"I know," I murmured. "Elua help me, I know."

A boy of surpassing beauty, worth, mayhap, the allegiance of an entire Tatar tribe.

"Now he may be saving him for Jagun?" I had asked.

Drucilla had hesitated, then nodded. "I think so, yes. If you had not come . . . well, it may have been different. For a while, when he was summoned often, I thought Imri wished to die. Now ..." Her mouth twisted. "Now he lives, filled with defiance. It will make the destruction of his hopes all the sweeter. The Mahrkagir," she had added, glancing at the Skaldi lad, "enjoys that. You would do well to remember it."

As if I were in danger of forgetting.

I knelt on my carpet, remembering what she had said, letting the distant Jebean words flow over me as I echoed them to myself, feeling sick at heart. Ah, Elua! It brought me hope to hear that Imriel might not have suffered what I had at the Mahrkagir's hands - but what a bitter jest that would be, if I had usurped his place only to condemn him to life as a Tatar's catamite. Spring. What season was it? Winter, still, I thought; I could not be sure. Days, nights . . . time was meaningless, in the zenana. Drucilla claimed to remember autumn, but she could not name the date. Time; a long time. She measured it by the healing tissue of her finger-stumps. It was as good a calendar as any, a fit one for Daranga. I watched Imriel prowl the zenana, restless, drawn to the boarded garden-entrance, glancing over his shoulder for Nariman. One would know the season, I thought, in the garden, barren or no.

"Why?" It was Kaneka who stood before me, limbs akimbo, exasperated. Distracted, I'd not heard her rise from her couch. I swallowed, realizing that my voice had risen, still echoing their conversation.

"Yequit'a, Fedabin," I said politely. "I did not mean to disturb you."

"Amon-Re!" She said the god's name like a curse; a Menekhetan god, I thought. Strange, how the Jebeans had adopted the very customs and faith that the Menekhetans had abandoned. Kaneka looked at me, showing the whites of her eyes. "You see? Why, here, do you persist? Jeb'ez! Why do you seek to learn Jeb'ez?"

The Jebeans and Nubians were watching, whispering and laughing; I ignored them. Kaneka did not jest.

It unnerved her. "Fedabin," I said in zenyan, looking up at her. I answered truthfully, clinging to the hope that lay within my words. "I want to learn Jeb'ez so I can seek the descendants of Makeda and Melek al'Hakim."

"You what?" There was disbelief in her tone.

Lifting my chin, I thought of Hyacinthe, framing my reply. "There is a man, Fedabin, under a terrible curse. He is my friend, my oldest friend." I told her, then, in Jeb'ez and zenyan, searching for words, laying out the story of Hyacinthe and the Master of the Straits, Rahab's Curse. And degree by slow degree, Kaneka's irate stance relaxed until she lowered herself to sit opposite me and listen with a bemused expression.

There was a good deal I left out - most of the Skaldic invasion, and the whole of my part in it. It didn't matter. It was Hyacinthe's story I told. It was enough. I was a bit player in it; an old friend, onetime lover, pursuing hope beyond reason, a key found in a Jebean scroll.

And yes, I left out Melisande, too. She was Imriel's story, now. If we lived, he would learn it. Not here, not the whole of it. There was only so much the boy could endure. When I was done, Kaneka laughed.

It was not like before, harshly; this was deep and unfettered, and somehow wholly her own. She doubled over with it, tears of laughter gleaming like bronze against her dark skin. "Ah, little one! A face, moving on the waters; a whirlpool that speaks! And this man, with storms in his eyes, growing old without dying. It is a good story, truly."

"It is true," I said in a tone of offended dignity.

"Perhaps it is." Kaneka wiped her eyes. "Perhaps it is. So you seek the Melehakim? " I stiffened at the word, sending her into further peals. "Ah, my grandmother would enjoy you, little one! I would not have guessed it so. You tell a story as well as she."

"You know them," I said. "The descendants of the Queen of Saba."

"How not?" she asked, pragmatic. "My grandmother kept the stories for the village of Debeho. Well, then, little one, Death's Whore, if that is your quest, I will allow it. Eavesdrop if you will, and learn Jeb'ez.

I will not dissuade you."

"Thank you," I said, inclining my head.

Kaneka looked at me strangely, fingering the pouch that held her dice. "You believe in this story, this curse."

"Yes, Fedabin." Show no weakness, Audine Davul had told us, speaking of the Jebeans. Give every courtesy, and never reveal fear. "If you do not believe ..." I nodded at the zenana, ". . . ask the Aragonians and the Carthaginians here if it is not true that the Straits have been opened for the first time in eight hundred years, freeing traffic to Alba. They may not know why, but they know it is so. I know why. I was there."

"If you were there" Kaneka said, "and what you seek lies in Jebe-Barkal, why are you here, little one?"

Her tone made it clear she thought the question unanswerable. I held her gaze unblinking. It was not an easy thing to do, for she was an imposing woman and held the will of the zenana in her power, such as it was. "You are the only one here who claims her gods still answer when she speaks to them. Ask them, Fedabin Kaneka. If they answer, we will both know."

"Ah." A harsh smile curved her lips. "And what will you give me for it?"

"Nothing." I shook my head. "You asked the question, not I."

She glanced over her shoulder, only now becoming aware of the incredulous stares of her countrywomen, of much of the zenana. Our conversation had gone on too long., far too long, to be the denunciation of me that they had expected-indeed, Kaneka had sat at my carpet and heeded my story, had laughed. I saw her shoulders stiffen and her nostrils flare. "I do not need to ask! Everyone knows.

The gods of Terre d'Ange are weak and craven, the last-born. While the elder gods seek ways to resist Lord Death, the spineless servants of Terre d'Ange send him tribute!"

There were shouts and clapping from the couches of the Jebeans. Kaneka had risen to her feet to glower at me in threadbare majesty. I remained kneeling, hands folded in my lap, and raised my brows at her. "So says the Mahrkagir, Fedabin. Do you accept his words as truth?" Her anger held a moment longer, then passed; Kaneka sighed, her expression rueful. "Death's Whore,"

she murmured. "You spoke truly, little one, when first we met. Whatever else they are, your gods are cruel."

And with that, I did not disagree.

FIFTY.

IT BEGAN when I got Erich the Skaldi to remove the boards from the garden door.

Not all of them, only the lowest two, making an opening large enough for an agile adult to squirm through. It was on a day when Nariman the Chief Eunuch was gone for several hours, meeting with the Treasurer of Daranga to discuss the zenana's accounts. Little enough though we were given, there was still the matter of the kitchen's supplies and staff, water-bearers, servants who emptied the privy closet's chamberpots.

Imriel was haunting the door's alcove, as usual, worrying splinters from the thick boards. I watched the Akkadian eunuch Uru-Azag observe him impassively.

"Greetings, Uru-Azag," I said to him. "Tell me, what would happen if the boy were to succeed, now, while Nariman is not present?"

He turned the same impassive face on me. "He will not, lady."

"Nonetheless," I said. "If he did?"

The Akkadian shrugged and looked away. "The garden walls are high, and there is no door leading out.

The windows of Daranga are shuttered. No one would see."

"So he would not be punished," I said.

Uru-Azag's eyes glittered. Of anyone in the zenana, the Akkadians despised me the least, despising themselves more. Most of their companions, the soldiers of Zaggisi-Sin, had died-properly, in battle, albeit in the grip of a madness they could not comprehend. Those who remained, the attendants of the zenana, had chosen survival and paid the price of their manhood. "For a glimpse of sky?" he asked. "No.

Not while Nariman is not present."

"Khannat," I said, inclining my head. "Thank you." And I went to see Erich.

Usually, I spoke gently to him in Skaldic, cajoling. This time, I merely stood over him without speaking.

For a long while, he ignored me. I waited until he bestirred himself and looked up at me, blue-grey eyes blinking through his lank hair. In the alcove, Imriel crouched and watched, wary as an animal.

"Help him," I said to Erich.

I didn't think he would . . . and then I heard a sound, as he did. It was Rushad, on the far side of the zenana, stuffing his knuckles against his mouth to stifle an outcry as the Skaldi rose. He moved slowly, Erich did. For how long-weeks? months?-he had risen only to use the privy, and that seldom morethan once a day. Hours of immobility had stiffened his joints. For all that, he was a young man, and strong.

There was a silence in the zenana as he mounted the short stair. I held my breath. At a single word, it would be over. Someone would betray us; someone would fetch Nariman. And then we would be punished, all of us-Erich, Imriel and me, mayhap the Akkadians, too.

No one spoke. I felt curiosity prickling on my skin, a stirring of interest, life.

For the first time, I remembered something of Blessed Elua's golden presence.

The iron nails screeched as Erich set to and heaved, muscles straining across his shoulders, the tendons in his arms standing out. The lowest board came loose, clattering on the tiled step. A breath of cold air swept through, fresh and clean, smelling of the sea. I fought an urge to laugh, or weep. Erich leaned his head against the rough planks, resting, drawing in the air in great gulps. Imriel, flattened against the wall, stared at the gap in starved disbelief.

The second board, better nailed, came harder. Erich loosened one end, but the other was fixed tight and flush and his fingers could find no purchase. Silent as ever, he shook his head.

"Shamash!" The curse came from behind me; I turned to see Uru-Azag snatch the curved dagger all the Akkadians wore from his belt. "Lady," he said, handing it to me. "Give him this."

Erich worked the thin blade under the board, prying down on the hilt. The wood creaked, and the nails gave-only an inch, but enough to get his fingers beneath the board. His strength did the rest. And there was the gap, large enough to admit a person.

"Tell him to dig out the nail-holes," a woman's voice said in zenyan. I turned to see a Carthaginian woman, and several others watching behind her. "My father was a carpenter," she said. "If he widens the holes, we can put back the planks and Nariman will not see."

I nodded, relaying her instructions in Skaldic. Erich worked the point of the dagger into the holes, enlarging them. Despite the cold air, beads of sweat stood on his forehead.

"Like so," the Carthaginian said, going to help him. Together, they fit the upper board back in place. It held. The lower board proved more stubborn, two of the nails bent. "Here," she said, passing it back, miming pounding with a hammer. "Someone. The nails must be made straight."

Taking the board gingerly, two Ephesian women laid it on the floor and began beating at the bent nails with the heels of their slippers. By now, nearly half the zenana had crowded around to watch. A Chowati berated them, attempting to describe a better method. One of the Akkadian eunuchs came over to kneel beside them, drawing his dagger and pounding the nails with the hilt.

"Rushad," I murmured, slipping through the crowd to find him. "Someone should watch for Nariman's return."

"It is already being done, lady." He pointed toward the latticed door, where two Menekhetans stood watch at careful angles.

A stifled cheer went up from the assembled group; the nails were straightened, and the board fit snug once more. To the casual observer, it looked unaltered. Erich removed the boards, and they came easily.He leaned them both against the alcove, and went back to take up his post once more, sitting with his back to the wall.

Everyone else stood staring spellbound at two feet of cold air and grey light.

Imriel, taut and quivering, caught my eye, and there was a naked plea on his face.

"Yes." I nodded. "Go."

Like a flash, he crawled through the gap. Now that it was done, no one else dared follow, awed by the audacity of what we had done. I stood irresolute, longing to go, but fearful of putting myself forward.

Whatever had happened here, it was a fragile alliance. If they remembered how much they despised me, it would die an early death.

"Lady," said Uru-Azag, pointing at me. "Your place is second."

It was better, coming from him. It left me no choice. Walking slowly through the crowd, I mounted the stair, gathering my skirts about me. I had to duck low to clamber through the opening, and the rough planks caught at my hair.

And then I was through, and there was frozen earth beneath my knees, a dizzying sense of openness above me. I stood up, gasping, filling my lungs with searingly cold air. Elua, the sky! It was wintry and grey and utterly magnificent. At the farthest corner of the garden stood Imriel, arms wrapped about himself, teeth chattering, a look of pure delight on his face.

Others followed, after that; not many, when all was said and done. The Carthaginian carpenter's daughter came, and two Chowati. An Akkadian woman with haughty brows, but none of the eunuchs. I did not blame them. They had done as much as they dared, and more. One of the Ephesians poked her head through the opening and withdrew, shivering. It was cold, it is true, terribly cold. For once, I did not care, nor that the garden was completely barren. It was mayhap thirty paces on each side, a dry fountain at its center, stone walls thrice as high as a man's head encompassing dead soil and crumbling paths. I saw tears in the eyes of the carpenter's daughter as she stumbled across the frozen sod, gazing at the sky.

In that place, it was a paradise.

"Smell," said one of the Chowati, sniffing the air. "Spring comes behind the cold."

It put me in mind of Drucilla's warning, but even that could not dampen the exhilaration. All too soon, someone gave a sharp whistle- Uru-Azag, I daresay-and it filled us with urgent terror, setting off a scrambling race to return to the zenana. I made myself wait, going last. No one objected. For a moment, I feared that they would seal the boards and leave me-but no, there was Rushad on the inside, his eyes wide with fear as he extended a hand to help me through. Uru-Azag, his face oily with sweat, shoved the boards in place.

That evening, before the Mahrkagir's summons, Imriel came to my chamber.

He hovered inside the beaded doorway, uncertain and frowning in the light of my single oil lamp. I sat cross-legged on my bed, waiting. I lack Joscelin's gift with children, but this one, this child, I understood.

"Why did you say my mother sent you?" he asked. "Because it is true," I replied. "She asked me to find you."

"No." Imriel shook his head, eyeing me suspiciously. "My mother is dead, and my father, too. They died of an ague aboard a Serenissiman ship and asked Brother Selbert to take care of me. I know, he told me so. Why would Brother Selbert lie? How do you know him?"

"Your father is dead, that much is true. But when you were eight," I said, ignoring his questions, "Brother Selbert took you to La Serenissima. And you met a lady there."

"No." A look of alarm crossed his face, and his mouth formed a hard line. "Never."

I remembered what he had been told; that the lady was his patron, and that she would be in grave danger if he revealed it. "It was partly true, Imriel, and the lie only to protect you. Brother Selbert believed his actions in accordance with the precept of Blessed Elua."

"Elua!" The word was an agonized curse in his mouth. "Elua is a lie!"

For that, I had no words; none that I could speak to this boy. Mayhap a priest or a priestess could have done, I do not know. I know none who have endured Daranga. "She is your mother, Imriel," I said instead. "The Lady Melisande."

"Why?

One word; a single demand. It is the question children ask most, I am told. It was a question of immense proportion, coming from Imriel de la Courcel's lips, and most of what it encompassed, I could not answer. I do not know the will of the gods. If Blessed Elua had willed ImriePs presence here, I could not say why. But Melisande Shahrizai, I knew, and it was to that I spoke. I had thought long and hard how I would answer this question without revealing the tale in all its horror. "Your mother did somewhat foolish, once, Imri," I said gently. "It is why she cannot leave La Serenissima, and it is why she has enemies. Because she loves you, she did not wish her enemies to become yours. And that is why she and Brother Selbert sought to protect you with a lie."

He looked away and I could see the shimmer in his twilight eyes, but his jaw clenched and no tears fell.

I remembered the girl Beryl at the Sanctuary of Elua, composed beyond her years, speaking of Imri. He was afraid of anyone seeing him cry. My heart ached for the boy. "I don't believe you," he said through gritted teeth. "I don't believe you! Even if it were true, why would my mother send you?" His voice made his loathing plain. "Death's Whore!"

"Mayhap," I said, unflinching. "All the same, I found you."

And then Nariman came to summon me, and we spoke no more that evening.

It was a beginning.

FIFTY-ONE.

THE SKOTOPHAGOTIS knew.