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Of that encounter, I will say little, save that it proved tedious in the end and unproductive. I daresay I met a good many Menekhetan malcontents that night, and they were eager to determine our motives for visiting Iskandria. I smiled and made polite allusions to the fact that Ysandre de la Courcel, the wise and gracious Queen of Terre d’Ange, wished it known that she had no interest in having a political say in the affairs of Menekhet, but only to trade freely with whosoever held power. Who knows? Like as not it was true.

Most of their questions, they directed toward Joscelin, eventually quizzing him on D’Angeline alliances and battle-tactics. What he did not know, he invented, describing fabulous war machines and siege-engines that I was fairly sure did not exist.

General Hermodorus himself was a bandy-legged man with a round belly and an intent stare, brows meeting over a beak of a nose; Horns, his companions called him, in a Menekhetan jest that eluded me. I neither liked nor disliked him. His wife, Gyllis, scarce spoke above a whisper, and I thought I might have pitied her if I had known her better. So we dined and made empty conversation, and my heart pounded all the while to think of Nesmut supping on bread and beer in the kitchen, making innocuous queries of the General’s household staff.

I needn’t have worried. Nesmut was waiting at the door as we made our farewells, carrying a fresh-kindled torch to light our way home. He met my eyes as he bowed, shaking his head imperceptibly, his expression disappointed. For all my fears, I cannot say I was surprised. General Hermodorus, whether he loved Pharaoh or no, did not strike me as a man willing to take risk for carnal passions.

So much for that thought.

Indeed, the only item of note in the entire evening passed nearly unnoticed, save by me; a small matter, scarce worth noting. One of General Hermodorus’ serving-maids was Hellene and island-bred, got in some skirmish I could not name. I would not have known, had she not paused ever so slightly in laying a dish on the table before me, bowing her head as I thanked her. “
Lypiphera
,” she murmured in acknowledgement, moving onward.

Pain-bearer.

I had been called that only once before, on the island of Kriti, by slaves.

I do not know how they knew, then.

Thirty-Four

A WEEK passed, and we were no closer to an answer; in another week, we must leave or forfeit our place in Radi Arumi’s caravan.

Lord Amaury Trente was pulling his hair again.

Frustrated, I asked Nesmut to arrange a meeting with Fadil Chouma’s widow and serve as translator. This, he did, and it too proved sublimely unproductive. We brought gifts of sweets and D’Angeline fabrics and jars of Menekhetan beer, spending a tongue-tied afternoon of pleasantries and abortive inquiries in Chouma’s courtyard, where his wife maintained a stoic mien and his concubines giggled and whispered behind their hands-all except one, who hid her face behind a veil and said nothing.
They do not care that Chouma’s third concubine will have scars
, Nesmut had said.

I cared. But Fadil Chouma’s third concubine kept silent behind her veil. She would speak no ill of Pharaoh; nor would Chouma’s widow nor his other concubines, for all their whispers. Nesmut only shook his head sadly. And the only item of note from that sojourn was that we saw once more one of the dread priests Nesmut so feared, walking boldly down the center of Canopic Street in the midday sun.

It is the broadest street in Iskandria, lined with immense effigies of Menekhetan deities whose faces bear a Hellene influence. This time, I saw the priest in advance of Nesmut’s hissed warning.

“
Skotophagotís
!”

We who are D’Angeline are bastard-born of the One God’s lineage, raised to respect the gods of all places. I stepped to the side of the street unthinking, and Joscelin followed suit, not going for his daggers this time. Nesmut crouched, baring his teeth as if in challenge. This time, I had a better look at the priest, until the chariot came. At close range he did not appear Menekhetan, I noted in surprise. No; his skin had a pallor theirs did not, and his square beard curled. This I saw, and why the sun glinted oddly on his head, for he wore a helm of bone, a boar’s skull or somewhat like it curving over his pate, with plaques of ivory sewn onto it with gold wire.

And then the chariot came, advertising for the games held weekly in the great amphitheatre of Iskandria, the charioteer with green ribbons tied around his upper arms hauling on the reins and cursing. His team drew up hard, champing and foaming at the bit.

It was a pair of matched chestnuts. I remember it well, how they tossed their heads, spume flying, and the heat and the dust. I remember the hot stink of horse-flesh, and how the
skotophagotis
stood unmoving, hoisting his staff. In the midday sun, his truncated shadow lay cut like a knife on the road, jet-black and immobile, crossing the charioteer’s path.

Nesmut made a keening sound, then bit the back of his hand to stop it.

The charioteer cursed in Menekhetan and flicked his whip.

And the
skotophagotis
bowed his head and stepped out of the way, sunlight gleaming from the yellowed bone that cupped his own skull. In a trice, it was over, and the charioteer plunging on his way, Nesmut tugging at my hand and muttering, “Do not look, do not look, my lady, do not cross his shadow.”

It meant nothing at the time, though. That came later.

Lord Amaury Trente was in a foul mood that night when we dined at Metriche’s inn, and for that, I could not blame him. There was no movement in the search for Imriel de la Courcel, and negotiations must carry on apace, lest we lose credibility with the Menekhetans. I’d scarce spoken to Denise Fleurais, who was the nearest thing I had to a friend among his delegates, these three days past. Ysandre would make no bad bargain on Drustan’s behalf; that was sacrosanct.

To be sure, gossip had spread since our visit to the baths, and there was speculation in Iskandria that I would offer my gifts to Pharaoh to sweeten the deal; the offer, it was murmured, would not be unwelcome.

Joscelin had heard it by now, and what he thought of it, I could not say. I daresay he knew why, after our talk, though we did not speak further of it. I kept my own counsel. Not a single one of Nesmut’s elaborate web of contacts could confirm Imri was in the Palace, and I had no intention of bringing my price to the bargaining-table if he was not.

“He wants to meet you, Phèdre.” Lord Amaury hoisted his cup of beer and regarded it with disfavor. “Elua, what I wouldn’t give for a glass of Namarrese red! We should have brought an extra keg. Any mind … it seems word has come to Pharaoh’s ear, and he told Ambassador de Penfars today that he wishes to lay eyes on this treasure of D’Angeline womanhood. Especially since General Hermodorus has seen you.”

I picked at the fish on my plate, separating tender flesh from a myriad of bones. “Well and so, he may meet me. If the ruler of Menekhet summons me before the throne, I can hardly ignore it.”

“And if he asks more?” Amaury asked. “Comte Raife thinks he might. He has heard, it seems, something of Naamah’s service.”

At the far end of the table, Denise Fleurais coughed discreetly. I ignored it and met Amaury’s eyes. “I am a free D’Angeline, and under no obligation to Ptolemy Dikaios. Does Ambassador de Penfars counsel that I should grant his request? Does he think Pharaoh will be struck dumb at my beauty and offer up the boy of his own volition?”

“No.” Lord Amaury looked miserable. “But we’re running out of options, my lady. And he thought… you are skilled in the arts of covertcy. Men talk, in moments of passion … Elua, I don’t know! I thought, when you arrived …” He shrugged. “I thought we would have found him by now.”

“So did I, my lord,” I murmured. “So did I.”

Amaury sighed and drained his cup, staring into its empty bottom until an attentive servant stepped up to refill it. I pushed away my plate of fish and glanced at Joscelin, who returned my gaze with an unreadable expression. The other delegates, less affected, laughed and conversed amid a merry clatter of cutlery. Someone, a minor lordling, was telling a tale of the day’s events to an audience rapt with horror.

“… dragged forty yards or better,” he was saying. “By the time they cut the reins from his waist, his own mother wouldn’t have recognized him.”

“You should send a letter of introduction,” Amaury announced in an abrupt tone, raising his head. “That much, at least. Raife Laniol’s a fool not to have advised it sooner.”

“… matched chestnuts, the sweetest pair you’ve seen, with an arch to their necks to make a woman weep, I tell you, and the one with its foreleg dangling, I nearly wept myself…”

“Of course,” I said absentmindedly, listening, “if you think it best. My lord Amaury, what are they talking about?”

“What?” Amaury Trente stared at me a moment, uncomprehending.

“Oh, that. A man was killed at the chariot-races, I believe. One of the charioteers. A terrible accident.”

“Did he wear green ribbons?” My voice was unsteady.

“Green ribbons?” Amaury frowned, and asked; the question wended its way down the table and came back, the answer bedecked with a good deal of unnecessary detail. Yes, the charioteer had worn green ribbons, tied about his upper arms. Or at least he had, before. He’d gotten tangled in his reins and dragged, after the chariot had upset. Who could say what color his ribbons had been, once they were soaked with blood?

Either way, the man was dead.

It was then that a feather of foreboding touched me.

“My lord Amaury,” I asked. “Who are these priests the locals name Eaters-of-Darkness? “

No one, it transpired, knew for sure; some had never encountered one and others, like me, had assumed they were Menekhetan priests, servants of Serapis, lord of the dead. I listened to them all, and learned little, beginning to wonder. Joscelin had seen the same thing I had. He listened too, and I saw on his face a steadily growing expression of disquiet that echoed what I felt. Somewhere, in these events, an unseen pattern was tightening upon us.

That night, I had another dream.

This time, it was different. I did not dream of the ship and the isle, but of Canopic Street, flat and bright-washed in the midday sun, dust lying heavy on the flagstones. A lone figure knelt in the center of it, a boy, his head bowed. A collar of iron weighted his neck, outsized and cruel, and his hair fell in black curls over his shoulders.

“
Skotophagotis
!” said a voice I knew to be Nesmut’s.

I took a step forward, my feet as heavy as lead. A black shadow fell across the flagstones, fell across the kneeling boy. He lifted his head. A black bar of shadow lay over his face, cast by an unseen staff. He knelt unmoving, and I saw that a chain ran from the iron collar to his shackled wrists. Above the staff-shadow, his eyes were as blue as sapphires.

“
Lypiphera
,” he said to me in Hyacinthe’s voice.

I woke up shaking and weeping, with Joscelin’s arms around me and his voice, warm and alive, murmuring soothing things in my ear. He held me until it passed. My anxious heart slowed and my breathing grew calm. I freed myself from his arms, then, and went to stand before the open window, letting the night breeze dry my sweat-dampened skin.

“How long have you been having nightmares?” Joscelin asked behind me.

“Since the City,” I murmured. “I dreamt of Hyacinthe, before it all began.”

“You should have told me.”

“I know.” I turned around to look at him sitting up in the bed, his beautiful face somber with concern. “It doesn’t matter, though, not really. I had nightmares before, too; before La Serenissima. I’m no seer. They never tell me anything I don’t already know. Only things I don’t want to admit.”

“And what did this one tell you?” he asked, grave as a child. Joscelin would never laugh at my dreams, whether I told him or no. We had been together too long. I shivered and wrapped my arms about myself.

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “But I saw that priest’s shadow.”

“
Skotophagotis
.” He said the word and fell silent a moment. “Phèdre, come to bed. I think this is a conversation better held in daylight.”

I agreed wholeheartedly, crawling back into bed and into his arms. With my head on Joscelin’s shoulder, I fell asleep at last. His eyes were still open when I did, staring awake at the ceiling, and what private darkness he saw, I could not say.

In the morning, we did not speak of it until Nesmut came. He came at the tail-end of the breakfast hour, as was his wont, sauntering into Metriche’s dining-hall. Taking a seat at our table-it was only Joscelin and me, Lord Amaury’s delegation having departed already-Nesmut helped himself to a serving of bean-cake, amply spooning jellied figs atop it. He had, I noted, a new tunic, white cotton with a fine brown stripe, the fabric still crisp. Nesmut had prospered in our service. I felt guilty terminating it.

Nonetheless, there was the dream.

“Nesmut,” I said, making my voice firm. He looked at me wide-eyed his mouth full of bean-cake. “I have come to a decision. Our bargain is ended. I don’t want you risking yourself or others in searching the Palace of Pharaohs.”

“Gracious lady!” he said in dismay, curds of bean-crumbs on his lips. He swallowed, and began again. “Gracious lady, we have only begun to search-”

“No more,” I said implacably. “Swear it. Swear it by Serapis.”

Joscelin raised his eyebrows and shifted, showing the hilt of his sword to better advantage.

“I swear it,” Nesmut muttered. With a sullen look, he raised his hand and rattled off an oath in Menekhetan. “The gracious lady is happy? You wish me to go?”

Guilty or no, I felt a great weight lifted from me. I fished in the purse at my waist for a silver obol. “It is not that I am displeased, Nesmut, only that-”

“Wait,” Joscelin said mildly. He leaned forward. “Nesmut, my lady Phèdre fears to put you in danger; you, or anyone. It does not mean we have no need of your wisdom. Tell us this, if you may, and heed my lady’s tender sensibilities well. Who is that man you call Eater-of-Darkness?”