"Now you see," she said, and took us to the second story of Yevuneh's house, where we leaned out the window and gazed at the horizon and Morit showed me how to mark the distance from the horizon to its apex degree by degree.

"So when the Eagle of Dân stands here," I said, squinting down the angle of my raised arm, "we must depart."

"Yes," her voice said from behind me. "I would give you an astro labe, if I dared. But it was decided. Wisdom only; naught more. Let Adonai and Wisdom decide. If it is meant to be, you will find Kapporeth. And Adonai help you, once you do."

"It is enough." I lowered my arm, having fixed the angle in my memory. Such things are not strange, to one who has been a Servant of Naamah. There are poses in the famous Trois Mille Joies that one must remember and hold to an exacting degree, and I have had in my life patrons who required as much of me. "We are grateful, my lady Morit."

Her eyes glimmered in the shadows, dark and luminous, reminding me of Necthana's daughters whom I had met so long ago on the shores of Alba. Morit. Moiread. Such was the name of the youngest, who had greeted our arrival; Moiread, Sibeal's sister, whom Hyacinthe might have loved, had she lived. There are omens, if one chooses to see them. "It is not for gratitude we do this, D'Angeline."

"Nonetheless," I said. "I am grateful."

Morit bowed slightly. "Tomorrow night, if the sky is cloudless, you may go. No more may I say. Adonai grant you a safe journey, and a tongue to speak of it when you return. We will be praying, all of us, that we have not compounded our ancient folly."

With that, she left us.

I tumbled into bed that night in exhaustion, my mind swimming with stars and the vast spaces between them. I slept fitfully and dreamed of piloting a boat across an ocean of night, and woke to remember only fragments, pieces of spangled darkness and an endless journey.

One day, and we would depart.

SEVENTY-FIVE

THAT MORNING as we gathered at the table to discuss the night's doings, yet another of the women of Tisaar came to pay a visit upon the widow Yevuneh, mentioning as she did how her nephew's skiff sat loose-tied and untended along the southeastern reach of the harbor, nearly in the very shadow of the city walls, while he served a turn in the army patrolling for bandits.Lest we miss the hint, she cleared her throat several times loudly.

"Thank you, my lady," I said to her. "It is a piece of wisdom indeed."

Afterward, we left the city to pay a last visit to the Jebean en campment. And this time, I told the truth—the whole truth—to Tifari Amu and the others. They heard me out with courtesy.

"What happens if you fail," Tifari asked, "or are captured in the attempt?"

"I don't know," I said honestly. "Only that it is unsafe for you to be here if we are discovered. I don't even know what will happen if we succeed. If you leave ere sundown, my lord soldier, you will have a day's lead on any pursuit."

"And your horses?" He gestured. "The donkeys?"

"Yours," Joscelin answered him in his faulty Jeb'ez. "It is the least we can do."

Tifari frowned. "You ask us to abandon you."

"No." I shook my head. "I would have you save yourselves. If all is well, we will follow, and meet you at the place where we made camp, by the bathing-pool." Nkuku laughed, and I colored a little. "That place, we can find, and it is on Jebean soil."

"You would make cowards of us," Bizan said contemptuously. "Fleeing in the night!”

"Queen Zanadakhete and Ras Lijasu did not send you here to die for a D'Angeline cause," I said.

"No," Tifari said thoughtfully. "But our honor is our own. What about the boy? To whom will you entrust his safety?" He looked at Imriel, then; we all looked at Imriel.

"What?" Imriel's voice rose sharply. "What is it?"

"Imri." I took care to avoid any tone of placation. "Choose wisely. I promised you I would not leave you, and I will hold to that promise, and Joscelin, too. But our path is fraught with danger. You have done much in Tisaar. Any debt you owed to Hyacinthe and the Tsingani is settled. If you go with Tifari Amu, you are more like to be safe. I can give him letters, to bear to Ras Lijasu, who will see them honored. And I will rest the easier for it."

"You keep offering me the same choice!" Imriel's dark blue eyes welled with tears, which he ignored. "Do you never listen?"

Joscelin stirred, adjusting his vambraces, eyeing me without speak ing.

"I listen," I said to Imri. "Do you understand what is at stake, love?"

He nodded. "Hyacinthe was your friend. Your one, true friend."

"It's not that simple— " I began, then stopped. It was that simple, "Imriel."

"He didn't care what you were," he said to me. "Who you were. That's what you said. That's what you told the women. Love as thou wilt!"

"Yes," I said carefully, looking at Joscelin.

"Imriel," he said in soft D'Angeline. "Phèdre is right. It is yours to choose. Only choose wisely, for your life is precious to us."

"Wisdom!" Imriel drew in a harsh breath and hiccuped, coughing. "You keep saying and saying about wisdom! Look at what the Sabaean women have risked for wisdom's sake. I know, Phèdre. I watch their faces, like you taught me; I listen when they are not speaking. Their people, all their people! What will you risk?"

Joscelin raised his eyebrows at me. "He argues like a sophist."

"He argues like his mother," I said, resigned.

"I do not!" Imriel said, quivering with fury.

"You do," I informed him. "My lord Tifari, it seems the boy will accompany us, may Blessed Elua have mercy upon us all. Your decision is your own. We will learn it upon our return, one way or the other. I will pray Amon-Re keep you safe.”

"Thank you, lady." Tifari Amu bowed from the waist. "I will do the same on your behalf. If you do not find us here ... I pray we meet again."

Thus did we take our leave of the Jebeans and reentered Tisaar, wandering the city in the midday sun. The quaint lake-front harbor was settling into its noon torpor, fishing boats ashore, the morning's catch netted and weighed. The market-stalls were closed and no women were about. A few children played at the water's edge, and men sat drinking kavah and beer in the shade-dim shops, watching with idle curiosity as we strolled. We found the nephew's skiff, a shallow, flat-bottomed craft with a single set of oars, recognizable by its red trim. It was tied to a scrawny palm stunted by an excess of water. We walked casually past it, and in the shadow of the city wall, turned back into the narrow alleys, finding our way back to Yevuneh's home.

Her brother the soldier-captain Hanoch ben Hadad was there await ing us.

He rose and bowed as we entered the house, and his dark eyes were watchful. "I am pleased you had the chance to observe the festival of the new moon, lady. Shall you be leaving soon, now it is done? The rains will be upon us ere the moon has reached half-full."

"Are you so eager to see us gone, my lord captain?" I asked him, letting a trace of unfeigned bitterness show in my voice. " 'Tis a long journey we face, and all the more arduous without hope to quicken our steps."

It took him aback. "It is but concern that speaks, lady."

I sighed. "Our Jebean guides make repairs upon our equipment, and replace such stores as we will require for the journey. In another day or three, we will depart."

"It is well, then." Hanoch nodded twice, absently fingering the leather-wrapped hilt of his bronze sword. "You would not wish to be caught in the rains."

"So I am told." I stole a glance at Yevuneh, who looked drained and nervous. "Is there a problem, my lord captain? Your sister seemed content with the price on which we agreed for our lodging and meals."

"No." His dark skin grew darker with a flush of embarrassment. "No, of course not. You are strangers here, and welcome; we do not forget, we who were strangers once in Menekhet. Is there . . ." Hanoch cleared his throat, ". . . is there aught you need for your journey? I do but come to offer my aid.”

"No, my lord." I said flatly. "We shall have all we need, within a day or three."

"I am sorry your journey was in vain," he said awkwardly. "I am sorry for that."

"Thank you," I said. "We are grateful for your sympathy."

After another uncomfortable pause, Hanoch ben Hadad took his leave, speaking briefly with his sister. Yevuneh sighed when he had gone, nervous and fretful. "He suspects," she said. "I know he does. Oh, I pray we have chosen wisely!"

"So do we all, my lady," I said, glancing at Imriel. "So do we all."

We took to our beds early that night and slept in shifts. It seemed my head had scarce touched the pillow before Joscelin was awakening me, touching one finger to his lips and pointing toward the night sky silhouetted in the window.

It was time.

We dressed in silence and stole out of the sleeping house, onto the quiet streets. The stars were very bright overhead in the black expanse of sky. I thought how Kaneka had told us a delay of a month would bring us into the rainy season, had we returned with Imriel to Tyre. She had been right, which I never doubted; yet I had not known so much would ride upon these clear night skies. Imriel was wide-awake, tense with excitement. I wished I felt the same. We made our way through the winding streets to the harbor, pausing when we heard a watchman giving the all-clear. Even here, the Sabaeans patrolled their streets; but only cursorily, entrusting to their strong walls and long isolation.

The harbor was dark and calm, the distant stars and crescent moon reflected on the still waters. Imriel and I clambered into the skiff, sit uating ourselves while Joscelin undid the line that secured it to the stunted palm. He was unarmed, his daggers and sword and vambraces rolled into a length of oilskin which I settled between my feet. It would be a long night's row, and these things would only encumber him.