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pleasure had vanished from Valère L’Envers’ features. Stiff in jeweled robes, she sat her throne like an effigy, only her lips moving as she said a single word: “No.”
    Blinking, Amaury Trente opened his mouth in protest, “Highness, you have my word-”
    She raised one finger. “Hear me, Lord Trente. In the first place, I do not have the power to grant your petition. This is Khebbel-im-Akkad. I rule only over eunuchs and women in my quarters. I command no guard of my own, and have no authority to negotiate, save what counsel my husband will hear in private, and the fact that I am the mother of his sons. In the second place, I question the wisdom of this course of action you pursue. This boy , this Imriel de la Courcel, is a traitor’s get twice-over, and the nearer he stands to the throne, the less I like it. And third ...” She smiled humorlessly. “What do you know of Drujan, my lord?”
    “Not much,” Amaury admitted. “Only that its priests are feared, even by Akkadians.”
    “Jahanadar,” I said. “The Land of Fires, sacred to Ahura Mazda, later to Shamash. Thirty years ago, it rose up in rebellion, under the leadership of Hoshdar Ahzad. Under the leadership of General Chussar-Usar, the rebellion was crushed, thousands slain and the entire line of Hoshdar Ahzad put to the sword. And then twenty-some years later, something changed, and Khebbel-im-Akkad will not speak of it, except to forbid commerce with the Drujani.”
    “Yes.” Valère L’Envers gave another bitter smile. “That much, we may still do, at least for now. You’ve done your research, Comtesse.”
    I inclined my head. “Such as was available. Will you tell us of Drujan, highness?”
    Her violet gaze, so like the Queen’s, was unreadable. “Drujan has extinguished its Sacred Fires. Do you know what that means?”
    “No,” I said.
    “Neither do I.” Her voice was grim. “Nor do any in Khebbel-im-Akkad, save the Persians, who look askance and mutter of ancient prophecies. I cannot say if there is truth in them. Only that men die when the Drujani priests will them to do so.”
    “Drujan is sovereign?” I asked.
    Valère L’Envers nodded. “For nine years. They rose up once more, fewer and twice as desperate, and slew the garrison-not just at Darsanga, but all the border forts. The Khalif sent a vast army. Three months later, a straggling remnant returned, bearing tales of poisoned water, rockslides, and wasting sickness.”
    “War is brutal,” Amaury Trente murmured. “Such things happen.”
    “Yes.” Valère looked hard at him. “Which is why the Khalif raised a second force, equipping them with the best mountain guides and a wagon-train of water, sending them into Drujan. Do you wish to hear what happened to them? They were trapped in a valley and slaughtered one another. Three survivors made it back, with scarce a set of wits between them. Under torture, all swore to the same story: In the night, the Mahrkagir and his Drujani army came down from the hills and fell upon them, cutting their forces to pieces. They fought back, fierce and desperate. And when dawn came, when the face of the Lion of the Sun gazed down into the valley ...” She shrugged. “No Drujani. Only the Akkadian dead, slain by their own hands, brother against brother. The army had turned upon itself.”
    There didn’t seem much to say to that. We all glanced at one another. Amaury Trente looked like he wanted to clutch his hair. Renée de Rives stood close to Royce Guidel, holding his hand in a fearful grip. The other delegates looked apprehensive. Only Joscelin’s face was calm. I frowned, thinking. “The Mahrkagir, my lady?”
    “So he calls himself, he who leads Drujan and sits the throne in Daršanga.”
    Old Persian is as close akin to Akkadian as Habiru. I sounded the word in my head, puzzling out the meaning. “The Conqueror of Death.”
    “Even so.” Valère, pale-faced, nodded. “Now do you understand why your petition is futile? Even if I were inclined to grant it and beseech Sinaddan on your behalf, he will send no men of Nineveh into Drujan.”
    “Have you tried diplomacy?” I raised my brows.
    “Diplomacy!” She gave a harsh laugh. “The Khalif sent an envoy, under a flag of truce, to discuss terms of peace after two armies were destroyed. The Mahrkagir sent their heads back in a satchel, eyeless and untongued. I do not recommend you attempt diplomacy.”
    “So you will grant us no aid, your highness?” Amaury