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Nesmut shuddered and glanced around, then lowered his voice in the bright morning light. “Gracious lord, it is a danger to name them! They are shades, priests of a kingdom that died and lives, Persis-that-was. In Iskandria, and all across the world, they go where they will. Akkadians hate them like the plague, so it is said, but even they fear to cross a
Skotophagotis
’ shadow. Many have tried, and died for it.”

“Like the charioteer,” I said.

Nesmut nodded vigorously and reached for another bean-cake, forgetting his fear. “The gracious lady has heard, yes. We saw it, and he died, died before sunset. He was a fool from the countryside, and knew no better.”

“Persis-that-was?” Joscelin frowned. “You mean they are descendents of the Persians?”

“No.” Nesmut chewed and swallowed, pouring a glass of water. “That is, yes, gracious lord, they are of the ancient bloodlines, but there are many Persians in Khebbel-im-Akkad. The
Skotophagoti
…” he dropped his voice again, “… are of the kingdom that died and lives.”

Joscelin raised his eyebrows at me and I shook my head. I knew something of Akkadian history through my studies with Eleazar ben Enoch, and a good deal of the language, but nothing of a kingdom that died and lives. Of Persis itself, I knew little, for that once-mighty empire was overthrown by Ahzimandias and the resurgent House of Ur some five hundred years gone by. The Akkadians were not merciful, doing their best to obliterate the remnants of Persian culture.

There is, of course, one story that lives in D’Angeline memory. It was the King of Persis who imprisoned Blessed Elua when he first wandered the earth … and it was Naamah who freed him, offering the king a single night of pleasure if he would release Elua. It is why we revere Naamah, and enter her service in homage.

I was disquieted by the thought.

“Nesmut,” I began, but I never finished my question, for at that moment, Lord Amaury Trente entered the dining-hall, flanked by a pair of delegates, looking distractedly about the room.

“Phèdre!” he exclaimed, spotting me and hurrying over. “My lady, I’m glad you’re still here. Pharaoh has sent word through Ambassador de Penfars. You are summoned to an audience,” he said, adding, “Now.”

Thirty-Five

ONE DOES not ignore a summons from a sitting regent in his own capital city, free D’Angeline or no. I changed my attire, donning the one suitable gown I had brought, a deep rose-hued silk bedecked with crystal beadwork. It was a full year out of date, but Favrielle nó Eglantine had designed it, and the slim-fitting lines and the way an extra measure of fabric pooled at the hem were still being copied this year. I’d brought it because it packed light.

“Very nice,” Joscelin said in a neutral voice, watching me braid my hair into a coronet.

“He is Pharaoh of Menekhet, Joscelin.” I fixed the braids in place with jeweled hairpins, turning my head to see them glitter in the room’s dull bronze mirror. “Should I present myself before him in riding garb?”

Joscelin shrugged and made no reply. He had changed into a doublet and breeches of dove-grey velvet, the crest of Montrève worked small on the breast. If he’d worn his hair in a club at the neck, he could have passed for a Cassiline Brother.

I eyed him with resignation. “You’ll not be able to take your blades into Pharaoh’s presence, you know.”

“I know. I’ll leave them when asked.”

It would have to do. I sighed and kissed him before applying carmine to my lips with a delicate brush. Mayhap it gave him dour amusement that I needs must dress my beauty in its finest raiment to meet a foreign sovereign, but he’d never been described as a treasure of D’Angeline womanhood, either. Whatever else transpired, trade negotiations with Menekhet were like to continue, and thanks to the Lady Denise’s idea, I had a level of credibility to meet.

The Ambassador had sent his carriage, and Comte Raife Laniol greeted us himself in his courtyard, accompanied by his wife. He was a tall man with brown hair turning to silver, courtly and well-spoken. He was, I was told, an excellent Hellene scholar; well and so, I could admire that, though I thought him a fool for failing to learn Menekhetan. It is a scholar’s weakness, to run narrow and deep. I rather liked his wife, Juliette, who had a grave loveliness that lit unexpectedly when she smiled.

“Comtesse,” she murmured, giving me the kiss of greeting. “It is an honor to meet you. We would have had you to dine, you and messire Verreuil, only I feared to disturb your travails.”

I assured her that it would be a pleasure, and then her husband held open the door of the carriage and we reboarded once more, all of us pressed close in the small space. Amaury Trente looked anxious, as well he might; although he said naught of it, I know he regarded the inspired plans to which I was prone with a degree of trepidation.

For my part, I felt only an unwarranted calm. I listened to Raife Laniol instruct us on the protocol of the presence, committing it to memory. We were to pause at the door to the throne-room, then follow three steps behind the Chamberlain upon being announced, preceded by the Ambassador and his wife. We were to make a full kneeling obeisance, and then stand with our eyes cast down until Pharaoh addressed us. Upon leaving, we were to wait for the Chamberlain to pass, and follow three steps behind, departing in the order of arrival.

There was more, too. I waited until he was finished. “My lord Ambassador, what do you know of these priests the Iskandrians call
Skotophagoti
?”

Comte Raife blinked, perplexed. His wife whispered in his ear. “Oh yes,” he said, expression clearing. “It is some native superstition, I am told. Menekhet is like any place, full of its soothsayers and harbingers. Do they concern you?”

“They might,” I said. “Where are they from? I was told Persis.”

“Persis!” He laughed. “Someone has been filling your ears with nonsense.”

“You have never heard of a kingdom that died and lives?”

“Ah.” Comte Raife gave me a benevolent look. “It is Khebbel-im-Akkad you’re thinking of, my dear. I am given to understand that the name itself means …”

“Akkad-that-is-reborn,” I said. “Yes, my lord, I know it. This is something different.”

He shook his head, bemused. “I think not, my lady.”

And then there was no more time for conversation, for we had reached the Palace of Pharaohs. It is a gorgeous structure, to be sure, sheathed in white marble and jutting out into the harbor. Pharaoh’s guards knew the Ambassador by sight, but they took no chances, peering into the carriage and confirming our identities, matching them against a list on a waxen tablet. Our entrance was authorized and we were waved through the gate.

Inside, the Palace was open and airy, with high ceilings and innumerable windows positioned to catch the sea breeze. Clearly, it was meant to be defended from without and not within. We were ushered into an antechamber where we were served a cooling drink of steeped hibiscus petals, and stoic slaves worked fans of massive palm fronds. Presently the Chamberlain came for us, accompanied by a pair of attendants. He was a tall, gaunt man with a slight stoop, and no trace of humor in his mien.

“My lord Ambassador,” he greeted Raife Laniol in Hellene.

Comte Raife bowed. “My lord Chamberlain. You know Lord Amaury Trente, and his companions, Lord Nicolas Vigny and the Baron de Chalais. May I present the Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève, and her consort Joscelin Verreuil?”

The Chamberlain’s eyelids flickered. It is not done, in Menekhet, for women to take consorts as we do in Terre d’Ange-not openly, at least. “Pharaoh will be pleased,” was all he said. “My lord Verreuil, will you consent to leave your weapons in our keeping?”

Joscelin gave a Cassiline bow in response, removing his daggers from their sheaths and unbuckling his baldric with practiced ease. One of the Chamberlain’s attendants stepped forward, opening a length of the best Menekhetan linen to accept his weapons. The unadorned steel, oiled leather and worn hilts looked plain and utilitarian against the fine white cloth.

“Those blades once saved her majesty’s life,” Comte Raife said. “Guard them well, my lord Chamberlain.”

So, I thought, he is not entirely unsuited to diplomacy. The Chamberlain glanced at Joscelin with a measure of increased respect. “It shall be done,” he said, bowing briefly. “Now, if you will follow, Pharaoh is waiting.”

We followed, Comte Raife and his wife three steps behind the Chamberlain, Amaury Trente and the delegates, and Joscelin and me at the rear. I kept my eyes downcast, walking at a measured pace, feeling the vastness of the throne-room echo on my ears. The air moved, fanned by slaves, scented with camphor and sandalwood. By the faint creak of armor, I guessed there were guards present, a dozen or more. I heard our names announced, and caught a glimpse of Comte Raife and Juliette making their obeisance, then Lord Amaury and his delegates. A male voice addressed them in pleasant tones, and another, a woman’s, young and piping.

And then it was our turn. Approaching the throne, I sank to my knees, feeling the marble cool through the silk of my dress, bowing deeply and rising, keeping my gaze on the floor, conscious of Joscelin doing the same.

“Lady Phèdre.” It was Pharaoh’s voice that addressed me. I met his eyes. Despite his gilt-encrusted robes, Ptolemy Dikaios, Pharaoh of Menekhet, was only a man, of middle years, the gold diadem of his office set atop thinning hair. He smiled at me. “So this is the treasure of Terre d’Ange.”

“My lord Pharaoh.” I inclined my head. “Others have said it, not I.”

“Oh, they’ve said well enough.” He reached out to take the hand of the woman seated at his side; scarce more than a girl, really. “Do you not agree, my darling Clytemne?”

The Pharaoh’s second wife and current Queen giggled. “It is true, then! My ladies said as much. Tell me …” She leaned forward, wide-eyed and curious. “Do you bathe in the milk of wild asses to make your skin so fair? I have heard it is so.”

“No, my lady.” I curtsied to her, keeping my expression serious. Well and so; this audience was not entirely what I had expected. Across from me, I could see Joscelin biting his lip and studying the floor. “I use a salve of wool-fat, from the first shearing, rendered with an attar of rose. It gives a marvelous suppleness. I am certain Lord Amaury could procure it if my lady wishes.”

“Oh, yes!” Queen Clytemne clapped her hands together. Ptolemy Dikaios looked amused and indulgent. Amaury Trente looked dumbstruck, and hid it poorly. “Of a surety,” the young Queen continued eagerly, “you recommend tincture of nightshade to give your eyes such luster, is it not so?”

“No, my lady.” I shook my head and smiled gently at her. “It makes the eyes ill able to bear light, and I fear I would find myself blinded by your majesty’s brilliance.”

“Oh!” Clytemne blushed, pleased by the compliment, pink color lending a moment’s beauty to her sallow cheeks. “But your eyes…” She leaned closer to peer at me. “Oh! You have the strangest flaw, Lady Phèdre, a spot of crimson-”

“It is the mark of Kushiel’s Dart,” Raife Laniol, Ambassador de Penfars, said smoothly, stepping forward to bow. “Or so we say, in Terre d’Ange.”

“
Mighty Kushiel, of rod and weal, late of the brazen portals, with blood-tipp’d dart a wound unhealed, pricks the eyen of chosen mortals
.” The words were spoken in Hellene, but their source was pure D’Angeline. I saw Joscelin’s head raise unbidden, his hands crossing unthinking to hover over the hilts of his absent daggers. Ptolemy Dikaios was smiling broadly. “Come, my lord de Penfars,” he chided the Ambassador. “You are a scholar. Tiberium may lay its claims, but all the world knows the finest library is in Iskandria. For a thousand years, Menekhet has survived by its wits. Did you truly think I would entertain a D’Angeline delegation without learning all I might? Did you suppose me ignorant of the identity of your guests, who have dined with my dear General Hermodorus?” Ignoring us for a moment, he turned to his young bride. “Clytemne, my darling, you have seen the flower of D’Angeline beauty. Now leave us to discussion.”

With a show of reluctance, she climbed down from her throne, an escort awaiting her. “You won’t forget the salve?” she asked me hopefully in parting.

I looked pointedly at Amaury Trente, who started before executing a florid bow. “It will be my honor to execute the request personally, your majesty.”

And then we were alone with Ptolemy Dikaios, Pharaoh of Menekhet, whose intellect I feared I had greatly underestimated. He steepled his fingers, clad in a glittering array of rings, over his belly and regarded us. “She had a desire to behold you, my lady, and learn the secrets of D’Angeline beauty. We are grateful for your indulgence.”

“It is my honor, my lord.”

He waved one bejeweled hand. “Clytemne is a silly girl, but her heart is good, and she brings to our marriage an allegiance with the island of Cythera which I could ill afford to lose. For my part, I am well-pleased. Tell me, is there aught I may offer in kind?”

I have served Naamah for many years, and I know a laden question when I hear one. I knew it now. And I have studied the arts of covertcy for nearly as long, and knew to read the shadings of tone, the unspoken language of the body.
I know who you are
, said the silent features of Ptolemy Dikaios,
and what you do. I know what you seek, and what you may ask. Do you dare
?

And I wondered how he knew and I bethought myself of Melisande Shahrizai, who had managed access, in her Serenissiman exile, to Hellene translations of Habiru texts, to rare Jebean manuscripts. Melisande, who had been on a moment’s notice prepared to escape to Iskandria and pursue her missing son. It had not occurred to me, until now, to wonder why she was so certain of finding aid in the city. And it had not occurred to me to wonder from whom. Melisande was never one to aim low.

“My lord Pharaoh,” I said to him. “You know who I am. Do you know what I seek?”

Ptolemy Dikaios shifted on his throne, rings flashing. His features had gone impassive. “I know it does not lie within these walls.”

I studied his face as if my life depended on it, and indeed, if mine did not, Imriel’s might. He was concealing something. Knowledge, or the boy? If I was wrong, I lost my opportunity. I had to gamble. Pharaoh’s face was smooth, sure of his unassailability. He would not be so certain if it was the boy. A secret alliance is much easier to hide than a ten-year-old boy. I thought of my dream, and the dark bar of shadow falling across Imriel’s upturned face. Amaury Trente was staring at me, his lips moving silently, praying I would not do aught foolish. In truth, I could not say. “Then I will ask a question, my lord Pharaoh, as I perceive you are a scholar of the world.” I drew a deep breath. “What is the kingdom that died and lives?”