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It is different now, of course; it is the desert-riders of the Umaiyyat who threaten Menekhet’s borders, and the vast power of Khebbel-im-Akkad. Menekhet walks a fine line between the two, placating both and maintaining its ties to the city-states of Caerdicca Unitas-especially La Serenissima, with its skilled navy-and to Carthage. We D’Angelines are newly arrived to this arena of politics, although not to be disdained; I daresay no one in Menekhet has forgotten that Terre d’Ange defeated the Akkadians in a sea-battle not twenty years past.

We entered the Great Harbour at sunset, and it was indeed a sight to see as we passed the offshore island which held the famed Lighthouse of Iskandria, a massive colossus thrusting some five hundred feet into the air, its white marble walls washed red in the setting sun. It is built in three tiers, and the base is as broad as a fortress. The ship’s captain informed us it held an entire squadron of cavalry. I had to crane my head to see the top, where a plume of smoke unfurled against the sky.

To my disappointment, the beacon itself seemed dim and unimpressive in the gilded light, but the captain assured me that encroaching darkness would render it bright as a star, visible for many miles at sea. He pointed out the inscription rendered on the foundation stone.

“We are not near enough to read it, my lady, but it says, ‘Sostrates, son of Dexiphanes of Knidos, on behalf of all mariners, to the savior gods,’” he told me. “The architect Sostrates was bade to inscribe the name of Pharaoh on the stone, but he carved his own, then covered it with plaster and chiseled Pharaoh’s dedication atop it. In a hundred years, the plaster had chipped away and Pharaoh’s name was forgotten. It is the clever architect’s which will stand for eternity, and well it should, for the Lighthouse of Iskandria has no equal.”

Joscelin smiled, the story tickling his Siovalese fancy; all of Shemhazai’s descendents have a fondness for architects and engineers and the like, the cleverer, the better. I thanked the captain, who bowed and excused himself to oversee our entry into port. Although he had been exceedingly gracious, I was never fully at ease in his presence. Truly, it was through no fault of his own. The last time I’d been aboard a Serenissiman vessel, I’d come within a hair’s breadth of being beheaded. ’Tis a hard thing to forget.

The sky was a vivid hue of purple by the time we made port, the unfamiliar shapes of date palms making tufted silhouettes above the roofs. Twilight brought little coolness this far south and the hot air was dense, rife with strange odors. I have travelled to many places, willingly or no, and thought myself immune to strangeness, but Iskandria was different, more alien than aught I had experienced. We had arrived late and, aside from our crew, the people in the harbor-men and boys, for I saw no women-were quick and dark, speaking no tongue I recognized.

It is one thing to travel to a strange place on foot or on horseback, observing the gradual change in landscape and culture; if I may say so, it is quite another to travel by sea, and find oneself arriving unceremoniously in a foreign city. I glanced at Joscelin, who stood on the quai beside our bags and trunks looking bewildered, and wished for a moment that we
had
brought Ti-Philippe. A former sailor and veteran adventurer, he would have spent his days aboard the ship gambling and swapping tales, and arrived fully prepared to lead us to the best possible lodgings that might be arranged in Iskandria.

“My lady.” It was the Serenissiman captain, who approached with a bow, a smiling Menekhetan lad trailing at his heels. “Since you did not speak of your arrangements, I have taken the liberty of asking young Nesmut on your behalf. He is,” he shot the boy a warning glance, “one of the most trustworthy of the young pups who hang about the harbor, and he speaks a little Hellene. He says there is a D’Angeline delegation lodged in the Street of Oranges, and he will procure a carriage and take you there for twenty obols. It is a fair price.”

“We accept,” I said, nodding to the lad. “Thank you.”

He grinned, his teeth a flash of white in the gloaming, before dashing away. It reminded me with a pang of Hyacinthe’s smile, the way it had been when he was a boy. In a little while, he was back, leading a carriage-horse, one hand on the bridle, all self-importance. It was an open-air carriage, plain but suitable. The taciturn driver perched in his seat and looked bored.

“Nesmut’s a good lad,” the captain said when our goods were loaded. “If you’ve need of a guide in the city, he’ll serve. I’ve dealt with him before, and he knows I’ll box his ears if I hear he’s cheated a passenger of mine.”

“Thank you, my lord captain,” I said, with more sincerity than I’d evinced before. “Truly, I am grateful for your kindness.”

’Tis naught.” He shuffled and looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. “I’ve heard tell, you see. Sailors do. You’re the one … you’re the one that fell from the cliffs of La Dolorosa, and lived. They say Asherat-of-the-Sea held you in her hand and bore you up on the waves. I know … I know Marco Stregazza ordered you slain. I don’t blame you for being uneasy with it. Still, I’ll carry you anywhere you want to go. We’re in harbor two weeks. You only need to send word.”

What could I say to that? I thanked him for it again, feeling odd. At my side, Joscelin laughed softly. The boy Nesmut shifted impatiently, holding the carriage-horse’s reins. “Gracious lord, gracious lady,” he called in Hellene, “we go now, or you miss the supper hour, yes? Kyria Maharet, she will be angry.”

Heeding his call, we said our good-byes and boarded the carriage; the Serenissiman captain bowed one last time and held it, low and sweeping. I didn’t even know his name. And then the driver twitched his whip and we were moving through the warm twilight, the carriage-horse’s hooves clopping on the broad, straight streets. Nesmut sat opposite us, wrapping his arms around himself and grinning. He wore a white garment like a tunic, ragged but clean, and his coarse black hair was cut like a bowl, falling into his dark eyes. I guessed his age at thirteen.

It is hard to get an impression of a city at night, but I gathered somewhat; Iskandria was a well-planned city, filled with elegant temples and parks, gorgeous palaces, and clean streets laid out in a grid. Nesmut raised his head and sniffed deeply as we turned a corner, waving one slender hand. “Street of Oranges,” he announced. “You smell it?”

I could, a citron tang permeating the heavy air. A short way down, the driver drew rein before a low, arched doorway, twin torches burning untended in the sconces. Nesmut leapt down and dashed inside, barefoot and soundless. In a moment, he returned, grinning anew, flanked by a pair of well-muscled attendants.

“Gracious lord, gracious lady, you are here, yes?” He held out one hand expectantly.

I paid him in Serenissiman coin, having ascertained its relative value before I left; I am diligent about such things. He examined it carefully, biting down on the rim to be sure, reminding me anew of Hyacinthe. Joscelin supervised the removal of our belongings into the inn.

“It is good,” Nesmut acknowledged at length, giving half the coins to the carriage-driver and tucking the remainder into a hidden pocket in his tunic. “I come in the morning, yes? Gracious lady, will need a guide to the city.”

I began to demur, then thought better of it. “All right,” I said in Hellene. “Thank you, Nesmut. I cannot promise I will need your aid, but I will pay you for your time nonetheless.”

He grinned and made a surprisingly precise bow, then took to his heels. I watched his slight form recede into darkness, then followed Joscelin into the inn.

Beyond the broad, arched doorway, we were met by a solid figure of a woman in her forties, swathed in layers of silk. Her calculating eyes were lined in kohl, and her hair was caught in a neat bun at the nape of her neck, covered in an elaborate gilt cap. She placed her hands together and bowed, greeting us in flawless Hellene. “My lord and lady, I am Metriche. The boy Nesmut said you wished lodgings?”

“Yes,” I said. “You have other D’Angeline patrons here?”

“Yes.” Metriche bowed again. Her eyes were watchful. “Kyrios Trente and his party have taken lodging here. We are very near your ambassador’s home. May I show you to your rooms? The supper hour,” her eyes flashed briefly, “is nearly finished.”

“Please,” I said humbly.

Our hostess Metriche-Maharet, the boy had called her-led us to our rooms, which were gracious and well-appointed, cool in the evening air with a draft of citron coming from an unseen courtyard. “There is the ewer,” she said, pointing, “if you wish to bathe your face. If you do not come to the dining-hall in a quarter of an hour, you will not eat.”

With that, she left us.

I sat down on the bed and sighed. The mattress felt firm and pleasant, the cotton bedding exquisitely soft. After weeks aboard a ship, solid earth was unsteady under my feet. I welcomed the idea of sleep far more than sustenance. Joscelin poured water from the ewer into a marble basin, splashing noisily. “Ah!” He tossed his head back, looking unnaturally refreshed, in my opinion. “Phèdre, are you coming?” he asked, adding plaintively, “you needn’t, but I’m ravenous.”

“I’m coming,” I said, and sighed again, hauling myself off the bed. I felt a mess, salt-stained and travel-weary. I smoothed my garments-I was wearing the celadon green silks-and silently blessed Favrielle nó Eglantine for her irascible genius.

The dining-hall was a vast open space with vaulted ceilings, punctuated by slender columns. Fretted lamps cast a gentle glow, and white-clad attendants moved on hushed feet. The whole of the space was dominated by a single table, where a large party sat, flanking a man who was obviously its leader. He sat with his head bowed, both hands fisted in his curly hair, while his companions sought to give him counsel.

It was not until we entered the room that he looked up and I recognized him.

“Phèdre nó Delaunay,” Lord Amaury Trente exclaimed. “Thanks be to Blessed Elua! I thought you’d never get here.”

Thirty

Fadil Chouma was dead.

That was the story that emerged over the course of an hour as the Menekhetan servants brought out plate after plate of rich, spicy food-grilled eggplant, broad beans, lamb with onion and parsley, pickled limes, chickpeas and sesame, fish in a sharp garlic sauce, all served with flat bread and a honey-sweetened barley beer.

Although I had not thought myself hungry, my appetite manifested unexpectedly and I ate with good will as Lord Trente told his story.

The delegation had had a swift, uneventful journey from Marsilikos and arrived a scant week before us. Raife Laniol, Comte de Penfars, was Ysandre’s ambassador in Iskandria. He had bade them fair welcome and arranged for lodgings for the party with the lady Metriche. She was a widow of mixed blood, Menekhetan and Hellene alike; there was, I understood, an unofficial caste system at work in Iskandria, and native Menekhetans are reckoned of less worth than those descendants of Hellas.

Comte Raife had quickly grasped the sensitivity of the situation, and aided in negotiations with Pharaoh’s Secretary of the Treasury, presenting the offer of Alban trade-rights as an alluring opportunity. Amaury Trente made a pretty presentation of the tokens they had brought: a chest of lead, brooches and arm rings of intricate gold knot-work, and cleverest of all, potted seedlings of native Alban flora, for the Pharaohs of Menekhet were long known to be eager for exotic botany.

It had all gone remarkably well, and the delegation was presented to Ptolemy Dikaios, Pharaoh himself, who expressed his delight with the gifts and a keen interest in opening trade with Alba. Amaury Trente cited the interests of the Cruarch-linen flax, dates, wheat-mentioning as a casual aside a fancy of the Cruarch’s to assuage his wife’s whim, and retrieve a young D’Angeline boy mistaken sold into slavery in the city.

I have only the word of Amaury Trente and his companions by which to gauge, but I have no reason to doubt it. By all accounts, he managed it with a subtlety that would have satisfied Melisande. Pharaoh heard it with half an ear and waved his bejeweled hand, ordering his Secretary of the Treasury to ensure that this trifling matter was done, and returning to the more serious matters of flax and dates.

Well and so, it
would
have been done. The Secretary of the Treasury put one of his senior clerks on the matter, disdaining to sully his own hands, and the clerk found out the slaver Fadil Chouma’s residence in the Street of Crocodiles. Invoking his master’s name, he enlisted a squadron of the Pharaoh’s Guard and presented himself at Fadil Chouma’s residence, prepared to demand the return of the D’Angeline boy in the interests of the state, compensation to be, of course, negotiable, with death as an alternative.

But Fadil Chouma was already dead.

And the D’Angeline boy long since sold.

I understood better why Lord Amaury Trente clutched at his own hair. Although Chouma’s household remembered the boy, there was no record of Imriel de la Courcel’s sale-and Fadil Chouma had kept exacting records. There was, perhaps, a reason for it. Doubtless the D’Angeline boy was a piece of goods Fadil Chouma had sooner forget. It was Imriel, after all, who had killed him.

It was a fluke accident, in a way, although I daresay the boy intended it. It had happened in the kitchen-Chouma’s women had cosseted the lad, owing to his beauty, and allowed him thence to feed him sweetmeats and the like-where Imriel had turned like a flash, faster than anyone could have reckoned, and seized a knife the cook had been using to debone a chicken. He sunk the knife into Fadil Chouma’s thigh.

To be sure, ’twas no mortal wound; Chouma bellowed like a bull, the knife was removed and the wound bandaged. Imriel was beaten, and within two days, sold. Fadil Chouma, his mouth compressed in a tight line, would not say to whom. Already his wound festered. In four days, the leg was hot and rigid with swelling, red streaks making their way upward.

“He wouldn’t let the chirurgeon take his leg,” Amaury Trente said grimly. “I was told he died screaming, and I wasn’t sorry to hear it. But no one knows what he did with the boy.”