Either way, I disabused him of the notion.
"My lord Pharaoh," I said to him in his private reception-chamber, attended only by impassive fan-bearers. "This is my boon: In exchange for your aid, I will not tell Ambassador de Penfars nor Lord Amaury Trente that you have been in league with the Lady Melisande Shahrizai de la Courcel."
He looked at me for a long moment without speaking, reclining on a couch, head propped on one hand. "Now why would you say such a thing?"
"Because, my lord." I raised my eyebrows at him. "No one de scribed the lad to you. And yet I heard you tell the guard he was a D'Angeline boy of some ten years, with black hair and blue eyes. Either you have seen the lad yourself. . . or someone else has described him to you. And I can only think of one person like to do such a thing."
At that, he had the grace to blanch a little. "You do not speak Menekhetan."
"No," I agreed. "I don't. But I listened to a young man in my employ translate those very words into Menekhetan for the benefit of Fadil Chouma's widow and concubines. I have an ear, my lord, for language."
"Indeed." After a moment, Ptolemy Dikaios rose from his couch and paced the room, his hands clasped behind his back. He regarded his couch, his impassive slaves, his frescoed walls. In time, he regarded me. "I have never seen this boy. Iskandria enjoys free trade with La Serenissima. This woman of whom you speak was wife to the sole D'Angeline presence in that city-state. Our acquaintance is of long standing."
"Her fortunes," I said, "have changed considerably from when first you knew her."
"Imprisonment." He waved a dismissive hand. "Or sanctuary, if you will. Yes. Even so, I am given to understand that her son ..." he gave the word a subtle emphasis, ". . . stands third in line for the D'Angeline throne."
"He does," I said. "Which is why her majesty Ysandre de la Courcel would as lief see him safe. It does not alter the fact that his mother has been condemned for treason and is sentenced to die should she set foot from her sanctuary."
Much to my surprise, Ptolemy Dikaios laughed, and did more than laugh. It was a deep and considerable laugh, roaring from his gut, until his eyes watered and he must needs use the fringed end of a sash to wipe them. "Ah, Phèdre nó Delaunay! Why did your Queen not send you to begin with? We would have saved a tedious dance. I have heard of you, indeed I have. This woman of whom we speak warned me of your wits."
I waited for his mirth to subside. "I have other business in Iskandria. My Queen only wants the boy returned."
"Yes, of course. His own mother asks nothing more." He sat back down on his couch, sighing and dabbing at his eyes. "Oh, my! The gods themselves weep for laughter. You thought I had him?"
"Until today," I admitted.
"Would that I did." Ptolemy Dikaios heaved another great sigh and composed himself. "I'd have restored him, my lady, one way or another. I promised . . . our friend ... as much, and she, I know, would not hold it overmuch against me had I sinned unknowing. A pity I did not, for she promised a formidable alliance should he take the throne. But no, my taste does not run to boys, not even D'Angeline boys."
"I would that it did, my lord Pharaoh," I said quietly. "If the boy were to appear, dazed and unsure, with some wild tale on his lips . . . there would be no questions asked. Only gratitude"
"You can guarantee that much?" he asked shrewdly. "You would swear to it?"
I thought of the brooch Ysandre had given me, the Companion's Star, and the boon unasked. "Yes, my lord," I said to him. "I would swear to it. If it were true."
Our gazes locked, and it was the Pharaoh who looked away. "I spoke the truth," he said. "I've never laid eyes on the boy nor heard whisper of his existence until your Lord Amaury inquired. A letter came from La Serenissima, on the very ship that brought you, and I learned more. Believe me, I've conducted a search of my own, to no avail. And now ..." He looked back at me. "If I were you, I would pray, to any god who would hear me. Because if there is any merit to your guess, if that boy's been taken by the Drujani..." He shook his head. "I cannot help you. No one can."
"Well," I said, light-headed with despair. "We will have to see. Do we have a bargain, my lord Pharaoh? My silence for your aid?"
He paused, and nodded. "We have a bargain. For all that it is worth."
It was then that there came a discreet rap at the door, and the Captain of the Iskandrian Guard entered with the news that would sunder my world in twain.
I had struck my bargain too late. Imriel de la Courcel was gone, far beyond the boundaries of any aid the Pharaoh of Menekhet might render. Once again, I was three steps behind, and only Kushiel knew into what dire darkness the path led.
Drujan, I thought, and shuddered.
Ptolemy Dikaios looked at me with pity. It frightened me more than I could say.
To his credit, Lord Amaury Trente received the news with fatalistic aplomb. "I knew it," he said glumly when we were able to reconvene and I gave the guardsmen's testimony verbatim. He put his head in his hands and tugged at his hair. "Blessed Elua, things always get complicated when you're involved, my lady! No chance, I suppose, that they're mistaken?"
"No," I said sadly, refilling his beer-cup myself. "I'm afraid not."
There was no great secret to it, when all was said and done. Sure that the boy was within Iskandria, no one had asked. Yes, Pharaoh's gatekeepers had testified readily, they had seen a Drujani party leave the city by the Eastern Gate, some five months gone by—high summer, it was—a Skotophagotis and three warriors, with a D'Angeline boy in tow. They described him readily: a face like a jewel, set in fear and anger, skin like milk, yes, and blue-black hair that fell in ripples, eyes the hue of twilight.
I rendered the translation exactly, lest Lord Amaury doubt.
He didn't, not really.
"So," he said, peering at me between his hair-clutching hands. "It seems I, at least, am bound for Khebbel-im-Akkad, to see how strongly the ties of marriage bind the loyalty of blood. Dare I ask you to accompany me, Comtesse? I would not presume, only ... it is rumored that you have mastered the Akkadian tongue. And I fear I could use your aid."
I didn't answer, not right away. Our hostess Metriche, having heard that we had attended upon Pharaoh, had taken it upon herself to serve us with her own hands, that night. With a good deal of fanfare and many attendants, she brought a rack of lamb to our table, bowing her head and setting it before me. She had heard I'd merited a private audience. I gazed at her averted face, the elaborate gilt cap that covered the bun of her hair. I'd meant to buy one of those, to carry with me or to send to Favrielle nó Eglantine, who would find it of interest.
Radi Arumi's Jebean caravan left on the day after tomorrow, and our passage was already booked, a deposit paid for passage as far as Meroë.
In my vision, Kushiel had held forth the diamond.
Phèdre! cried the voice in my dreams . . . Hyacinthe's, or Imriel's? I was no longer sure. Lypiphera, it said to me, and the voice might have been Nesmut's, the soft accented Hellene tones. We had found him, Joscelin and I, on the quai; found him, and paid him for one last task, going back once more to the household of Fadil Chouma. I don't know why. We had the gatekeepers' testimony. But I needed to hear it, to be sure. "Ask her," I'd said to Nesmut. "Ask her if her husband knew a Skotophagotis. "
If Chouma's widow knew aught of it, she had hidden it well, shak ing her head in horror at the very thought. It was his concubine, his third concubine, who hid her scars behind a veil, who fell weeping to the floor, covering her head. I had asked the questions as gently as I could, and Nesmut coaxed the story out of her. Between muffled sobs, she admitted it was so. That was the secret she had kept, even upon questioning at knife-point. Twice, she had seen Chouma speaking with a Skotophagotis. The first time, he had beaten her for it and threatened to kill her if ever she spoke of it. The second time, she had fled in terror from the bone-priest's shadow, and did not hear what had transpired. But there had been money exchanged, and Imriel was gone. She did not doubt the nature of the bargain.
I didn't doubt either, not really.
Fadil Chouma had a buyer in mind; one, only one, mind . . .
No wonder he'd sought to conceal it. My first guess had been right. It was worth his life to reveal it, in Menekhet. It was worth anyone's life. Pharaoh had uttered a decree of death for any merchant caught trading with a Drujani.
Radi Arumi's Jebean caravan still left on the day after tomorrow.
Amaury Trente was waiting for an answer.
I thought of Hyacinthe, and the terrible despair that lurked behind his eyes. How much worse would it become as he endured the slow death of hope? Another six months, another year — how much harder would it become? I thought of the children we had rescued in Amílcar, their stricken, haunted faces. How much worse had Imriel de la Courcel endured? How much longer could he endure it? Without me, Amaury would never have found his trail. And Amaury was bound for the intrigues of Khebbel-im-Akkad, without even the skills of a trusted interpreter. A capable man, but not a clever one; so Melisande had said of him. He would be dependent on Valère L'Envers, who had wed the Khalif s son. I did not think any daughter of Barquiel L'Envers would be eager to see Imriel found. Unlike Amaury Trente, I had the means to compel her aid. And unlike Amaury, I had the means to untangle the thread of truth from a skein of half-truths and evasions.
In Blessed Elua's name. I promise. I will do what I can. If I had thought it would come to such a choice, I would never have promised. But it had, and a child's life was at stake. In my mind's eye, I saw the shadow of the Skotophagods and shuddered. Branching paths, Hyacinthe had said, and each one lying in darkness. I was afraid, I was very much afraid, that Imriel de la Courcel was already treading one. I did not think I could bear to see his face in my dreams for the rest of my life.
