Kushiel's Avatar

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.
    And then the chariot came, advertising for the games held weekly in the great amphitheatre of Iskandria, the charioteer with green ribbons tied around his upper arms hauling on the reins and cursing. His team drew up hard, champing and foaming at the bit.
    It was a pair of matched chestnuts. I remember it well, how they tossed their heads, spume flying, and the heat and the dust. I remember the hot stink of horse-flesh, and how the skotophagotis stood unmoving, hoisting his staff. In the midday sun, his truncated shadow lay cut like a knife on the road, jet-black and immobile, crossing the charioteer’s path.
    Nesmut made a keening sound, then bit the back of his hand to stop it.
    The charioteer cursed in Menekhetan and flicked his whip.
    And the skotophagotis bowed his head and stepped out of the way, sunlight gleaming from the yellowed bone that cupped his own skull. In a trice, it was over, and the charioteer plunging on his way, Nesmut tugging at my hand and muttering, “Do not look, do not look, my lady, do not cross his shadow.”
    It meant nothing at the time, though. That came later.
    Lord Amaury Trente was in a foul mood that night when we dined at Metriche’s inn, and for that, I could not blame him. There was no movement in the search for Imriel de la Courcel, and negotiations must carry on apace, lest we lose credibility with the Menekhetans. I’d scarce spoken to Denise Fleurais, who was the nearest thing I had to a friend among his delegates, these three days past. Ysandre would make no bad bargain on Drustan’s behalf; that was sacrosanct.
    To be sure, gossip had spread since our visit to the baths, and there was speculation in Iskandria that I would offer my gifts to Pharaoh to sweeten the deal; the offer, it was murmured, would not be unwelcome.
    Joscelin had heard it by now, and what he thought of it, I could not say. I daresay he knew why, after our talk, though we did not speak further of it. I kept my own counsel. Not a single one of Nesmut’s elaborate web of