It is the Tiberian fashion to commence in the cold waters of the frigidarium; a custom I have always found unnecessarily rigorous. We went straight to the caldarium, with its vast pool. It was here that the majority of patrons lingered. Conversation did not exactly cease as Denise Fleurais and I entered the heated bathing-chamber, but there was a lull, followed by a murmur of resumption. Looking at Denise, I could understand why. Her intelligent face had a high-boned beauty, and even wreathed in steam, her hazel eyes shone. The careless grace with which she had piled her hair atop her head, the way an errant lock coiled over one shoulder as she removed her robe . . .

We were D'Angeline. It was enough.

The tiles, emblazoned with fish, were slick beneath my bare feet, heated beneath by an unseen hypocaust. I slipped the robe from my shoulders and descended the steps into the steaming water, ignoring a collective gasp as I did so.

"It is your marque, Comtesse." Sinking into the bath with a sigh of pleasure, the Lady Denise glanced at me with heavy-lidded amuse ment. "They've not seen the likes of you before."

Betimes I forgot it myself.

A pair of Menekhetan noblewomen, giggling, dared one another to approach us. The braver of the two drifted near, addressing us in ex cellent Hellene. "Kyria," she said. "My friend and I, we were debating. Is it customary for D'Angeline women to . . ." she pointed at me with her chin, "... to so adorn themselves?"

I opened my mouth to reply, but Denise answered for me. "It is the marque of Naamah, who is our goddess of pleasure," she said with candour. "And the Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève is sworn to her service. Do you not have such things in Menekhet?"

"No!" blurted the shy one of the pair, and they dissolved in laugh ter, clutching at one another. "It is true, then?" she asked. "Your gods demand you do service . . ." her voice dropped, ". . . in the bedchamber?”

I raised my eyebrows and looked at Denise.

"Oh, yes," she said blandly. "But only the most noble and beautiful, such as my lady Phèdre. You can see, can you not, that she is fit to serve only princes and kings?"

It seemed they could, from the merriment that ensued. One, greatly daring, asked if she might touch it; if one might, they all must. I endured it with good grace, standing waist-deep in the steaming water as tentative hands stroked my skin, tracing the elegant black lineaments etched the length of my spine, the cunning crimson accents. It is a unique torment for an anguissette.

"It feels no different!" the bold one said in astonishment. "I thought it would be raised, like a scar . . . Auntie, come here, feel, her skin is like silk," she added before switching to Menekhetan, beckoning to a veritable grandmother with wizened breasts and bright, curious eyes. All of them crowded round me, oohing and prodding.

"For this, you brought me here?" I asked Denise Fleurais.

"My mother was an adept of Bryony House," she said in D'Angeline, head bobbing low above the water, giving me her shrewd smile. "Amaury Trente may not care to guess how you might gain access to Pharaoh's quarters, but I can. If you mean to bring your Cassiline, you'll need to allay suspicion and let it be known it is a pearl of great price you bestow, worthy of guarding with the utmost care. To gain the upper hand in any trade, it is best to establish an outrageous value at the outset."

"Ah." I turned to face my admirers, inclining my head politely; curiosity satisfied, they acknowledged the tacit dismissal and withdrew, laughing and splashing as they went. "I have not made that decision," I said to Denise. "It would be premature to consider it."

"To decide, yes." She shrugged, cream-white shoulders rising from the waters. "Not to lay the foundations." She regarded me through the steam. "Her majesty assigned me to this delegation because I am skilled in matters of trade," Denise Fleurais said quietly. "Whatever transpires, she would not have the Cruarch of Alba make a bad bargain for her sake. And yet it is a merchant's gift to know the secret desire of her client's heart, and her majesty wants the boy, Imriel, restored to his place. I know this. I do not pretend to understand what desire motivates you, Comtesse, but you are committed to finding the boy. If you are willing to pay the price, do not disdain my aid."

Women's voices echoed over the waters of the caldarium, blithe and unconcerned. I looked at Denise, silent. I thought of the children we had found in Amílcar. I thought of Pharaoh, bejeweled and unknown. My skin still tingled from the touch of strange hands. I thought of Nesmut's valiant grin, that so reminded me of Hyacinthe. And I thought, too, of Melisande Shahrizai closing her eyes in pain, and of her lips on mine.

And of Joscelin. Always Joscelin.

"I don't know if I'm willing to pay the price," I said honestly.

"No?" Denise Fleurais smiled, sadness mingled with her shrewd ness. "Most people don't, until the bargain is struck. I cannot answer for you. I do not bring the bargain, but only set the table for it."

Her words stayed with me as I went to submerge myself in the cooler waters of the tepidarium, and long afterward. I had thought of it, of course; the Lady Denise was right. But it had been a long time since I had sold myself for aught but love or the pleasure of Naamah's service. When I was younger, I thought, I would have done it unthink ing. Now, 'twas somehow different.

Still and all, there was naught to be done and no point to agonizing over it until we knew for a surety that Imriel de la Courcel was held in the Palace of Pharaohs . . . and on that score, to my dismay, our investigation began to stall.

Nesmut reported on the following day, his expression glum. Despite an overwhelming eagerness to contribute to the search in covert defiance of the aristocracy, no one within the Palace had yet seen anyone match ing the description of the D'Angeline boy—and, he assured me, they had a better idea what it meant now that descriptions of me were cir culating, born of my encounter in the baths.

Against my own misgivings, I recruited Nesmut to aid us in search ing General Hermodorus' house and interviewing his servants.

Our letter of introduction had been received, and an invitation to a dinner party with a few of their friends came in short order. Naturally, we accepted; and contracted Nesmut to serve as our torch-bearer for the evening.

Of that encounter, I will say little, save that it proved tedious in the end and unproductive. I daresay I met a good many Menekhetan malcontents that night, and they were eager to determine our motives for visiting Iskandria. I smiled and made polite allusions to the fact that Ysandre de la Courcel, the wise and gracious Queen of Terre d'Ange, wished it known that she had no interest in having a political say in the affairs of Menekhet, but only to trade freely with whosoever held power. Who knows? Like as not it was true.

Most of their questions, they directed toward Joscelin, eventually quizzing him on D'Angeline alliances and battle-tactics. What he did not know, he invented, describing fabulous war machines and siege-engines that I was fairly sure did not exist.

General Hermodorus himself was a bandy-legged man with a round belly and an intent stare, brows meeting over a beak of a nose; Horns, his companions called him, in a Menekhetan jest that eluded me. I neither liked nor disliked him. His wife, Gyllis, scarce spoke above a whisper, and I thought I might have pitied her if I had known her better. So we dined and made empty conversation, and my heart pounded all the while to think of Nesmut supping on bread and beer in the kitchen, making innocuous queries of the General's household staff.

I needn't have worried. Nesmut was waiting at the door as we made our farewells, carrying a fresh-kindled torch to light our way home. He met my eyes as he bowed, shaking his head imperceptibly, his expression disappointed. For all my fears, I cannot say I was surprised. General Hermodorus, whether he loved Pharaoh or no, did not strike me as a man willing to take risk for carnal passions.

So much for that thought.

Indeed, the only item of note in the entire evening passed nearly unnoticed, save by me; a small matter, scarce worth noting. One of General Hermodorus' serving-maids was Hellene and island-bred, got in some skirmish I could not name. I would not have known, had she not paused ever so slightly in laying a dish on the table before me, bowing her head as I thanked her. "Lypiphera," she murmured in acknowledgement, moving onward.

Pain-bearer.

I had been called that only once before, on the island of Kriti, by slaves.

I do not know how they knew, then.

THIRTY-FOUR

A WEEK passed, and we were no closer to an answer; in another week, we must leave or forfeit our place in Radi Arumi's caravan.Lord Amaury Trente was pulling his hair again.

Frustrated, I asked Nesmut to arrange a meeting with Fadil Chouma's widow and serve as translator. This, he did, and it too proved sublimely unproductive. We brought gifts of sweets and D'Angeline fabrics and jars of Menekhetan beer, spending a tongue-tied afternoon of pleasantries and abortive inquiries in Chouma's courtyard, where his wife maintained a stoic mien and his concubines giggled and whispered behind their hands—all except one, who hid her face behind a veil and said nothing. They do not care that Chouma's third concubine will have scars, Nesmut had said.

I cared. But Fadil Chouma's third concubine kept silent behind her veil. She would speak no ill of Pharaoh; nor would Chouma's widow nor his other concubines, for all their whispers. Nesmut only shook his head sadly. And the only item of note from that sojourn was that we saw once more one of the dread priests Nesmut so feared, walking boldly down the center of Canopic Street in the midday sun.

It is the broadest street in Iskandria, lined with immense effigies of Menekhetan deities whose faces bear a Hellene influence. This time, I saw the priest in advance of Nesmut's hissed warning.

" Skotophagotís!"

We who are D'Angeline are bastard-born of the One God's lineage, raised to respect the gods of all places. I stepped to the side of the street unthinking, and Joscelin followed suit, not going for his daggers this time. Nesmut crouched, baring his teeth as if in challenge. This time, I had a better look at the priest, until the chariot came. At close range he did not appear Menekhetan, I noted in surprise. No; his skin had a pallor theirs did not, and his square beard curled. This I saw, and why the sun glinted oddly on his head, for he wore a helm of bone, a boar's skull or somewhat like it curving over his pate, with plaques of ivory sewn onto it with gold wire.