Kushiel's Avatar (Phedre's Trilogy #3)

"Oh!" Clytemne blushed, pleased by the compliment, pink color "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 startled 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 Me nekhet, 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 Hel lene 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?"

The Pharaoh of Menekhet grew pale. "Drujan."

"Drujan." I savored the word, along with the Pharaoh's pallor and the beads of sweat that stood of a sudden on his balding pate. "Tell me, my lord, what is this Drujan?"

One of his guards stepped forward, and a court soothsayer with a furrowed brow. Ptolemy Dikaios composed himself and waved them back. "Drujan," he said in a grim tone, "was once a satrapy of the empire of Persis. It is a kingdom, now, in the far north of Khebbel-im-Akkad."

"A kingdom?" Comte Raife arched his elegant silver eyebrows. "A sovereign kingdom, my lord Pharaoh?"

There was a pause. "Yes," Ptolemy Dikaios said. "So I believe it to be. The Drujani rebelled against their Akkadian overlords a score and ten years ago, and were crushed mercilessly. Every surviving member of royal blood was put to the sword, the women raped and slain.

And then ..." He spread his hands, a powerless gesture for all the rings that adorned his fingers. "Eight years ago, something changed. What it was, I do not know, for the Akkadians are loathe to speak of it. But that is when the bone-priests came, the Skotophagoti. Sometimes alone, and sometimes with comrades, merchants and mercenaries."

"And you welcomed them, my lord Pharaoh?" I let a hint of polite disbelief show in my voice. "I have heard it said the Akkadians hate them like the plague."

"And fear them as much." He shook his head. "I never welcomed them. It is death to trade with them, death to house them, death to give them succor. That much, the Akkadians decreed. Such was the proc lamation of Ishme-la-Ilu, who is Grand Vizier to the Khalif of Khebbel-im-Akkad, and I have obeyed it. The Drujani and their bone-priests are not welcome in Iskandria, nor anywhere in Menekhet. But..." he smiled tightly, ". . . it is also death to cross them, and not by Akkadian steel, no. Ignoble death, by a falling-sickness, by the bite of an asp, a runaway horse. Believe me," he added, glancing around. "I have consulted my priests, and I have consulted our great library. Neither have yielded an answer. There are talismans, prayer-scrolls ..." He waved a dismissive hand. "Enemies of the Drujani bone-priests die anyway."

"So they go where they will?" I asked slowly.

Ptolemy Dikaios nodded. "We do as the Akkadians have bidden. Avoid them, and give thanks to all the gods that their numbers are few, and they offer no violence if unmolested." He gave his tight smile again. "Menekhet is ancient, Lady Phèdre, and she has weathered many storms. Whatever quarrel lies between Drujan and Khebbel-im-Akkad, we can outwait it."

"Yes, but now ..." I was thinking half aloud. "My lord Pharaoh, what do the Drujani come for?" I paused. "Do they buy slaves?"

His face turned stony. "It may be, though it is forbidden."

"Of course," I said absently. "But if they did . . . if they did, would anyone stop them? Your guards? Would they be challenged at the gates of the city?"

Another pause, then he shook his head. "No. Not if a Skotophagotis was with them."

"And the punishment for a Menekhetan merchant caught doing business with a Drujani?"

Pharaoh met my eyes and answered softly. "Death."

I shuddered, and heard Amaury Trente utter a sound of dismay. It seemed strange and distant, for my ears were ringing with a bronze clash of wings and a haze of red veiled my vision. The unseen pattern was closing upon me. I saw through a skein of crimson Kushiel's face, cruel and smiling, his mighty hands. One, held close to his breast, held a key—the other, outstretched, offered a diamond, dangling at the end of a velvet cord.

"Phèdre!" There were hands again, Joscelin's, hard on my shoulders, shaking me. I blinked at him, my vision clearing, realized I was swaying on my feet. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." I gripped his forearms, steadying myself, and looked past him at Ptolemy Dikaios. "My lord Pharaoh, I crave a boon."

He made a slight gesture. "Speak."

From the corner of my eye, I could see Lord Amaury grimacing and Raife Laniol discouraging me with a discreet shake of his head. I ignored them both. "My lord Pharaoh, you know that her majesty has bade us seek a young D'Angeline boy, stolen by Carthaginian raiders and sold unwitting into slavery in Menekhet. You have aided us most graciously in this search. I ask that you aid us once more, and inquire of your Iskandrian Guard if such a boy was seen leaving the city in the custody of Drujani priests."

Ptolemy Dikaios relaxed slightly. "It shall be done," he said, and beckoned to a senior guardsman, resplendent in a white kilt and gilded breastplate, addressing him in Menekhetan.

"Shh." I waved him to silence, straining to hear the words Pharaoh spoke to the guardsman. He spoke with quiet discretion, but I have an ear for languages, and a memory trained by Anafiel Delaunay. "Amaury, did you give Pharaoh a description of Imriel de la Courcel?" I asked him in a low tone, speaking D'Angeline.

"A description?" He unhanded me and looked puzzled. "No, of course not. Pharaoh would not concern himself with such details. Even his Secretary of the Treasury didn't deign to hear them. I told the clerk, Rekhmire. No one else."

Raife Laniol, Ambassador de Penfars, glared at us both, put off only slightly by Joscelin's warning glance. I paid him no heed, considering the key Amaury had given me and what leverage it granted.

"It is done," announced the Pharaoh of Menekhet, putting an end to our covert squabbling. He looked at me with a cunning light in his eyes, a smile stretching his broad mouth. "It seems Terre d'Ange has a mighty interest in this young slave-lad, does it not? So, my lady, what boon will you grant me in return?"

Amaury Trente sighed and threw up his hands in despair, turning away. One of his delegates grinned. Juliette de Penfars gazed sympa thetically at me, while her husband the Ambassador strove to put a good face on it. Joscelin . . . Joscelin merely frowned, like a man listening to the strains of distant battle.

"My lord Pharaoh," I said. "May I speak privately to you?"

THIRTY-SIX

OF COURSE, he granted my request.To this day, I cannot say whether or not Ptolemy Dikaios truly believed I would bed him for a trivial favor. Mayhap he did, or mayhap he believed I would reckon the price worth it to buy his silence in the matter of the D'Angeline slave-lad our Queen so ardently desired. After all, he knew his worth.