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“Why did you?” I asked him, continuing my bath.

Rushad considered, glancing over at the young Skaldi man I’d spoken to last night, who was now sitting against a wall, knees drawn up, his head low. “They say … they say you talked to him last night, to Erich. That you spoke in his tongue. He was my friend, before, although we could not speak, not even in zenyan. Now …” He shrugged. “He will not even try. I thought, maybe …”

“It is Skaldic,” I said. “I think there is no trace of it in this … zenyan, you call it? Nothing he would understand. But he would not speak to me, either.”

“Perhaps in time,” Rushad murmured.

“Mayhap.” Reluctantly, I donned my travel-stained attire. “I will continue to try, if you will help me find a way to the D’Angeline boy.”

“He will be back in the
zenana
soon enough.” Rushad fussed with the basin, avoiding my eyes. “You will see him then, if…” His voice trailed off. “Well, if you are here, you will see him.”

With that, he left me.

If there is anything worse than terror, it is terror and tedium commingled. I sat on my couch, combing out my damp, tangled hair with my fingers, taking the measure of the
zenana
, of many dozens of lives condemned to spin themselves out beneath the vast, brooding shadow of the Mahrkagir’s palace. How, I wondered, did they feel it? Did they sense it, the dire presence I had felt above? Did they know its name? Did they pray to their gods?

Some did, I know; I saw it, then and later.

There was a tall Jebean woman who told fortunes with bones, holding court on a carpeted island. Sometimes, with great ceremony, she would unravel a single crimson thread from her frayed garments and make a knotted talisman, handing it over in exchange for some small gift.

There was a Chowati woman who sat on the floor with her hands on her knees, rocking back and forth and uttering ceaseless prayers, eyes shut tight, diagonal scars marking her cheeks.

There were three Bhodistani who had plainly resolved to die, hollow-eyed, their skin touched with the translucence that comes of drinking only water and taking no sustenance. They had drawn their couches into a triangle and knelt facing one another, hands folded. I envied them their serenity. No one seemed inclined to stop them.

Of hope … there was none.

And not one of them, I thought, had known desire at the Mahrkagir’s touch.

I didn’t like to think about it.

If Imriel had been here-if he had, then what? For all my vaunted skills in the arts of covertcy, I’d come here without a plan, placing myself in Blessed Elua’s hand. The
zenana
was guarded, the Akkadian eunuchs wearing short, curved knives at their belts. Mayhap Joscelin could have fought his way through a dozen of them … but Joscelin could not aid me here. No, he was sworn into the Mahrkagir’s service, surrounded by the men who had defeated and unmanned the Akkadians, clad in leather and steel plate, heavily armed. Even if he tried, they were enough to stop him; enough, and more.

And there were the
Skotophagoti
.

Blessed Elua, I thought, what have I done?

What have you done to me?

Forty-Four

“You haven’t wept.”

The sound of a voice speaking Caerdicci-a civilized tongue, the scholar’s language, nearly my milk-tongue-jolted me awake. I hadn’t realized I’d been dozing. I stared uncomprehending at the woman standing before me, strong-featured and handsome. There was blood spattered on her woolen gown, which was cut in the Tiberian manner, a long shawl worn over it.

“Forgive me,” I said, nearly stammering. “My lady … ?”

“Drucilla.” She sat down on the far end of my couch uninvited, fixing me with a disconcertingly level grey-blue gaze. “It will do. You are D’Angeline.”

“Yes.” I sat upright, running my hands over my face. “Phèdre nó Delaunay.”

“Phèdre.” Drucilla nodded once. “That’s an ill-luck name.”

“So it seems,” I said, eyeing her. She bore it with composure, only flinching a little and tucking her hands into the folds of her shawl. I saw before she did that the fourth and fifth fingers were missing the furthest joint on both hands. “Are you wounded, my lady?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I have come from seeing Hiu-Mei, who is newly returned from his lordship’s attentions. She is his favorite. In a fit of anger, he struck her face with a-” Seeing me blanch, she switched mid-sentence. “It is not my blood. I was a physician, once. I do what I can to tend to the living.”

“Ah.” I swallowed. “Truly, it is admirable, my lady.”

“It keeps despair at bay,” Drucilla said matter-of-factly. “One clings to what one knows, until… well.” She glanced at her hidden hands. “Until one can cling no longer. They are speaking of you. I was curious.”

I remembered the words that had awakened me. “Because I have not wept?”

“That, and other things. A guard said that you were not taken; you were brought. Others have been, but never one such as you. And now there is a D’Angeline lordling among the Mahrkagir’s men, a leopard among wolves. There was a quarrel, last night in the festal hall.”

My heart leapt in my breast. I schooled my voice to hardness, asking, “Is he dead?”

“No,” the Tiberian woman said. “One of his lordship’s Drujani soldiers is.”

I looked away, hiding a profound relief. “You wonder that I do not weep. I spent my tears a long time ago. He told me my kinsmen would never cross the border into Drujan. I believe it, now.”

“You’ll weep,” Drucilla said quietly.

It was truer than she knew. “What will become of me?” I asked.

She shrugged. “His lordship the Mahrkagir will send for you, when he is ready. It may be days, or weeks. Months, even. In your case … well. I do not think he will forget.”

My blood ran like ice, and beneath it, somewhere, the awful stir of desire. “And then?”

“You will weep, and perhaps wish to die.” It passed for compassion, in this place. “If you do not, if you survive … there are ways. Some few of us share what skills we have. And there are others, other … patrons, Drujani warlords and others, his lordship’s guests.” With a sweeping gesture, she indicated those women who enjoyed small luxuries. “It is another way to keep despair at bay. Not my way, but I have heard you bear the marque of one dedicated to your goddess of pleasure.”

I nodded, understanding. “How is it arranged?”

“His lordship sometimes chooses to share his concubines among his allies. If they hunger for more …” She shrugged again. “The Akkadian attendants take bribes, sometimes. They have little loyalty for this service.” She told me why, then.

Well and good; so the
zenana
was not impermeable, and I might hope to gain favor in the form of scented oils or dice or sweetmeats-or better yet, raw opium-if I chose to make myself available to any number of Drujani warlords. I kept my mouth closed, and listened to all that Drucilla had to tell me, which was a good deal.

I daresay it was a relief to her, who had not surrendered fully to despair, to speak to someone who had not yet abandoned all hope. Later I learned that she took it upon herself always to speak to newcomers to the
zenana
. Most of them-of us-were victims of the slave-trade or conquests of war; some few were even tribute-gifts. Drucilla was an exception. Adventurous and independent, she had travelled from her homeland to see the sights of Hellas; falling in love with the country, she had set up shop as a physician in Piraeus. It was there that a
Skotophagotis
and a company of Drujani had taken fancy to the notion of a female chirurgeon as they set sail for Ephesium. And they had simply taken her.

It appalled me more than I could say, that the incursions of the
Skotophagoti
had grown so bold, that we had known naught of it in Terre d’Ange. Drucilla had cried out for aid. The Hellenes had turned a deaf ear. The Ephesian ship’s captain had ignored her cries, though she pounded on the door of her cabin until her hands bled.

“Though they have bled more, since,” she added with a crooked smile.

“The Mahrkagir?” I asked.

Drucilla nodded and looked away, knotting the folds of her shawl. “He wonders what I will do, when I have no fingers left to administer to the ailing. Fortunately, he does not remember to wonder it often. He is quite mad, you know.”

“I know.” I did. “Do you know why?”

“Perhaps.” She bowed her head, loose locks of brown hair hiding her face. “He survived the purge, after the rebellion; Hoshdar Ahzad, do you know of it?” I merely nodded, not wanting to distract her flow of words. “He was an illegitimate son, bastard-born; his mother was a common street-whore, whom his father brought into the
zenana
and raised to concubine status.” Drucilla raised her head, pointing toward a far wall, where the Skaldi lad Erich slumped. “It happened there. I had the story from Rushad … you know Rushad? One cannot be sure, speaking in zenyan, but he knows; he had it from his old Akkadian master, who commanded here years ago, until the second rebellion …”

A simple story, when all was said and done. The Mahrkagir, a boy of four or five, had survived the slaughter, struck a blow on the head and left for dead. Bleeding from a gash to the temple, eyes fixed wide, he had watched as the women and children of the
zenana
-lesser wives, concubines, his own half-brothers and-sisters-were ravished and slain, until the now-stagnant pool turned crimson with blood.

The corpses were stacked like cordwood, the Akkadian chronicler had said; in the
zenana
, they were stacked atop the still-breathing body of a boy of four or five, until they blotted out his vision. It was the giant, Tahmuras-then a strapping lad of fourteen, left alive by the Akkadians, who desired strong limbs to clean up after their massacre-who excavated him, removing corpses one by one, tearing him free from the womb of death.

“He protected him,” Drucilla said. “He protects him still, night and day. It was the people who named him, so they say; the folk of Darsanga.”

“The Conqueror of Death,” I murmured.

Drucilla nodded. “No one knew what his mother called him, and he had no words, not after that. It was the blow to the head, I think. Ever afterward, his eyes remained dilated, and he cannot bear the light. It is said he remembers nothing, before his second birth. Only death. And he is mad. Wholly and completely mad. Of that, I am certain.”

I could not speak for the awful pity that stopped my mouth. I swallowed, willing it to subside. “There is another boy,” I said, my voice croaking. “A D’Angeline boy …”

“Imri.” Drucilla folded her maimed hands in her lap, looking sidelong at me. “You asked after him. I have heard it.”

“You know him.” Relief flooded me.

“He speaks Caerdicci. He was gently reared, once.”

I thought of Brother Selbert and the sanctuary of Elua, nestled in the mountains of Siovale, where it seemed no harm could befall anyone. “Is he … well?” I asked.

“He is alive, and unmaimed.” Her mouth hardened. “In this place, that passes for well.”

I tried not to sound too eager. “I would speak with him, if it is possible.”

“Not until Nariman relents,” she said bluntly. “It may be days. He is Chief Eunuch here, and Imri’s punishment is his province. I don’t advise you to cross him. It is said that it was Nariman who opened the gates of the
zenana
, thirty years ago, to the Akkadian forces. It amuses his lordship to leave him in office. I cannot think why.” Drucilla rose from my couch, stretching aching joints with a sigh. “Phèdre nó Delaunay, do not expect too much of the boy. It is a comfort to have the companionship of one’s homeland, but he has been a long time without it and cruelly treated in the bargain. I do what I may, but he does not welcome pity.”

“No.” I thought of Melisande’s face when I had told her the news, the awful knowledge, the blazing fury in her eyes. “I don’t suppose he would.”

Drucilla left me, then, continuing on her rounds of the
zenana
; I watched, and saw that she was greeted with respect by some; by others, with indifference or disdain. She laid a hand on the shoulder of one of the three fasting Bhodistani. I could not hear what they said, but she merely nodded, sorrow in her mien, and went onward. She stooped to speak to the Skaldi lad, who turned his face to the wall. Nothing to be done there.

Someone scratched at the latticed door to the
zenana
-a Drujani soldier. A deathly quiet fell over the tepidarium. Nariman, the Chief Eunuch, conferred and stepped forward with a pair of Akkadian attendants. His keen gaze swept the room, and I saw many dozens of women suddenly try to make themselves invisible.

To no avail; Nariman pointed-there, there and there, and six women and one boy gained expressions of despair. One went wailing, and beyond the door, I saw the Drujani grin. The boy was Menekhetan, slight and stumbling; in silent anguish, I thought of Nesmut. The women whose couches he shared wept openly, covering their heads and rending their clothing.

No matter what, I thought, where battle prevails, women must grieve.

One of the Bhodistani had been chosen, a lovely woman clad in silks of crimson and orange. The warm hue of her skin and her long black hair reminded me eerily of my mother; there is Bhodistani blood, they say, in the veins of Jasmine House. The Akkadians stood by, waiting, almost respectful. Her legs gave way beneath her as she sought to stand, and one of the eunuchs caught her gently. Her companions, languid with the nearness of death, reached out to kiss her hand, tears in their eyes. Wavering on her feet, she gave them a lucid smile.

Blessed Elua, I thought, let me go as gracefully when my time to die is come.

And regarded the thought with horror.

Then they were gone, and the
zenana
buzzed with relief. They had gone, I knew from what Drucilla had told me, to the festal hall-to the Mahrkagir’s entertainment. Some would return, depending on the lord’s mood and that of his men. Some would not. I did not think the Bhodistani woman would, who had set her mind to die. I was not sure of the others, nor the boy.

Too restless to remain still, I got up and wandered the
zenana
. Since I had naught else to do, I sat for a while beside the Skaldi lad, Erich. “What is your tribe?” I asked him in his own tongue. “Where is your steading?” Wrapped in his own private misery, he rolled on his side, facing the wall and ignoring me. So I sang to him in Skaldic, the hearth-songs of his mothers and sisters, the songs I had learned when I was a slave-when I was first a slave, for what else was I now?-in Gunter Arnlaugson’s steading, whence Melisande had sold me. I sang to him until I saw his broad shoulders shake with silent tears, and felt abashed. “Your friend Rushad is missing you,” I whispered to him, then. “He does not wish you to die.”