Kushiel's Avatar

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 shrewdness. “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 unthinking. 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 matching 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 circulating, born of my encounter in the baths.
    Against my own misgivings, I recruited Nesmut to aid us in searching 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