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contacts could confirm Imri was in the Palace, and I had no intention of bringing my price to the bargaining-table if he was not.
    “He wants to meet you, Phèdre.” Lord Amaury hoisted his cup of beer and regarded it with disfavor. “Elua, what I wouldn’t give for a glass of Namarrese red! We should have brought an extra keg. Any mind ... it seems word has come to Pharaoh’s ear, and he told Ambassador de Penfars today that he wishes to lay eyes on this treasure of D’Angeline womanhood. Especially since General Hermodorus has seen you.”
    I picked at the fish on my plate, separating tender flesh from a myriad of bones. “Well and so, he may meet me. If the ruler of Menekhet summons me before the throne, I can hardly ignore it.”
    “And if he asks more?” Amaury asked. “Comte Raife thinks he might. He has heard, it seems, something of Naamah’s service.”
    At the far end of the table, Denise Fleurais coughed discreetly. I ignored it and met Amaury’s eyes. “I am a free D’Angeline, and under no obligation to Ptolemy Dikaios. Does Ambassador de Penfars counsel that I should grant his request? Does he think Pharaoh will be struck dumb at my beauty and offer up the boy of his own volition?”
    “No.” Lord Amaury looked miserable. “But we’re running out of options, my lady. And he thought... you are skilled in the arts of covertcy. Men talk, in moments of passion ... Elua, I don’t know! I thought, when you arrived ...” He shrugged. “I thought we would have found him by now.”
    “So did I, my lord,” I murmured. “So did I.”
    Amaury sighed and drained his cup, staring into its empty bottom until an attentive servant stepped up to refill it. I pushed away my plate of fish and glanced at Joscelin, who returned my gaze with an unreadable expression. The other delegates, less affected, laughed and conversed amid a merry clatter of cutlery. Someone, a minor lordling, was telling a tale of the day’s events to an audience rapt with horror.
    “... dragged forty yards or better,” he was saying. “By the time they cut the reins from his waist, his own mother wouldn’t have recognized him.”
    “You should send a letter of introduction,” Amaury announced in an abrupt tone, raising his head. “That much, at least. Raife Laniol’s a fool not to have advised it sooner.”
    “... matched chestnuts, the sweetest pair you’ve seen, with an arch to their necks to make a woman weep, I tell you, and the one with its foreleg dangling, I nearly wept myself...”
    “Of course,” I said absentmindedly, listening, “if you think it best. My lord Amaury, what are they talking about?”
    “What?” Amaury Trente stared at me a moment, uncomprehending.
    “Oh, that. A man was killed at the chariot-races, I believe. One of the charioteers. A terrible accident.”
    “Did he wear green ribbons?” My voice was unsteady.
    “Green ribbons?” Amaury frowned, and asked; the question wended its way down the table and came back, the answer bedecked with a good deal of unnecessary detail. Yes, the charioteer had worn green ribbons, tied about his upper arms. Or at least he had, before. He’d gotten tangled in his reins and dragged, after the chariot had upset. Who could say what color his ribbons had been, once they were soaked with blood?
    Either way, the man was dead.
    It was then that a feather of foreboding touched me.
    “My lord Amaury,” I asked. “Who are these priests the locals name Eaters-of-Darkness? “
    No one, it transpired, knew for sure; some had never encountered one and others, like me, had assumed they were Menekhetan priests, servants of Serapis, lord of the dead. I listened to them all, and learned little, beginning to wonder. Joscelin had seen the same thing I had. He listened too, and I saw on his face a steadily growing expression of disquiet that echoed what I felt. Somewhere, in these events, an unseen pattern was tightening upon us.
    That night, I had another dream.
    This time, it was different. I did not dream of the ship and the isle, but of Canopic Street, flat and bright-washed in the midday sun, dust lying heavy on the flagstones. A lone figure knelt in the center of it, a boy, his head bowed. A collar of iron weighted his neck, outsized and cruel, and his hair fell in black curls over his shoulders.
    “ Skotophagotis !” said a voice I knew to be Nesmut’s.
    I took a step forward, my feet as heavy as lead. A black shadow fell across the flagstones, fell across