For the rest, it was up to them. The living must carry on for the dead.

Rushad . . . Drucilla . . . Erich. There was no ship bound for Skaldia. I never even learned his story, never knew how he came to be a Drujani captive. All I had done was hold his hand, and sing him songs as he died. I hoped he'd gotten his answers from All-Father Odhinn.

It was no longer in my heart to hate or fear the Skaldi.

There were tears aplenty upon parting, and if I dared now leave no written trail, I left a good many instructions, whispered in the ears of a dozen women—safeguards, hedged bets, messages for a half-dozen D'Angeline ambassadors. It was the last great conspiracy of the zenana of Daršanga, and every one of them undertook it willingly.

Our ship, set to leave at midday on the morrow, would be the last to leave; the D'Angeline ship would sail at dawn. We passed one last night together in a fine Tyrean inn, which the Lugal had reserved for our pleasure, even ensuring that there would be no fuss about men and women dining in common. The festivities went long into the night, and I daresay I filled Amaury Trente's ear with more advice than he needed.

At the end of the evening, I bid farewell to Imriel, who would bunk with Lord Amaury's men. "Be well," I whispered, holding him close. "Be safe. Remember what I taught you."

"I will." His voice was muffled, lost in my hair; his arms wound hard about my neck. He let me go, sniffling and blinking at Joscelin, one hand on the prized Akkadian dagger that was thrust through his belt. "Will you teach me to use this, when you come back?"

"I swear it, my prince." There was a strained tone to Joscelin's voice as he bowed, the movement a halting approximation of his old Cassiline grace. He closed his eyes as Imriel hugged him, and I thought I saw tears spiking his lashes. "Ward yourself well until I do."

And then it was ended, and we went to our quarters, which seemed strangely empty without Imriel's presence. There was no need for either of us to keep watch, no need for Joscelin to post himself before the door. It is odd, the things to which one can become accustomed.

"Funny," Joscelin said, unbuckling his vambraces. His left forearm had lost the calluses of a lifetime, and the leather straps had chafed it raw. "I never expected to like him."

"Melisande's son," I murmured.

"Yes." He prodded the oozing patches of flesh and winced. "Melisande's son. Do you want to see them off in the morning?"

"Yes," I said. "I'd like that."

And we would have done, had we not slept overlate. Small wonder, I thought, waking to see the first low rays of the sun penetrating our window. It had been—how long?—weeks, at least, since both of us had slept through a night undisturbed. I roused Joscelin, who came awake with customary quickness. Hastily donning our attire, cloaked against the dawn chill, we hurried to the harbor in time to see the anchor drawn, hear the oarsmen chant as the galley turned round in the still waters of the harbor, making ready to hoist sail.

They were there, standing on deck, Lord Amaury's curling auburn hair unmistakably lit by the slanting early sun. He raised one hand in salute, and we waved from the quai. Imriel was a shrouded figure, huddled in a hooded Akkadian cloak and giving no indication of having seen us. Someone—Vigny, I thought—kept a watchful eye upon him.

"Well," said Joscelin. "That's that."

"Did you—?"

"What?"

"Nothing." I shrugged. "One of the men hauling anchor ... I thought, mayhap, I saw marks on his face. Like scratches. Healed scratches."

Joscelin stared after the receding galley. "Phèdre ... if you did . . . Lord Amaury knows, yes? You told him about the letters to the Ephesians, about the instructions you gave the others. And he's prepared to make it known to the ship's captain, what repercussions may await if Imriel doesn't make it safe to port in Marsilikos."

"Yes," I said. "Amaury knows."

"Then let it be," he said firmly, tugging my arm. "You're chasing phantoms, now. Valère tried twice; she won't try a third time, and even if she did, there's naught we can do about it. 'Tis Amaury's job, and one to which the Queen appointed him. Let him do it."

Glancing over my shoulder, I went with him. Like as not he was right; even I thought I was imagining things. We returned to the inn and packed our things—vastly reduced from that with which we'd left Nineveh, the bulk of it going westward with Lord Amaury—and went to break our fast and meet with Kaneka and the others.

It was a smallish ship bound for Iskandría; a Menekhetan trader, for which I was glad. It would go unladen, for the Lugal had paid the entire passage, and there were but twelve of us, Jebean, Menekhetan and D'Angeline, with the run of the vessel. When the sun stood high overhead, they cast anchor and in short order we were away, sails hoisting to catch the wind. I stood on deck and watched the gulf of sparkling water widen between us and the coastline of Khebbel-im- Akkad, feeling a giddy lightness as it did.

So, I thought, it is ended. We leave Drujan behind us.

And I prayed the distance would make a difference.

It was a pleasure, after Khebbel-im-Akkad, to go unveiled, to feel the salt spray upon my face. After the zenana, I retained a fondness for open spaces, and there is none so vast as the ocean. We dined together in the mess-hall, attended by sailors glad to have drawn such light duty for full pay, laughing as our plates and cups slid the length of the built- in trestle with the ship's swaying, laughing all the harder when Joscelin, with a peculiar look on his face, excused himself to go above-deck.

"He does not like the sea?" Kaneka asked with a grin.

" 'Tis a long-standing quarrel between them," I replied.

At night, the stars stood bright and close overhead, clustered in diamond swarms against the velvety darkness. Despite the chill, I liked to walk the decks, gazing at them, wondering if such beauty had been created to a purpose. Beauty inspires love; so it is said, in Terre d'Ange.

Was it done that we might find this world worthy of loving? Mayhap it was so. I was no priestess, no philosopher, to find the answers to the world's riddles in the stars. I only know that they were beautiful and stirred my soul.

I was glad I could still be moved by beauty.

By the third day, the heat of noon had grown oppressive as the sun beat down on the wooden decks. Like many of the southerners, I took to my cabin during the worst heat of the day; enclosed or no, 'twas better to be in shade than sun, and our cabin had a portal that admitted a breeze.

I was drowsing on my narrow cot, clad only in a thin linen shift, when the knock came at the door, and I thought it must be Joscelin, unwontedly formal. As always, he had spent a good portion of our first days aft, in the stern of the ship where the clutch and roil of seasickness that gripped his belly would be less troublesome.

"Yes?" I said, opening the door a crack.

It was Kaneka. I had guessed wrongly. "You will want to see this," she said, her expression undecipherable.

I opened the door wide and stared.

There, squirming in her grip, was Imriel de la Courcel.

SIXTY-FOUR

"How?"I folded my arms and glared at him, looking as imposing as I could. Imriel's gaze darted, seeking allies and not finding them. Joscelin, lean ing against the door of the cabin, was as grim and stoic as only a seasick Cassiline can be, and Kaneka . . . Kanaka was trying not to laugh, but I do not think Imri knew it. He'd not learned that much, not yet.

"There was a boy," he said defiantly. "At the inn. An Akkadian boy, one of the servants. He wanted to see Terre d'Ange, where the men look like sons of the gods, and the women, the women look like . . . like you. I got him to take my place."

I raised my eyebrows. "How?"

"He took my cloak," Imriel muttered. "In the service alley, before the stairs. And I gave him my dagger for it, the one the Lugal gave me. We traded places, when everyone was watching the trunks being brought down. I made as if to sulk, and told Lord Amaury not to bother me, so he would not notice when we changed."

"And how long," I asked, "do you suppose that endured aboard the ship?"

"Long enough." He set his chin. "I told him to pretend he was sick, and wanted only to sleep, and to keep his face turned away from the light."

"You arranged this under Lord Amaury's nose?" I said in patent disbelief.

"Lord Amaury," Imriel said stubbornly, "does not speak Akkadian."

I looked at Joscelin. "Would you be so good as to fetch the cap tain?"

The Menekhetan captain came at once and informed us apologeti cally in heavily accented Hellene that there was no question of turning back to Tyre. The Lugal of Khebbel-im-Akkad had commissioned this ship to sail directly to Iskandria, and sail it would. Yes, he understood the development was unforeseen, but the ship's passage was paid, so the boy's presence was no imposition. Ah, yes, he understood the boy was a personage of some import in his own country, but this was a Menekhetan ship, and relations with Khebbel-im-Akkad were ever del icate. Without direct orders from the Lugal himself, he dared not second-guess his wishes. Surely, we could book passage upon arrival if we wished to return to Tyre, for the journey was not overlong.

"Well," I said, defeated, when he had left. "That's what we'll have to do, then."

Kaneka cleared her throat. "Little one ..."

"What is it?" I didn't like her tone.

"It is not long, no, but ... if you delay a month, no more, by the time you reach the south, the rains will come. And then no one may travel."

I clutched my hair, feeling kinship with Amaury Trente. "Elua! Imri, why did you do this?"

His face was a study in teary mutiny. "You said—you talked about friends, and honor, and the precept of Blessed Elua! Love as thou wilt." He spat the words like a curse. "Why am I not allowed to choose?"

I sat down on my cot and looked to Joscelin for aid.