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leaving, we were to wait for the Chamberlain to pass, and follow three steps behind, departing in the order of arrival.
    There was more, too. I waited until he was finished. “My lord Ambassador, what do you know of these priests the Iskandrians call Skotophagoti ?”
    Comte Raife blinked, perplexed. His wife whispered in his ear. “Oh yes,” he said, expression clearing. “It is some native superstition, I am told. Menekhet is like any place, full of its soothsayers and harbingers. Do they concern you?”
    “They might,” I said. “Where are they from? I was told Persis.”
    “Persis!” He laughed. “Someone has been filling your ears with nonsense.”
    “You have never heard of a kingdom that died and lives?”
    “Ah.” Comte Raife gave me a benevolent look. “It is Khebbel-im-Akkad you’re thinking of, my dear. I am given to understand that the name itself means ...”
    “Akkad-that-is-reborn,” I said. “Yes, my lord, I know it. This is something different.”
    He shook his head, bemused. “I think not, my lady.”
    And then there was no more time for conversation, for we had reached the Palace of Pharaohs. It is a gorgeous structure, to be sure, sheathed in white marble and jutting out into the harbor. Pharaoh’s guards knew the Ambassador by sight, but they took no chances, peering into the carriage and confirming our identities, matching them against a list on a waxen tablet. Our entrance was authorized and we were waved through the gate.
    Inside, the Palace was open and airy, with high ceilings and innumerable windows positioned to catch the sea breeze. Clearly, it was meant to be defended from without and not within. We were ushered into an antechamber where we were served a cooling drink of steeped hibiscus petals, and stoic slaves worked fans of massive palm fronds. Presently the Chamberlain came for us, accompanied by a pair of attendants. He was a tall, gaunt man with a slight stoop, and no trace of humor in his mien.
    “My lord Ambassador,” he greeted Raife Laniol in Hellene.
    Comte Raife bowed. “My lord Chamberlain. You know Lord Amaury Trente, and his companions, Lord Nicolas Vigny and the Baron de Chalais. May I present the Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève, and her consort Joscelin Verreuil?”
    The Chamberlain’s eyelids flickered. It is not done, in Menekhet, for women to take consorts as we do in Terre d’Ange-not openly, at least. “Pharaoh will be pleased,” was all he said. “My lord Verreuil, will you consent to leave your weapons in our keeping?”
    Joscelin gave a Cassiline bow in response, removing his daggers from their sheaths and unbuckling his baldric with practiced ease. One of the Chamberlain’s attendants stepped forward, opening a length of the best Menekhetan linen to accept his weapons. The unadorned steel, oiled leather and worn hilts looked plain and utilitarian against the fine white cloth.
    “Those blades once saved her majesty’s life,” Comte Raife said. “Guard them well, my lord Chamberlain.”
    So, I thought, he is not entirely unsuited to diplomacy. The Chamberlain glanced at Joscelin with a measure of increased respect. “It shall be done,” he said, bowing briefly. “Now, if you will follow, Pharaoh is waiting.”
    We followed, Comte Raife and his wife three steps behind the Chamberlain, Amaury Trente and the delegates, and Joscelin and me at the rear. I kept my eyes downcast, walking at a measured pace, feeling the vastness of the throne-room echo on my ears. The air moved, fanned by slaves, scented with camphor and sandalwood. By the faint creak of armor, I guessed there were guards present, a dozen or more. I heard our names announced, and caught a glimpse of Comte Raife and Juliette making their obeisance, then Lord Amaury and his delegates. A male voice addressed them in pleasant tones, and another, a woman’s, young and piping.
    And then it was our turn. Approaching the throne, I sank to my knees, feeling the marble cool through the silk of my dress, bowing deeply and rising, keeping my gaze on the floor, conscious of Joscelin doing the same.
    “Lady Phèdre.” It was Pharaoh’s voice that addressed me. I met his eyes. Despite his gilt-encrusted robes, Ptolemy Dikaios, Pharaoh of Menekhet, was only a man, of middle years, the gold diadem of his office set atop thinning hair. He smiled at me. “So this is the treasure of Terre d’Ange.”
    “My lord Pharaoh.” I inclined my head. “Others have said it, not