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Although the sky overhead was pale gold, the cobblestones yet lay in the long shadows of the mountains. I needn’t have worried about the man inside; already, people had gathered. Five men, Millard and Luc Verreuil among them, ranged in a semicircle before the Tsingani
kumpania
, swords half-drawn. I walked past them to meet it, Joscelin at my side.

It was a small
kumpania
, as small as the one we had travelled with from the Hippochamp years ago. There was a single covered wagon, its once-bright paint weathered, great splinters gouged from the wooden spokes of its wheels. Even travelling on the old Tiberian roads, passage through the mountains was not easy. The driver sat in the high seat, expression impassive. The women and children would be inside, hidden behind the closed curtains at the rear.

In front, two men sat on motionless horses, one a little to the fore. They were full-blooded Tsingani, with brown skin and liquid-black eyes, and both as tense as wires.

“
Tseroman
,” I said to the leader, inclining my head. His shoulders relaxed a little at the Tsingani greeting, though his eyes were suspicious and watchful still. “I am Phèdre nó Delaunay. How did you know to find me here?”

“You have the mark. What Tsingani do not see, they hear. Your passage was noted.” His voice was husky and accented. “I am Kristof, son of Oszkar. This is my
kumpania
.” He bowed from the waist. The dust of hard travel lay on his black hair, his yellow shirt. “
Didikani
in Elua’s City say the companion of the Tsingan kralis’ grandson seeks a child.”

“I do.” My heart beat harder in my breast. “Have you seen him?”

“There.” The Tsingano headman turned in the saddle, pointing unerringly to the south. “In the Pass of Aragon, before the leaves were full-grown on the beech trees. Two men and three children.”

“D’Angeline children?” I asked.

Kristof nodded once. “A girl and two boys.” He lowered one hand, palm downward. “So tall. They were not well.”

“Sick?” I asked. “Injured?”

“Maybe injured.” His gaze slid away from mine. “Drugged.”

Somewhere behind me, Luc swore violently. I heard the sound of steel dragging against leather, and sensed rather than saw Joscelin turn, shaking his head in silent warning. Lines of tension showed in the faces of the Tsingani and the driver gathered his reins, but they stood their ground.

“You saw the child the
Didikani
described?” I asked Kristof.

“There was such a boy, a
gadjo
pearl, with black hair and eyes like the deep sea. Yes.”

A shudder ran through me. “Kristof, who were the men? Where were they bound?”

Once again, his gaze slid away onto the distance. “We did not know, when we met them. It was spring. We only heard the words of the
Didikani
two days past. These men, they wished to buy our wagon.” His mouth curled in contempt. “We did not sell it.”

“Kristof,” I said desperately. “Please. Who were they?”

He didn’t answer me, jerking his chin at Millard Verreuil. “You, D’Angeline lord! Are you like the others, who say the Tsingani lie and cheat, and steal
gadje
children?”

“I have heard these things said,” Millard replied steadily, returning the Tsingano’s regard. “I have heard them said by members of my own household. I have not said them myself. If I have wronged your people with my silence, I am sorry for it. But it is the Lady Phèdre who asks, and I have heard with my own ears that she is quick to defend the Tsingani name.”

“You.” Kristof looked at me. “You travelled the
Lungo Drom
with Anasztaizia’s son.”

“Yes.” I understood, then, the unspoken price of this information and spoke the words he wanted to hear. “
Tseroman
, I travel it still. Until Hyacinthe, Anasztaizia’s son, grandson of the Tsingan kralis, is free, I walk the Long Road for him. He has seen it. And this one,” I touched Joscelin’s arm, “travels with me.”

“If the
dromonde
has spoken, it is so.” He drew a long breath. “The men were Carthaginian slave-traders. They were bound for Amílcar, in Aragonia.”

“Carthaginian!” Luc exploded. “What would Carthaginians be doing wandering Siovale? If you’re lying, Tsingano, I’ll have your head for it!”

Kristof smiled with his mouth; his eyes were flat and black. “What do you know of trade, tall
gadjo
? There are people who will pay good money for a D’Angeline slave-child. If the Aragonese forbid it, Carthaginians are cunning enough for greed. Where better to hunt them? If one child disappears in the mountains, you
gadje
will say it is a wolf or a bear, or,” he added, “filthy thieving Tsingani.”

With that, he turned to go, his companion following, the driver twitching the reins and clucking to his team. I took a step after him.

“You knew. You could have reported it then, Kristof.”

The Tsingano headman stopped, looking over his shoulder. “I knew,” he said softly. “Who should I have reported it to? One such as him?” He nodded at Luc. “He will go to Amílcar, and if he does not find Carthaginian slave-traders, he will come looking for me with his sword in his hand.”

“No.” I shook my head. “The Queen’s justice protects Tsingani as well as D’Angelines. I would stand surety for it with my life.”

“It may. But Elua’s City is far away,
chavi
, and even a Queen may believe a lie. It was not worth my life to test it. Perhaps one day it will be different, when we have a Tsingan kralis again.” Kristof raised one hand. “Phèdre nó Delaunay. I will speak your name and remember it.”

“And yours, Oszkar’s son. May the
Lungo Drom
prosper you.” I stood and watched them go, heedless of the muttering behind me. The sun had cleared the mountains and blazed full on the courtyard, splendid and golden. I watched the dusty little
kumpania
until they were out of sight around the first bend, then turned around to face the gathered inhabitants of Verreuil’s estates. “Well.” I considered them. At my side, Joscelin gave an inaudible sigh. “Who wants to go to Amílcar?”

It took only a couple of hours to make ready our departure, and most of that spent in arguing among the members of House Verreuil. For my part, I had my things packed in short order and used the balance of time to write a missive to Ysandre, couching recent developments in subtle language. In the end, it was Luc who accompanied us, along with two men-at-arms and a groom. It had been Mahieu’s turn for adventure, by his father’s reckoning, but he ceded his place to his elder brother. I daresay Jehane would have come-I saw the yearning in her eyes-but she was scheduled to depart for home in a few days’ time. I half-wished she would throw caution to the winds and accompany us, for it would have been pleasant to have a female companion. Still, I could not fault her choice, and she would bear my letter to the Queen to the nearest Royal Couriers’ waypost, for which I was grateful.

There was considerable debate over whether or not the word of the Tsingani could be trusted, which I ignored. Millard Verreuil decreed at length that the search would go on as planned, on a slightly smaller scale. It was a sound decision. Whether they believed Kristof’s story was true or no, where there was rumor of slave-traders, there might be trouble.

Let them learn what they might. I was going to Amílcar.

I knew it was true.

Oh, Kristof might have left out details, and he might have been mistaken about the men being Carthaginian, although I doubted it. But I knew, in my bones, that it was Imriel he had seen. It had an awful symmetry that spoke of Kushiel’s presence at work. It was as Hyacinthe had said. There was a pattern here, too vast to be compassed. No one can fathom the will of gods and angels as they shape mortal lives; I could sense the purpose in it, and pray it was less dire than it seemed. When Joscelin and I had stumbled unwitting into Melisande’s conspiracy, she could easily have had us killed. She didn’t. Instead, she disposed of us in another way, selling us into slavery among the Skaldi. We had survived. Imriel de la Courcel had a chance of doing the same.

I was going to Amílcar.

We set out ere midday, taking the high trails and shorter routes known to the Siovalese. On level ground, we could have covered the distance in a few days’ ride. In the mountains, it would take thrice as long-and that only if the weather held.

No one spoke of the need for speed, though we pushed as hard as we dared. Three months and more gone by. The trail, if we found it, would be cold. I had hope of obtaining aid in Amílcar. Two years ago, Ramiro Zornín de Aragon had been named King’s Consul to the city, royal liaison to the Count of Amílcar. With Elua’s blessing, his wife would be in residence, and Nicola L’Envers y Aragon was both a kinswoman of the Queen and a friend. If Nicola was there, I had no doubt she would do everything in her power to assist us.

That was the good thing about Amílcar.

It is forbidden to own slaves of Aragonian or D’Angeline birth in Aragonia, that much I knew. And it would be a bold Aragonian lord indeed who dared defy that edict. Terre d’Ange is their nation’s greatest ally. Without our might at their back, Aragonia would be vulnerable to the empire of Carthage to its south. As it is, they enjoy an uneasy trade alliance.
What do you know of trade, tall gadjo?
Enough, I thought, to know that illicit trade goes on everywhere. But if Carthaginian slavers were trading in D’Angeline children in Aragonia, they’d likely want them off their hands and out of sight as quickly as possible.

And Amílcar was a port city.

That was the bad thing about Amílcar.

On the third day, our course intersected the road through the eastern Pass of Aragon and we were able to travel with greater ease, following a great river basin in the shadows of towering peaks. Luc went fishing in the twilight as the men of Verreuil made camp that evening, setting lines in the swift-flowing river and catching several trout ere the light faded.

“Do you still remember how to clean a fish, little brother?” he asked Joscelin, grinning as he returned from the riverbank, gleaming fish dangling from his line.

Joscelin raised a laconic eyebrow. “I might.”

I studied the translation of my Jebean scroll and watched from the corner of my eye, amused, as the sons of Millard Verreuil cleaned and gutted trout by the light of our campfire, a messy job at best. Luc jabbed his thumb removing a hook, swore, stuck his thumb in his mouth and yanked it out, swearing again and spitting at the taste of fish-slime.

“You shouldn’t laugh, my lady,” he said, aggrieved. “I’m trying to be gallant. Your consort there told me you like trout.”

“I do,” I said. “And thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Luc cast a disgruntled glance at Joscelin, who held up two fish without comment, neatly cleaned and deboned. “Oh, go ahead, you may as well do the rest. I didn’t think anyone fished in the City of Elua.”

“I don’t.” Joscelin started on a third trout. “I fish in Montrève.”

“I should have guessed.” Luc sat beside me, unselfconsciously rubbing his hands together to remove fish residue. “My lady … Phèdre … I meant no offense, back there in Verreuil. With the Tsingano, I mean. I wouldn’t have harmed him, not really. Even if I was sure of a man’s guilt, I’d still summon a magistrate and see him given a proper trial. I was angry, that’s all.”

“I know.” I set the parchment aside. “Luc, I know. The problem is, there are others who wouldn’t, and too many who’d remain silent to see it done. A Tsingano like Kristof isn’t going to take a chance on which kind of man you are. I know their reputation. Some of it is deserved. Most of it isn’t. I asked their aid. It took courage for Kristof to seek me out. It didn’t help matters to have you threaten him.”

“I suppose not,” he murmured. “But how can you be so sure he didn’t lie?”

I told him how to discern the nine tell-tales of a lie, watching his eyes widen.

“That’s so …
complicated
.” Unlike his brother, Luc Verreuil was at heart an uncomplicated man. He rose, shaking his head. “I’ll take your word for it, and stick to what I know, which at the moment is fish. Joscelin, since you’re so fast with a knife, you can dispose of the offal. My lady Phèdre, if you’ll forgive me, I’m off to the river to wash my hands and gather stones to build a cook-pit.”

“Forgiven,” I said.

When he had gone, Joscelin chuckled, wiping his fish-gutting blade on a handful of grass. “It’s been eating him up since we left, you know. I’m glad he finally talked to you. Mayhap he’ll actually think about what you said.”

“Mayhap.” I regarded him. “For all their energy and wit, members of your House don’t appear over-quick to change their ways of thinking.”

“No.” Joscelin squatted on his heels beside the campfire, glancing to see that his brother and the others were out of earshot. “The old beliefs hold strong in the back-country. It comes home to me every time I visit. I love them, Elua knows, but… my childhood was a long time ago, and too soon ended.” He stretched out his begrimed hands, contemplating the calluses left by dagger- and sword-hilt. “I held Verreuil in my heart,” he mused, “and Verreuil went on without me, unchanging. It’s I that has changed.”

“Do you regret it?” I had to ask it.

“No.” The firelight reflected in his eyes as he glanced at me, dispelled by a quick shake of his head and a half-smile. “Do you?”

“No,” I said. “Not you. Never you.” I brushed his forearm with my fingertips. “I didn’t have much of a childhood either, not as people like your family would reckon it. But there was Delaunay, and Alcuin. Hyacinthe. I had love. And I have you. For that alone, it is worth the cost.”

“Yes. Always.” Joscelin gazed toward the south. “And there are worse ends to childhood than entering the Cassiline Brotherhood or Anafiel Delaunay’s service.”

I shuddered. “I know. Ah, Elua!”

“Melisande’s boy.” He was quiet for a moment. “Mayhap the priest was right to raise him as he did. At least he had joy in it. That’s ended, now. Even if we find him whole and unharmed, it’s a hard path he’ll tread once he knows who he is. He’s not like the crofters’ daughter, to return to a loving family.”