They all bowed as the Skotophagotis approached.

All except the one standing next to the giant.

"Daeva Gashtaham," he said with interest. "What have you brought me?"

And this time, it was the priest who bowed, lowing his skull-helmed head, finger-bones rattling at his waist. "Mahrkagir," he said smoothly. "This lord of Terre d'Ange seeks an audience."

The Mahrkagir of Drujan wore no crown, no diadem, no badge of office; only black, unalleviated save for the worn silver brocade on his coat. Of average stature, he was unimposing in build, and he was young; younger than I had expected, scarce older than I. "Speak."

Joscelin released my wrist and bowed, crossing his vambraces. "Lord Mahrkagir." His voice was harsh, his words practiced. "I, Joscelin Verreuil, seek asylum in Drujan. In exchange, I offer my sword, sworn unto your service, and— " he said it without faltering, " —this woman for your seraglio."

The fur-clad lord laughed deep in his chest, and one of the others made a jest. Two of the guards laughed; the giant crossed his massive arms over his leather-clad chest. The Mahrkagir gazed unblinking at Joscelin. "Why?"

Joscelin conferred with Tizrav, who offered him words to say. "Mahrkagir," said the Skotophagotis priest Gashtaham. "This lordling had committed rape against this woman." He touched his ear beneath the boar's skull. "The night wind has spoken; her kinsmen gather at the border, with a company of Sinaddan's men from Nineveh, who rattle their spears and shout vain challenges."

"So." The Mahrkagir cocked his head. "One sword, and one woman. I have swords, and men to bear them; I have women, and boys, too. Already I have paid dear for D'Angeline flesh, pure and inviolate. Why should I accept a lordling's cast-off? Perhaps this offer is not so sweet as the price on your head, Jossalin Veruy. After all, I have a debt to reclaim." His tone was mild. "Either way, Angra Mainyu feasts, and your futile hope will make the banquet sweeter."

Tizrav whispered urgently to Joscelin, who pushed him away. Tizrav stumbled and fell on the flagstones and Joscelin laughed, a terrible laugh, filled with despair, high and wild.

I knew, then, that I had driven him into the deepest depths of his own personal hell.

"You have no sword like mine, my lord, and no woman like this one." He yanked back the veil and twined his hand in my hair, jerking hard and forcing me to my knees. I went, the breath gasping in my throat, desire hitting me like a fist to the gut, awful and unexpected. "You see her," Joscelin said through gritted teeth. "This is no one's cast-off, but Phèdre nó Delaunay; Naamah's Servant, Kushiel's Chosen and the veritable Queen of Whores, my greatest passion, my sole down fall. I offer unto your keeping, Lord Mahrkagir, that which Terre d'Ange holds most precious. Do you say anyone will match her price?"

It was all there in darkling, twilight air of the hall, truth and lie woven together as seamlessly as a Mendacant's cloak, a polyglot mix of Habiru, Akkadian and Old Persian. The flagstones bruised my knees and my neck ached, wrenched back at an unnatural angle. I heard the scrabbling sound of Tizrav adjusting his eyepatch. I knelt at Joscelin's feet, the hem of his sheepskin coat brushing my cheek, his hand fisted in my hair.

And I felt the presence, not of Elua, Blessed Elua, but cruel Kushiel, beating in my blood.

I heard the Mahrkagir's footsteps.

He reached out to touch my cheek and his hand was cold, so cold. It was cold in the great hall of Daršanga. I felt his touch like fire, setting me ablaze between my thighs. At a touch, he knew me to the core. I shut my teeth on a moan. He was neither comely nor unattractive, the Mahrkagir, his features regular, clean-shaven. Only his eyes were beau tiful; lustrous, long-lashed, the pupils dilated until the welling blackness wholly swallowed any other color.

Beautiful . . . and utterly, utterly mad.

"So this is what you offer." The Mahrkagir of Drujan raised his mad, beautiful eyes from my face to Joscelin's, showing even white teeth in a smile. "My lord Veruy of Terre d'Ange, I do believe I will accept it."

Joscelin let go his grip on my hair and I collapsed in a heap at his feet, dimly aware that he gave his Cassiline bow above me. "My lord Mahrkagir will not have cause to regret it."

"Let us hope not." The Mahrkagir looked down at me where I groveled on the flagstones. "Tahmuras, take her to the zenana."

FORTY-THREE

THE ZENANA, or women's quarter, of Daršanga palace was a world unto itself.It was the Mahrkagir's giant, Tahmuras, who escorted me there. He said nothing along the way, and I would have wondered if he were deaf and dumb, were it not for the alacrity with which he had obeyed the Mahrkagir's command. Tahmuras strode down the halls, descending a stair, all but ignoring me as I stumbled in his wake.

Of what was befalling Joscelin and Tizrav, I could only guess and hope. I had made my choice and committed myself—and lest I forget, the awful pulse of desire, inflamed by the Mahrkagir's touch, throbbed between my thighs. I fixed my gaze on the broad back of Tahmuras, concentrating on following him. He bore no blade, but only a single weapon thrust through his belt; a morningstar, a spiked ball-and-chain mace, the steel rod jutting against his thigh. No scavenged armor would fit him, not this man. He wore a leather jerkin laced with crude plates of steel.

My mind was frozen, between fear and desire; I did not hear what Tahmuras said when he scratched for entry at the latticed door of the zenana. It was opened, I know, and I was thrust through it, given unto the care of the Chief Eunuch.

I began to realize the vastness of the zenana.

It had to be, to hold so many people; a large pool-room, honeycombed with darkness beyond. And it was warm, for a mercy. I sighed as the door closed behind me, feeling the warmth of the space seep into my bones. The Chief Eunuch surveyed me, pursing his lips.

"You see?" he asked in pidgin argot; a tongue that owed something to Persian, Caerdicci and Hellene alike; zenyan, it was called, but I learned that later. With a sweeping gesture, he indicated the room, the stagnant waters of the tepidarium, the surrounding couches on islands of carpet. "Here, you stay. Find a place that is empty."

"My lord." I swallowed and licked my lips, seeking my voice. "I speak Persian, a little."

"You do?" His brows rose. "Well, find a place. There are always some who have died. You should have no trouble making room."

I looked across the space, the knots of intrigue and scheming, like drawing to like. There were women, more women than I could have guessed at, from every nationality on earth. There were Persians and Akkadians with skin like old ivory; there were Ephesians with sultry eyes. There were amber-skinned Bhodistani and even Ch'in, whom I had never seen, with straight black hair caught up in combs and skin the hue of honey. There were Caerdicci of every shade and Hellenes, too; modest Illyrians, and there were Chowati, with light hair and slanted, pale eyes. There were proud hawk-nosed Umaiyyati maidens, and Menekhetans, too. Of a surety, there were Carthaginians and Aragonians as well, and Jebeans and Nubians with ebony skin.

And there were boys.

Not many; only a few, with terrified, defiant eyes, clinging to the couches of the women of their homelands. None of them were D'Angeline.

"I have heard there is one," I said to the Chief Eunuch. "A boy, so high ..." I gave a vague indication with one hand, having no idea how tall Imriel stood, "from the same country as I. He would not speak your tongue, but he has blue-black hair and eyes ..." I hesitated, "... the color of twilight."

"That one." The Chief Eunuch rolled his eyes. "The Shahryar Mahrkagir would have such a one from your country for his three-fold path. I would that the ka-Magi had found a less troublesome one. Yes, he has been taken to spend time alone, for stabbing an attendant with a serving fork. You heard me, lady. Find a space."

And with that, he left me.

I made my way around the pool, the walls of which were coated with greenish slime. The water had a fetid odor. Stalwart eunuchs stood at guard around the perimeter of the room, their faces suffused with bitterness. I did not know why, then; now, I do. These were members of the Akkadian garrison that the Mahrkagir had captured. He'd had them all unmanned. A good many had chosen death instead. Those who hadn't, he'd set to guard his seraglio. And they did it, too, clinging to life, filled with rage.

It all served Angra Mainyu, who fed on hatred as surely as death, and longer.

Here and there I paused, asking in this tongue and that: Do you know of this boy?

They knew him; of a surety, they knew him. Children, I gathered, did not last long in the Mahrkagir's zenana, being altogether too fragile for his attentions. This one had lasted longer than anyone had bargained; it seemed the Mahrkagir wished him kept alive for some special purpose. With a slow-dawning sense of horror, I realized that they had bets on his survival.

It is a different world, and a harsh one.

I was new to it, then; I do not know if I can convey the sense of what it was to live there. It was not like a traditional hareem or zenana, no, where the lord's attention was sought and a matter of pride. Here, the lord's attention was death, or akin to it. Even so ... how else to gain rank? Those whom the Mahrkagir favored had special privileges; private rooms, personal attendants. It won them pity and envy.

For the rest, they established their own hierarchy, based on force of personality.

"Speak to him" a Chowati woman said to me, deigning to under stand my Illyrian, jerking her chin at a young man huddled in foetal position at the edge of an outer carpet. "He can tell you how the Mahrkagir treats with boys."

I tried to do so, crouching low before him, peering at his hidden face. He was Skaldi, I realized with a small shock, recognizing the cast of his features, the butter-yellow hair that curtained his face. I addressed him in his native tongue. He groaned and turned away, hands clutched over his groin.

"What is wrong with this man?" I asked one of the attendants, indignation overcoming my common sense. "Why does no one call for a chirurgeon?"