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looked down at me where I groveled on the flagstones. “Tahmuras, take her to the zenana .”

Forty-Three
    THE ZENANA , or women’s quarter, of Daršanga palace was a world unto itself.
    It was the Mahrkagir’s giant, Tahmuras, who escorted me there. He said nothing along the way, and I would have wondered if he were deaf and dumb, were it not for the alacrity with which he had obeyed the Mahrkagir’s command. Tahmuras strode down the halls, descending a stair, all but ignoring me as I stumbled in his wake.
    Of what was befalling Joscelin and Tizrav, I could only guess and hope. I had made my choice and committed myself-and lest I forget, the awful pulse of desire, inflamed by the Mahrkagir’s touch, throbbed between my thighs. I fixed my gaze on the broad back of Tahmuras, concentrating on following him. He bore no blade, but only a single weapon thrust through his belt; a morningstar, a spiked ball-and-chain mace, the steel rod jutting against his thigh. No scavenged armor would fit him, not this man. He wore a leather jerkin laced with crude plates of steel.
    My mind was frozen, between fear and desire; I did not hear what Tahmuras said when he scratched for entry at the latticed door of the zenana . It was opened, I know, and I was thrust through it, given unto the care of the Chief Eunuch.
    I began to realize the vastness of the zenana .
    It had to be, to hold so many people; a large pool-room, honeycombed with darkness beyond. And it was warm, for a mercy. I sighed as the door closed behind me, feeling the warmth of the space seep into my bones. The Chief Eunuch surveyed me, pursing his lips.
    “You see?” he asked in pidgin argot; a tongue that owed something to Persian, Caerdicci and Hellene alike; zenyan, it was called, but I learned that later. With a sweeping gesture, he indicated the room, the stagnant waters of the tepidarium, the surrounding couches on islands of carpet. “Here, you stay. Find a place that is empty.”
    “My lord.” I swallowed and licked my lips, seeking my voice. “I speak Persian, a little.”
    “You do?” His brows rose. “Well, find a place. There are always some who have died. You should have no trouble making room.”
    I looked across the space, the knots of intrigue and scheming, like drawing to like. There were women, more women than I could have guessed at, from every nationality on earth. There were Persians and Akkadians with skin like old ivory; there were Ephesians with sultry eyes. There were amber-skinned Bhodistani and even Ch’in, whom I had never seen, with straight black hair caught up in combs and skin the hue of honey. There were Caerdicci of every shade and Hellenes, too; modest Illyrians, and there were Chowati, with light hair and slanted, pale eyes. There were proud hawk-nosed Umaiyyati maidens, and Menekhetans, too. Of a surety, there were Carthaginians and Aragonians as well, and Jebeans and Nubians with ebony skin.
    And there were boys.
    Not many; only a few, with terrified, defiant eyes, clinging to the couches of the women of their homelands. None of them were D’Angeline.
    “I have heard there is one,” I said to the Chief Eunuch. “A boy, so high ...” I gave a vague indication with one hand, having no idea how tall Imriel stood, “from the same country as I. He would not speak your tongue, but he has blue-black hair and eyes ...” I hesitated, “... the color of twilight.”
    “That one.” The Chief Eunuch rolled his eyes. “The Shahryar Mahrkagir would have such a one from your country for his three-fold path. I would that the Âka-Magi had found a less troublesome one. Yes, he has been taken to spend time alone, for stabbing an attendant with a serving fork. You heard me, lady. Find a space.”
    And with that, he left me.
    I made my way around the pool, the walls of which were coated with greenish slime. The water had a fetid odor. Stalwart eunuchs stood at guard around the perimeter of the room, their faces suffused with bitterness. I did not know why, then; now, I do. These were members of the Akkadian garrison that the Mahrkagir had captured. He’d had them all unmanned. A good many had chosen death instead. Those who hadn’t, he’d set to guard his seraglio. And they did it, too, clinging to life, filled with rage.
    It all served Angra Mainyu, who fed on hatred as surely as death, and longer.
    Here and there I paused, asking in this tongue and that: Do you know of this boy?
    They knew him; of a surety, they knew him.