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one who knows it inside and out. But our business here, it is a very delicate matter, and this guide ... it must be someone whom we can trust, someone who can keep a secret.”
    His eyes had grown very round. “I can keep a secret!” he said excitedly, tapping his breast. “I can, yes!”
    I shook my head. “No. Even a promise is not enough. It is too grave.”
    “I will swear it by Serapis, god of the dead.” Nesmut shivered and knelt on his low chair, tucking his bare feet under him. “I will swear the most dire oath I know, gracious lady!”
    I thought about it, and at length nodded, keeping my expression terribly serious. “All right, then. Swear it.” He did, raising one hand and reciting a long oath in Menekhetan with all the gravity of his youth. “Good,” I said when he had finished. “Nesmut, we are looking for a boy, a D’Angeline boy who was sold into slavery somewhere in Iskandria.”
    “Oh.” Looking disappointed, he slumped back into his chair. “Yes, gracious lady. The one who put a knife in merchant Chouma?”
    I raised my eyebrows. “You know about it?”
    Nesmut sniffed. “Everyone knows. Rekhmire the clerk marched through the city to Chouma’s house with enough men for an army. Everyone knows. Not,” he added scornfully, “the lords and ladies, no. They are too busy aping Hellenes, courting favor. They do not care what Pharaoh’s men do to a Menekhetan slave-merchant. They do not care that Chouma’s third concubine will have scars.”
    “So much for discretion,” Joscelin said to me.
    “True,” I said. “Nesmut, what else do people say about it? Do they know where the boy may be found?”
    “No.” He shook his head, concentrating on refilling his cup. The jug was empty; our young guide had a considerable thirst for beer. He glanced at Joscelin for permission before gesturing to the proprietor for more. “No, gracious lady, no one knows. But it is said ...” He glanced sidelong at us and fell silent. The proprietor came with a fresh jug. Nesmut watched his receding back.
    “Nesmut,” I said gently. He met my eyes with reluctance. “Whatever it is you fear to say, I swear, I will never divulge that I learned it from you. I swear it in the name of Blessed Elua, and that is an oath no D’Angeline may break.”
    The boy stared into his cup, lowering his head until his hair obscured his face. “It is said,” he murmured, “that the D’Angelines who came, the others, are looking for the boy. Why else would Rekhmire go to Chouma’s house only then? So it is true. What is the name it is death to tell Pharaoh’s men?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Pharaoh.”
    It made sense, although I wished it did not. I should have thought of it myself. Terre d’Ange does not permit traffic in D’Angeline flesh. Of a surety, if Pharaoh had a fancy for a D’Angeline slave-boy, it would be a whim best concealed.
    Fadil Chouma had a buyer in mind; one, only one, mind ...
    If Pharaoh had bought Imriel, it was done in secrecy, no doubt with Chouma’s assurances that the lad was no one, a shepherd boy who would never be missed. I thought of the others, the children we found in Amílcar. It would have been true, had it been either of them. But no, it was Imriel, and now there was a delegation on Pharaoh’s doorstep offering lucrative trade-rights, asking for the child’s return.
    “Elua!” Joscelin breathed. He looked ill. “If it’s true, he could never admit it.”
    “No,” I said. “He would give every evidence of cooperating. And I daresay it would be worth one’s life to suggest a word otherwise. No,” I sighed, “it’s too late for diplomacy. We need to find out if it’s true, first.”
    “And if it is?” Joscelin raised his brows.
    “We’ll have to steal him,” I said. Nesmut let out a startled squeak. I glanced mildly at him. “I told you it was grave enough to warrant your oath.”
    From the look on his face, I daresay he agreed.

Thirty-Two
    THE FIRST order of business was to determine whether or not Imriel de la Courcel was indeed housed within the Palace of Pharaohs.
    After his initial shock, Nesmut proved a valuable ally; I’d not done ill in trusting him. The oath he’d sworn was a binding one, and Nesmut, balanced on the cusp of adulthood, regarded it with a boy’s solemnity and a man’s sense of duty.
    Once he put his mind to the matter, he bethought himself of a considerable number of contacts within the Palace: a laundress, a cook’s