoring to dry ourselves as best we might. Our guides assured us that crossing theTigris would be far smoother. I contented myself with flapping my sodden veil in the air and glaring at them. Being accustomed to seeing noblewomen unveiled in Menekhet, they were undisturbed by it.

In all fairness, the following day dawned bright and cool, and I had to own that after league upon league of arid land, it was pleasing to see the rich flood-plains, cultivated mainly with wheat and barley, though it was off-season, now. There were roads, unpaved but smooth, and an elaborate system of irrigation ditches, siphoning water from the Great Rivers. We saw a good many more villages, too, and were able to purchase additional foodstuffs; milk and dates, and yearling kid. There were no inns, though, or at least none fit to entertain a company such as ours. Only in the cities, which were few.

And we had nearly reached Nineveh.

We saw it from the far side of the Tigris, a river twice as fast and half again as deep as the Euphrate-a solid city rising from the flood-plain, thick-walled and massive. One would not suppose a city built of red mud-brick to be impressive, but it was, a good deal more than it sounds. There is little else to build from in Khebbel-im-Akkad, and they have become surpassingly good at it.

For all that I doubted, our guides had spoken truly; there was a far better system in place for crossing the Tigris, a veritable floating bridge. It was built on the same principle, but much vaster, an immense platform of cedar planks, capable of holding a dozen horses and men at once. A complex system of ropes and pulleys was used to convey it from one shore to another. Why the Akkadians are so reluctant to span running water, I cannot say, but it worked well enough. We made the crossing in three trips and were deposited safe and relatively dry outside the gates of Nineveh.

"Right," said Lord Amaury, surveying his bedraggled company. "I think mayhap we should take lodgings for the night before presenting ourselves to the Khalif s son."

And with that, I did not disagree.

THIRTY-EIGHT.

ONE THING I will say; Nineveh did not lack for luxury.

Amaury Trente saw to it that we were lodged in the finest inn, and it was very fine indeed. They had a dozen stablehands alone, and ample space to quarter our mounts. The rooms were generous, sumptuous with woven carpets and pillows, all wrought in intricate designs.

The only drawback was that the men and women were lodged in separate quarters.

"It could be worse." Renee de Rives, stripped down to her shift, flung herself on one of the overstuffed sleeping-pallets, stretching her arms indolently over her head. She looked at me under her lashes with a friendly smile. "And we could always entertain one another, Phedre."

I smiled back at her and demurred. "Though you are kind to ask," I added.

"I'm not kind." Renee rolled onto her side, propping her head on one arm. "I'm dying of curiosity and insatiable desire, and it seems a shame to let these lovely beds go to waste. Is it because of Joscelin?"