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visage encompassed in a circle. Outside the temple stood a mighty effigy of Ahzimandias, three times again as tall as a mortal man. He gripped a spear in one hand-the Spear of Shamash, he was called-and his bearded face was filled with the same blank ferocity as the god’s, glaring across the rooftops of the city.
    I read the inscription as we passed, writ in Akkadian: “My name is Ahzimandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!” It gave me a shiver. After the chronicles I had read of the destruction of Drujan, I regarded the House of Ur with a certain apprehension.
    The Palace of Nineveh was protected by thick walls and a cordon of guards, clad in long tunics over full armor, turbans wrapped around their pointed helmets. Here, no one got in until all our arms had been surrendered, including Joscelin’s, and we were given an escort of guards. While marble was in short supply, the palace was tiled inside, cool and elegant, though rather dark.
    I saw a good many servants hurrying about their business, but most of them were men-or eunuchs, I guessed, from their beardless state. Akkadians seemed to favor beards for men. There were no women, and I found myself relieved that Renée and I were veiled. Whatever status it conferred, I was glad of it.
    At last we were shown to a small reception hall, and our chief escort presented himself briskly at the door, announcing us to a plump eunuch in rich robes, a gold chain about his waist, who bowed deeply and looked askance at the men in our party. The guardsmen drew back the doors, and we were admitted.
    “Her highness the Lugalin Valère-Shamabarsin,” the eunuch attendant announced in Akkadian, his voice high and resonant. We all bowed or curtsied low before the figure seated on the dais before us, glittering in jewel-encrusted robes, her face veiled and hidden.
    And then the doors closed behind us, and the seated woman drew back her veil, reminding me, for a terrifying instant, of Melisande in the Little Court. But no; this woman glanced anxiously toward the door, making certain it was indeed closed, and I would have known her anywhere for a scion of House L’Envers, with those deep-violet eyes. “My lord Trente,” said Valère L’Envers, descending from the dais to take his hands and offer the kiss of greeting. Beneath an elaborate headdress, her hair was the color of honey and she had her father’s strong jaw, though prettier. “Well met!” Unerringly, she turned toward me, and I made a second curtsy, hastily pulling back my veil. “Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève,” she said, smiling. “Our houses have a long history together. It is an honor to meet you.”
    “The honor is mine, your highness,” I murmured, as she bent to kiss me.
    “And Messire Joscelin Verreuil!” Valère clasped both his hands in hers with unalloyed pleasure. “You’ve no idea how many times I’ve listened to ‘The Cassilines’ Duel’ in the Serenissiman Cycle. It’s my favorite part. I’m so pleased you’re here.”
    “Your highness.” Joscelin released her hands to give his Cassiline bow, vambraces flashing. “I am pleased it has given you pleasure.”
    “Indeed.” Her smile turned rueful. “Though I fear it is not for my pleasure you have come, any of you. My lord Trente,” she addressed Amaury. “Let us not stand on ceremony. I’ve enough of that. What brings you to Nineveh?” She saw him glance at the eunuch. “Burnabash is loyal to me, else you would not be here. Come, Lord Amaury. Out with it.”
    Taking a deep breath, Amaury Trente did. “As you are fond of the Serenissiman Cycle, your highness, you will remember that when we took possession of the Little Court of Benedicte de la Courcel, his infant son was discovered to be missing ...”
    He told the story in its entirety, or at least as much of it as he knew-Ysandre had told him only that I’d learned the boy had vanished from a Siovalese sanctuary and tracked him as far as Amílcar. Valère L’Envers heard it out in silence until he spoke of Drujan.
    “Drujan!” She said the word like a curse, her expression hardening. “So that’s why you’re here.”
    “Yes, your highness.” Amaury bowed. “I am here in the name of her majesty Ysandre de la Courcel, Queen of Terre d’Ange, to petition your aid in retrieving the boy from the Drujani, by whatever means you think best, whether it be trade or bribery or might of arms.”
    All traces of welcome and girlish