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Trente asked one last time, his voice torn between resignation and relief. I could not blame him for it. It was a hard assignment, and not, I surmised, one he welcomed. With Valère L’Envers’ refusal, it was ended. As much as Ysandre wanted the boy restored, she would never ask loyal D’Angeline citizens to enter a violent, hostile territory to find him.
    “No.” Valère’s tone softened. “Forgive me, Lord Amaury, but it is not possible. And I believe, in the end, it is the best thing for the nation.”
    It probably was, when all was said and done ... but I had sworn a vow, and I was haunted, like it or no, by a vision from a dream, a pair of blue eyes raised in plea, the shadow of a staff falling like a bar across a boy’s face. And I remembered too the light of the sun winking on the garnet seal Nicola L’Envers y Aragon wore at her wrist as she bid me farewell. It may come in handy again, one never knows . It was for this that I had come to Khebbel-im-Akkad. I sighed, and addressed Valère L’Envers in Akkadian, knowing the others would not understand. “My lady, I understand you have little aid to give, but I ask you nonetheless to petition your husband on our behalf. By the burning river, I adjure you.”
    She went very still and stared at me, looking in that moment nothing like her kinswomen. “You would use the password of my House to command me?” she asked in fluid Akkadian.
    “Forgive me,” I murmured, “but I must.”
    Valère looked away. “My House,” she said bitterly, “headed by my beloved father, who sold me into marriage to further his ambitions. You think I will honor its strictures?”
    “I don’t know.” I kept my voice honest and level. “Will you?”
    It was a long moment before she nodded, and she did it without returning my gaze. “I am D’Angeline, still,” Valère whispered. “And I consented to this union. Very well; I will ask Sinaddan. And I tell you.” She did look back at me then, tense and angry. “His answer will be the same. You have forced my hand to no avail, Comtesse, and I do not like it overmuch.”
    “I know,” I said sadly. “But I had to ask.”

Thirty-Nine
    SINADDAN-SHAMABARSIN, the Lugal of Khebbel-im-Akkad and ruler of Nineveh, threw a fête to herald our arrival.
    It was Valère’s doing and no mistake, but in truth, the Lugal was an unusual man, at least for an Akkadian. In the dozen years of their marriage, he had attained a healthy respect for the intellect of his D’Angeline bride and the mother of his sons. If he did not acknowledge it publicly, he was comfortable doing so in private, and had developed a certain fondness for D’Angeline ways.
    Hence, the fête, which was attended by a select few Akkadian high nobles, and at which the women-all three of us-might appear unveiled without shame.
    It was a very mannered affair and an awkward one, for among our number, none but I spoke Akkadian, and the Lugal spoke no D’Angeline, nor any other tongue we might have held in common. It is, I learned, despised as a form of concession, save among those few diplomats and envoys for whom it is a necessity. As Valère L’Envers did not deign to serve as translator, that duty fell to me.
    Sinaddan-Shamabarsin-whose surname meant ‘Exalted by Shamash’-was a handsome man in the Akkadian manner, some forty years of age, with dark, intelligent eyes and a neatly tended beard. His robes glittered with gold embroidery and a large emerald flashed on his turban, but he moved like a warrior despite it, fit and agile. He thanked Lord Amaury in courteous tones, which I translated, for bringing the Queen’s greetings to her kinswoman in Nineveh, and commended at length the grace of D’Angeline artistry.
    Lord Amaury, for all his discomfort, hid it well and replied in kind, which I also translated. He’d not been pleased when he’d learned what I’d done. None of the delegates were, a fact which Valère L’Envers perceived. When she broached her request, she presented it as mine.
    “My lord husband,” she said to him during the dessert course of candied rose petals and a sweet sherbet made of snow brought from the mountains, “may I presume to ask a boon on behalf of the Comtesse Phèdre de Montrève?”
    Prince Sinaddan smiled at me. “For such a lovely translator, one may ask, my lady wife.”
    “It seems,” she said deferentially, “that the Mahrkagir of Drujan has purchased a young D’Angeline boy, sold into slavery. Although I have