"And you thought I had done it?" he asked when I was done.

"My lord has the means and the wits," I said diplomatically. "It occurred to Melisande as well. And," I added, "I suspect you'll be hearing from the Queen." "A dubious compliment. I'll take it as such." Barquiel L'Envers grinned and shook his head. "Elua's sanctuary! I thought she must have spirited the lad off to Skaldia. It's the one place we've no means of searching, and like as not she's still got ties there from Selig's day. I never dreamed she'd allies among Elua's priesthood."

"Nor did I, my lord," I said. "Nor did I."

Joscelin, scrubbing at the buckles of his vambraces, made a sound of profound disapproval.

"Well." L'Envers glanced reflexively in his direction. "If she's outsmarted you and me, my lady Phedre, it seems she's outsmarted herself as well. I'll not pretend I'd be sorry to hear of the child's demise. Innocent he may be, but while he lives, he's a weapon to be used against the descendents of House L'Envers. And I mislike not knowing whose hand might wield him," he said, looking back at me. "Has Ysandre summoned the priest responsible?"

"Not yet."

"She will." He leaned back in his chair. "It may take her some time to work up the resolve to confront the priesthood of Elua, but she'll do it. I know my niece."

I nodded, taking his words for warning. "Duly noted, my lord. My thanks for your candour."

"Ah." L'Envers grinned at Joscelin's bowed head. "You paid a fair price for it. I trust you're satisfied I was not less than forthcoming? Or do you require me to swear on it... by the burning river?"

I flushed as he spoke the ancient password of House L'Envers, the vow that binds its members to truth and succor. It was with those very words that I had charged him to defend the City of Elua against the traitorous Percy de Somerville, words given me in trust by his kinswoman, Nicola L'Envers y Aragon.

"Would you so swear, if I asked?"

The Duc's gaze never wavered. "I would."

"No," I said. "I believe you."

It was late afternoon when Joscelin and I took our leave of Champs-de-Guerre, reckoning we could make the City of Elua by nightfall if we rode without stopping, for the days had grown long with the coming of summer. Barquiel L'Envers' valet had done a good job of cleaning Joscelin's clothing, now dry and only slightly stained. He was in good spirits despite his loss.

"If it wasn't L'Envers," he said, speculating aloud, "then who?"

"I don't know. You think he was telling the truth?"

"As surely as you do." He glanced at me. "It increases the odds that the boy's alive. L'Envers is right, he's a dangerous weapon for someone's hand."

"I wish I could think of whose." I sighed. "You know we're going to have to go to the Sanctuary of Elua in Landras and ask questions before Ysandre decides to summon Brother Selbert."

"Mm-hmm." "Joscelin?" I looked at his calm profile. "You let him win, didn't you."

The corner of his mouth lifted in the hint of a smile. "What self-respecting Cassiline would do such a thing?" I raised my brows at him. "Only one." Joscelin laughed and made no reply.

FOURTEEN.

UPON RETURNING to the City of Elua, I sent word to Ysandre, reporting briefly on my meeting with her uncle the Duc L'Envers and asserting my belief in his innocence. I stated also my intention to travel to Siovale, to the Sanctuary of Elua in Landras, in order to question the priests there about the disappearance of Imriel de la Courcel.

Well and so; if Ysandre wished to forestall me, let her do so. Until she did, I would pursue my inquiry in my own fashion.

First, though, I kept my postponed appointment with Audine Davul at the City Academy.

I have been there many times, but seldom to the Musicians' Hall, where I was escorted past various salons from which issued sounds both melodious and cacophonous. Students of all ages were intent upon their lessons, learning to play harp and lyre and mandolin, tambors and tim-bales, flutes and pipes-and of course, the drums. Audine Davul's quarters held more drums than I ever believed existed, great and small, low and squat, tall and narrow, goat hide stretched taut over bases of wood, copper and ceramic, steel kettles struck with tiny mallets, hand-held rattling drums. And each one, I was told, had its own voice.

An intent, wiry woman in her forties, grey-eyed and honey-skinned, Audine Davul was the product of her D'Angeline father's liaison with an Ephesian dancing-girl. When her mother died in childbirth, her father had taken her with him on his wanderings, paying passage aboard ship with his drumming, entertaining crews and setting the beat for the rowers. It was said that an oarship had wings when Antoine Davul gave the pace. From the time Audine was five until she was fifteen, they had lived in Jebe-Barkal. She grew up speaking and writing Jeb'ez while her father studied the "mountain-talkers," the percussive language of the great hollow log drums used in the highlands of Jebe-Barkal.

Audine Davul had translated the scroll Melisande had called the Kefra Neghast.

"Yes," she said, indicating the vellum parchment she had prepared. Not only was a translation in D'Angeline neatly transposed beneath each line of Jeb'ez, but she had included phonetic markings to indicate the pronunciation of the unfamiliar script. "Your information is correct; this is the story of Melek al'Hakim, the Prince of Saba. One does not hear it so much, any more."

I held the precious document gingerly, scanning the text. "It's true, then? He was Shalomon's son?"

"True." The music teacher smiled, turning calloused palms outward. "What is true? It is true that this legend is told in Jebe-Barkal, where the inhabitants of Saba fled after quarreling with the Pharaoh of Menekhet, and ruled for many years. I have translated the words truly as they are written. No more can I tell you, Comtesse."

"Thank you." Until that moment, I hadn't dared believe with a whole heart. Putting down the parchment,I flung both arms about her neck, impulsively kissing her cheek. "Maitresse Davul, thank you!"

She laughed, returning my embrace. "Now the Academy will talk, saying I have known the favors of Phedre no Delaunay." Faint lines crinkled at the corners of her eyes. "And mayhap it will bring more students to study drumming."

"I hope it does." I accepted the scroll-case she handed me containing the original Jebean manuscript.

"You've never been back to Jebe-Barkal, have you?"

"No." Audine Davul shook her head. "My father's feet followed a rhythm only he could hear. I did but follow him. When he brought me at last to Terre d'Ange, I knew I had come home. I have brought his rhythms with me to the City of Elua. I do not wish to leave it."

I laid a purse on the table before her. "Please accept this with my thanks for your excellent work. With your permission, I'd like to talk more with you about Jebe-Barkal some time. I'm only sorry my schedule precludes it now."

She bowed from the waist, smile-lines deepening. "As you wish, Comtesse. I am not going anywhere."

I envied her that, I thought in the carriage during my homeward journey. Strange, how her father's wandering urge had grounded itself in his half-D'Angeline daughter. Strange, that the child of a former adept of Eglantine House and an Ephesian dancing-girl should make her life in the arcane pursuits of academia. I thought about my own parents-my beautiful, languorous mother and my foolish, spendthrift father-and wondered for the thousandth time if they had ever known what became of me, if they had ever linked the Comtesse de Montreve, Delaunay's anguissette, the Queen's confidante, with the flawed, pretty girl-child whose marque they had sold to the Dowayne of Cereus House. They surrendered all claim on me to the Night Court, and until I was ten, I knew no other life. I never saw my parents again.

It was not a bad life, on the whole. Each of the Thirteen Houses has its own specialty, and in Cereus, it is appreciation for the transient nature of life and beauty. The adepts were kind enough, and I learned a reverence for Naamah's service. Many of the graces I carry, I learned in Cereus House. But their lives are given wholly over to entertaining patrons, and mine . . . mine has encompassed a great deal more. I cannot help but wonder if my parents ever knew.

If they did, they kept silent about it-and because of that, I think mayhap they no longer live. A good many people died during the Bitterest Winter twelve years ago, between the sickness that ravaged the land and the Skaldi invaders who did the same. I like to think they would have come forward if they had been alive afterward, when my name was first spoken in the City of Elua by poets as well as patrons. My mother wept the day she abandoned me to the Dowayne's care. I remember that she wept. I wondered if she would have marveled that a child of their loins should become an adept in the arts of covertcy. When all was said and done, I was Anafiel Delaunay's creation more than theirs.

I thought about Melisande Shahrizai's son, raised by Elua's priests.

I wondered what he was like.

If time had permitted, I would have spent every waking hour of the next days poring over Audine's translation of the Kefra Neghast. Unfortunately, it didn't. Loathe though I was to admit it, Hyacinthe's plight was the less urgent of the two. Like the drumming-mistress, he wasn't going anywhere. Imriel de la Courcel was another matter. Once again, Joscelin and I made ready to travel.

Since no word had come from Ysandre, I took it as a hopeful sign and gave license to delay our departure a half-day to keep my other postponed appointment, journeying to Night's Doorstep to meet with Hyacinthe's old companion Emile.

It is in truth the most disreputable district of the City of Elua, a warren of taverns and inns and gambling-houses at the base of Mont Nuit, the hill on which the Thirteen Houses of the Night Court are located. If it lacks the sophistication of the Night Court, it makes up for it in bawdy enthusiasm, and for countless years, it has served as the slightly dangerous playground for the daring nobles of the City. The denizens of Night's Doorstep know a thousand ways to fleece the pockets of the D'Angeline peerage.

Hyacinthe, my dearest friend, had been one of them . . . and it was because of this that I regarded Night's Doorstep, that cut-rate antechamber to the civilized pleasures of the Night Court, as a sanctuary.

It was where I went when I escaped the rigors of Cereus House, and later Delaunay's. My Prince of Travellers earned his silver telling fortunes to drunken nobles, using the gift of the dromonde; but also selling information and trading favors, and, more pragmatically, running a livery stable and lodging-house.

It was the latter that he had left to Emile, chief among his cadre of runners and assistants. Ti-Philippe had arranged the meeting ahead of time, and we found a table held for us at the Cockerel.

"My lady Phedre no Delaunay!" Emile cried as I entered the busy inn. He went down on one knee and spread both arms wide. "You honor me with your presence!"

Ignoring the starts and murmurs from the throng of patrons, I smiled and went to greet him, taking his hands in mine. "Emile. It is good to see you."

"And you." He kissed both my hands and rose, no taller, but considerably broader than I remembered him. It had been eight years, at least; I had visited only once since my time in La Serenissima. "Chevalier Philippe, Messire Cassiline . . . come, sit, my friends! Let us speak of old times and old acquaintances."

A space cleared around our table, leaving a respectful aisle about us. I couldn't for the life of me have said whether it was due to my dubious fame, my quick-tempered chevalier Ti-Philippe, Joscelin's Cassiline arms and dry, capable air, or if it was commanded by Emile's presence. Clearly, he had prospered in Night's Doorstep, and was a person to be reckoned with, at least in the Cockerel.

Once a jug had been procured and wine poured all around, Emile leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. "You have word of Hyacinthe?"

"I have," I said, and drawing a deep breath, I told him the story of our journey to the Three Sisters, the passage of power from the Master of the Straits, and the dire twist on Hyacinthe's curse.

When I had done, tears shone in Emile's dark eyes. "Ah! You break my heart anew. You may not have known it, Comtesse, but he was like a brother to me."

"I know," I said compassionately. "Emile, there is more, if you will hear it. I may have a key to unlocking this curse; or at least, I may know where it lies. It's a long, hard path, and there's something else I must do first if I am to pursue it. I know the Tsingani go everywhere, hear everything, more than the gadje suspect. Are you well enough connected to use their ears for me?"

He smiled a little to hear me use the Tsingani word for outsiders. "Well enough, I think. It is differentthan it was in Hyacinthe's day. The chevalier told you Manoj is dead? Now, the kumpanias interact more freely with those of us in the cities, and they do not despise the Didikani as they once did."

Like Hyacinthe, Emile was of mixed blood, D'Angeline and Tsingani-Didikani, they called them; half-breed. "So you hear things."

"I hear things." Emile rubbed his thumb and forefingers together as if holding a coin. "Sometimes I tell them," he said, then closed his hand in a fist. "Sometimes I do not. For you . . ." He opened his hand wide. "For you I will sing like a lark. What do you wish to hear, Phedre no Delaunay?"

"Any news of Imriel de la Courcel," I said. "Or a child matching his description."

There was a pause, and all of us-Joscelin, Ti-Philippe and I- leaned in close, but eventually Emile shook his head, regretfully. "No. I am sorry. It has been five years, at least, since anyone placed a wager in Night's Doorstep on the whereabouts of the missing prince. The gambling-houses will give you any odds you like, and laugh as they take your money. But I will listen." He glanced shrewdly at me. "A child matching his description, you say?"

"A child," I said, "gone missing from the Sanctuary of Elua in Landras, in lower Siovale. A boy, ten years of age, with his mother's eyes." I reached out and put my hand over his, closing his fingers. "And this information, Emile, is not to be sold at any price."

"I would not!" He looked hurt. "Hyacinthe was my friend, my lady. Anyone he befriended, Tsingani, Didikani, D'Angeline alike, he treated with loyalty. What do I care for missing heirs? I would not sell this knowledge for profit when you might use it to win my friend's freedom."

"If I hear anything, I will come to you." Emile drank off his wine at one draught and refilled his mug. "It is true, what I said. The story has grown slowly, but it has grown, and spread. Now Manoj is dead, and there is no Tsingan kralis. The kumpanias speak his name at the crossroads. Hyacinthe, son of Anasztaizia."

"He followed the Long Road to its end," Joscelin murmured unexpectedly.

"The Lungo Drom" Emile echoed, sighing. "Some of us walk the inner path, and some of us the outer. I do not know anyone who has walked a longer road than Anasztaizia's son."

None of us did. Ti-Philippe raised his mug. "To Hyacinthe."

"To Hyacinthe." Emile clinked the rim of his mug in salute, then surged to his feet, hoisting his mug in the air. "To Hyacinthe, son of Anasztaizia!" he shouted. "Come, whoever remembers his name, I'll stand a drink to toast the Prince of Travellers!"

The resultant roar was staggering, and even though I daresay half of them were cheering nothing more than free wine, it brought a lump to my throat. I remembered Hyacinthe holding court at the Cockerel, his face bright with mirth . . . and I remembered him on the island, despair in the shifting depths of his power-stricken eyes.

Whatsoever might come to pass, I feared the bold, merry companion of Emile's youth was gone forever. I drank to his memory, and tasted the salt of my tears.

FIFTEEN.

"NOW YOU remember why we don't go to Night's Doorstep more often."

"Shut up," I muttered, squinting against the merciless D'Angeline sun, which sent dazzling spears of pain into my eyes. My head was pounding like one of Audine Davul's drums, and I could have sworn my soft-gaited mare was clopping like a plowhorse.

"We could have departed on the morrow."

"I'm not losing a day to the Cockerel's rot-gut wine!" There had been a good deal of it after that first toast. Emile's largesse had flowed freely, and I'd felt obliged to stand a round afterward-it does not pay to be seen as stingy, when one has a reputation in the City-and between my private griefs and the public outpouring of nostalgic melancholy, I'd drunk enough to be sorry for it. With typical Cassiline restraint, Joscelin had abstained after the first toast and drunk only water.

"You look slightly green, Phedre," he said, regarding me.

I opened my eyes wide enough to glare at him. "I'm fine.'"

Despite my aching head, we made good time, and by the second day, I had recovered from the ill effects of too many toasts and we had passed from the rich fields of L'Agnace into the hilly terrain of Siovale. As always, something in Joscelin eased at the return to the province of his childhood, the set of his shoulders more relaxed, his smile coming quicker. I loved to see it in him, although it made me feel guilty for keeping him overmuch in the City. On the third day, we entered the winding mountain paths.

The village of Landras is located at the foothill of a mountain; the Sanctuary of Elua that bears its name, they told us there, lies beyond, over the peak and in the basin of a steep valley. Upon reaching it, we passed the evening in the village, enjoying the mayor's hospitality and relating in turn the latest news from the City to an avid audience. Siovalese are odd folk, most of them of Shemhazai's lineage, prone to pondering the vagaries of human nature and exploring the dynamics of the physical world. It is not unusual to find a sheep-herder eager to argue Hellene philosophy or a wool-dyer intent on building a better waterwheel, and they are keen to discuss politics as well. It reminded me with a pang of regret that I would have little time to attend to my own estates in Montreve this summer.

In the morning, we departed, following the narrow trail up the mountain, our pack-mules laboring under the tribute-gifts the mayor had pressed upon us to deliver to the sanctuary. The air was cooler in the heights, pine forests giving way to grassy plateaus. We picked our way around steep outcroppings of rock and sheer drop-offs. Joscelin's eyes sparkled, and he delighted in pointing out wildlife as we rode; ptarmigan and white-capped finches and shy ouzels, and once a herd of wild chamois, watching us with curious gazes.

"There," he said, pointing as we gained the summit.

The valley lay far below, a green swathe carpeted with blazing scarlet poppies and riven by a swift river.

I caught my breath to see the grey stone buildings of the sanctuary itself and the rough-hewn effigy ofElua, seen in miniature from above. On the far side of the valley, winding trails stitched the mountains, leading to meadow plateaus and the peaks beyond.

"Goat-tracks," Joscelin mused, scanning the distant crags. "That's where it would have happened. No wonder no one saw anything."

High overhead, an eagle circled and gave its piercing cry; stooped, and dove. I thought of its prey and shivered. "Let's go down."

It took the better part of an hour to make our descent, even on horseback. Although I've seen my share of mountains, I let Joscelin lead, glad of his expertise. By the time we reached bottom, there was no doubt but that we had been seen and were expected.

"Welcome, travellers!" It was a young female acolyte who met us in the courtyard, fresh-faced and pretty. She made a formal bow, hands in the sleeves of her short brown robe. My weary mare lowered her head and blew a soft equine snort. "Ah, poor thing." The acolyte stepped forward, laying consoling hands on my mount's lathered neck.

"Sister priestess," I said. "I am Phedre no Delaunay de Montreve, and this is my consort, Joscelin Verreuil. Might we speak with Brother Selbert?"

The acolyte, who had lain her cheek alongside my mare's, glanced up with a start. "Oh! Oh yes, of course." She smiled. "He is expecting you, I think. At least he is expecting someone. If you will dismount, I will see to your horses, and he will meet you in the sanctuary proper . . . oh! And the mules, of course.

You have brought us ... what have you brought? Lentils, I think, and salted anchovies, ah! Thank you, thank you, my lady."

I watched her move among the animals and explore the mules' panniers as I dismounted. There was an old scar at her temple, a dented crescent, faded with age. "Is there someplace where we may wash the dust of our journey from our faces, Sister?"

"Oh!" She startled again, and laughed. "He has told me, again and again, and still I forget. 'Liliane, offer them water!' " Her eyes were as wide and guileless as a child's, and I understood, then, that she was a touch simple. "Yes, my lady, there is a cistern, there," she said, pointing. "And I am not a priestess yet.

Only Liliane."