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heard it.”
    “You know him.” Relief flooded me.
    “He speaks Caerdicci. He was gently reared, once.”
    I thought of Brother Selbert and the sanctuary of Elua, nestled in the mountains of Siovale, where it seemed no harm could befall anyone. “Is he ... well?” I asked.
    “He is alive, and unmaimed.” Her mouth hardened. “In this place, that passes for well.”
    I tried not to sound too eager. “I would speak with him, if it is possible.”
    “Not until Nariman relents,” she said bluntly. “It may be days. He is Chief Eunuch here, and Imri’s punishment is his province. I don’t advise you to cross him. It is said that it was Nariman who opened the gates of the zenana , thirty years ago, to the Akkadian forces. It amuses his lordship to leave him in office. I cannot think why.” Drucilla rose from my couch, stretching aching joints with a sigh. “Phèdre nó Delaunay, do not expect too much of the boy. It is a comfort to have the companionship of one’s homeland, but he has been a long time without it and cruelly treated in the bargain. I do what I may, but he does not welcome pity.”
    “No.” I thought of Melisande’s face when I had told her the news, the awful knowledge, the blazing fury in her eyes. “I don’t suppose he would.”
    Drucilla left me, then, continuing on her rounds of the zenana ; I watched, and saw that she was greeted with respect by some; by others, with indifference or disdain. She laid a hand on the shoulder of one of the three fasting Bhodistani. I could not hear what they said, but she merely nodded, sorrow in her mien, and went onward. She stooped to speak to the Skaldi lad, who turned his face to the wall. Nothing to be done there.
    Someone scratched at the latticed door to the zenana -a Drujani soldier. A deathly quiet fell over the tepidarium. Nariman, the Chief Eunuch, conferred and stepped forward with a pair of Akkadian attendants. His keen gaze swept the room, and I saw many dozens of women suddenly try to make themselves invisible.
    To no avail; Nariman pointed-there, there and there, and six women and one boy gained expressions of despair. One went wailing, and beyond the door, I saw the Drujani grin. The boy was Menekhetan, slight and stumbling; in silent anguish, I thought of Nesmut. The women whose couches he shared wept openly, covering their heads and rending their clothing.
    No matter what, I thought, where battle prevails, women must grieve.
    One of the Bhodistani had been chosen, a lovely woman clad in silks of crimson and orange. The warm hue of her skin and her long black hair reminded me eerily of my mother; there is Bhodistani blood, they say, in the veins of Jasmine House. The Akkadians stood by, waiting, almost respectful. Her legs gave way beneath her as she sought to stand, and one of the eunuchs caught her gently. Her companions, languid with the nearness of death, reached out to kiss her hand, tears in their eyes. Wavering on her feet, she gave them a lucid smile.
    Blessed Elua, I thought, let me go as gracefully when my time to die is come.
    And regarded the thought with horror.
    Then they were gone, and the zenana buzzed with relief. They had gone, I knew from what Drucilla had told me, to the festal hall-to the Mahrkagir’s entertainment. Some would return, depending on the lord’s mood and that of his men. Some would not. I did not think the Bhodistani woman would, who had set her mind to die. I was not sure of the others, nor the boy.
    Too restless to remain still, I got up and wandered the zenana . Since I had naught else to do, I sat for a while beside the Skaldi lad, Erich. “What is your tribe?” I asked him in his own tongue. “Where is your steading?” Wrapped in his own private misery, he rolled on his side, facing the wall and ignoring me. So I sang to him in Skaldic, the hearth-songs of his mothers and sisters, the songs I had learned when I was a slave-when I was first a slave, for what else was I now?-in Gunter Arnlaugson’s steading, whence Melisande had sold me. I sang to him until I saw his broad shoulders shake with silent tears, and felt abashed. “Your friend Rushad is missing you,” I whispered to him, then. “He does not wish you to die.”
    Erich the Skaldi made no reply or acknowledgment.
    The effort made, I went upon my way, musing upon the strangeness of it all. It might have been day or night; I could not say. The rhythms of the Mahrkagir’s whims dictated life in the zenana . If the attendants