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vengeance broke, drowning it in blood.
    It was an Akkadian chronicle I was reading, and the author did not spare in his gleeful descriptions of the revenge they exacted, documenting atrocities that made my blood run cold. In Daršanga it was the worst. Hoshdar Ahzad and his family were taken alive. The self-styled sovereign was made to watch the rape of his wife and young daughters. When his cries of grief grew too loud, they cut out his tongue. His infant son was speared and spitted, his roasted flesh fed to the dogs. After that, they decided he had seen enough and put out his eyes. And while he wandered, blind and stumbling, mewling, the Akkadian general ordered a bloodbath. It was as Pharaoh had said. Lowborn or high, every man, woman and child of Hoshdar Ahzad’s lineage was put to the sword. The stone floors of Daršanga were awash in blood and the corpses stacked like cordwood.
    As a final touch, the Akkadian general gave his archers leave to use Hoshdar Ahzad for target practice, commencing with his limbs. It took him, the chronicler reported with pleasure, a long time to die.
    I had seen enough, too. I shoved the manuscript away and sat in the cool, vaulted library, sickened by what I’d read. On the painted walls, Thoth, the Menekhetan god of scribes and scholars, strode serenely, ibis-headed, carrying a balance in one human hand. I had known the Akkadians could be brutal. I’d not known the extent of it. The diffident clerk who had aided me in my research approached with a bow and addressed me in Hellene. If the gods of Hellas had not penetrated the royal library, their language had.
    “Do you desire aught else, gracious lady?”
    “There is nothing further on Drujan?” I asked.
    “Nothing.” He shook his head. “That is the most recent. There is nothing further.”
    “Did you look for references to Jahanadar?”
    “I looked in all the indices as you bid me,” he said with inbred patience. “Drujan and Jahanadar alike, gracious lady. There is nothing further. These things the priests have asked, many times.”
    “The Skotophagoti ,” I said . The clerk was silent, but a sudden fear glimmered in his dark eyes. I sighed and rubbed my face, willing the vision of Akkadian bloodshed to dispel. “The kingdom that died and lives, they call it. Well, I have learned well enough how it died. What I want to know is how it lives.”
    “I do not know, gracious lady.” The clerk’s voice came out high and strained; he swallowed hard, fingering a talisman strung about his neck. “But I do not think it is the sort of thing scholars set to writing. Not if they are wise.”

Thirty-Seven
    WE LEFT for Khebbel-im-Akkad.
    It took a week’s time to arrange transport and provisions for the journey, not to mention handling the ongoing trade negotiations. It was a good thing, after all, that I’d struck my bargain with Ptolemy Dikaios, for he proved unstinting in his aid. I daresay the price was worth it to him. With Imriel de la Courcel no longer a consideration, Menekhet had a good deal more to gain than Terre d’Ange in this exchange. If Amaury Trente knew Pharaoh had conspired with Melisande, he’d have no qualms in calling off the deal.
    I had made as much clear to Ptolemy Dikaios, who understood; and understood too that there was little merit and much danger in continuing a covert alliance with Melisande Shahrizai. As far as he was concerned, her son was as good as dead, her chance of gaining the throne rendered naught. From henceforth, he vowed, he would treat only with Ysandre. I took a certain bitter pleasure in circumventing one of Melisande’s last gambits.
    Denise Fleurais would stay to conclude the negotiations, and probably, I thought, do a better job of it than Lord Amaury. Comte Raife was adamant in his insistence that Pharaoh would balk at dealing with a woman, but I thought otherwise, and for once, Amaury agreed with me-and as Ysandre had appointed him to head the delegation, the decision was his. The Lady Denise would seal the bargain and return with half the delegation to Terre d’Ange, bearing news of our quest.
    She would also, we agreed, ensure the shipment of a gift of salve and other rare unguents and cosmetics to Pharaoh’s Queen, poor, silly Clytemne. I felt a certain pity for the girl, and meant to see my promise kept.
    Ptolemy Dikaios arranged a meeting for us with the Akkadian consul in Menekhet, one Lord Mesilim-Amurri. Although he looked down his nose at us at first, taking