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aim low.
    “My lord Pharaoh,” I said to him. “You know who I am. Do you know what I seek?”
    Ptolemy Dikaios shifted on his throne, rings flashing. His features had gone impassive. “I know it does not lie within these walls.”
    I studied his face as if my life depended on it, and indeed, if mine did not, Imriel’s might. He was concealing something. Knowledge, or the boy? If I was wrong, I lost my opportunity. I had to gamble. Pharaoh’s face was smooth, sure of his unassailability. He would not be so certain if it was the boy. A secret alliance is much easier to hide than a ten-year-old boy. I thought of my dream, and the dark bar of shadow falling across Imriel’s upturned face. Amaury Trente was staring at me, his lips moving silently, praying I would not do aught foolish. In truth, I could not say. “Then I will ask a question, my lord Pharaoh, as I perceive you are a scholar of the world.” I drew a deep breath. “What is the kingdom that died and lives?”
    The Pharaoh of Menekhet grew pale. “ Drujan .”
    “Drujan.” I savored the word, along with the Pharaoh’s pallor and the beads of sweat that stood of a sudden on his balding pate. “Tell me, my lord, what is this Drujan?”
    One of his guards stepped forward, and a court soothsayer with a furrowed brow. Ptolemy Dikaios composed himself and waved them back. “Drujan,” he said in a grim tone, “was once a satrapy of the empire of Persis. It is a kingdom, now, in the far north of Khebbel-im-Akkad.”
    “A kingdom?” Comte Raife arched his elegant silver eyebrows. “A sovereign kingdom, my lord Pharaoh?”
    There was a pause. “Yes,” Ptolemy Dikaios said. “So I believe it to be. The Drujani rebelled against their Akkadian overlords a score and ten years ago, and were crushed mercilessly. Every surviving member of royal blood was put to the sword, the women raped and slain.
    And then ...” He spread his hands, a powerless gesture for all the rings that adorned his fingers. “Eight years ago, something changed. What it was, I do not know, for the Akkadians are loathe to speak of it. But that is when the bone-priests came, the Skotophagoti . Sometimes alone, and sometimes with comrades, merchants and mercenaries.”
    “And you welcomed them, my lord Pharaoh?” I let a hint of polite disbelief show in my voice. “I have heard it said the Akkadians hate them like the plague.”
    “And fear them as much.” He shook his head. “I never welcomed them. It is death to trade with them, death to house them, death to give them succor. That much, the Akkadians decreed. Such was the proclamation of Ishme-la-Ilu, who is Grand Vizier to the Khalif of Khebbel-im-Akkad, and I have obeyed it. The Drujani and their bone-priests are not welcome in Iskandria, nor anywhere in Menekhet. But...” he smiled tightly, “... it is also death to cross them, and not by Akkadian steel, no. Ignoble death, by a falling-sickness, by the bite of an asp, a runaway horse. Believe me,” he added, glancing around. “I have consulted my priests, and I have consulted our great library. Neither have yielded an answer. There are talismans, prayer-scrolls ...” He waved a dismissive hand. “Enemies of the Drujani bone-priests die anyway.”
    “So they go where they will?” I asked slowly.
    Ptolemy Dikaios nodded. “We do as the Akkadians have bidden. Avoid them, and give thanks to all the gods that their numbers are few, and they offer no violence if unmolested.” He gave his tight smile again. “Menekhet is ancient, Lady Phèdre, and she has weathered many storms. Whatever quarrel lies between Drujan and Khebbel-im-Akkad, we can outwait it.”
    “Yes, but now ...” I was thinking half aloud. “My lord Pharaoh, what do the Drujani come for?” I paused. “Do they buy slaves?”
    His face turned stony. “It may be, though it is forbidden.”
    “Of course,” I said absently. “But if they did ... if they did, would anyone stop them? Your guards? Would they be challenged at the gates of the city?”
    Another pause, then he shook his head. “No. Not if a Skotophagotis was with them.”
    “And the punishment for a Menekhetan merchant caught doing business with a Drujani?”
    Pharaoh met my eyes and answered softly. “Death.”
    I shuddered, and heard Amaury Trente utter a sound of dismay. It seemed strange and distant, for my ears were ringing with a bronze clash of wings and a haze of red veiled my vision. The unseen pattern was closing upon me. I