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He shook his head gently, tightening the cord, never looking past my face. Why would he? Whatever else was true, he trusted me. “Angra Mainyu wishes it, îshta, and so do you, in your heart of hearts.” The cord was cutting off my air, and the darkness beginning to sparkle. The world was fading around me. Only his adoring smile hovered, vivid in my vision. “Your gods sent you as tribute.”
    The words were uttered in a tone of deepest love.
    And beneath my hand lay his steady-beating heart.
    “Half right,” I gasped, choking. With all the strength that was in me, I shoved the ivory hairpin home into his resisting flesh. His mouth opened wide, his eyes astonished. “My gods did send me ... but not as tribute.”
    Silent and shocked, the Mahrkagir of Drujan sank to his knees, the ivory haft of Kaneka’s hairpin standing out from his chest. It was a small thing, pretty and decorative. It was enough. The point had pierced his heart.
    “I’m sorry,” I whispered, miserable. “I’m sorry.”
    His eyes rolled and his mouth worked. No words emerged. And like that, he died.
    I covered my face with my hands and burst into tears.
    That part, I told no one, not even Joscelin. It did not last long. He was a monster, and deserved to die. I knew this to be true. But he had been a boy, once; a boy with a dog, a whore’s royal get, brought into the zenana , and it was Akkadian atrocities that made him what he was. That, I could not forget.
    And he had loved me.
    When my tears had done, I gathered myself, kneeling on the floor beside the Mahrkagir’s body, listening for signs of disturbance. There were none. I had not known what would happen when I killed him. I had thought, mayhap, that the Skotophagoti would know at once, sensing a change in the presence of Angra Mainyu’s manifestation. But no; they had grown overdependent upon him, the Conqueror of Death, certain he would not die.
    Not at the hands of a D’Angeline whore.
    Well and so; they would know it, the first time they reached for Angra Mainyu’s power and found it gone, the gateway closed by death. And the next step would be no easier than the last. I hunted through the clutter of the Mahrkagir’s quarters until I found somewhat that would serve my purposes-a short spear and a leather bull-whip, encrusted with old blood. Like as not it was mine.
    How long had passed since we left the hall? A quarter hour, at least; mayhap longer. I flung open the doors to his quarters, panic unfeigned. “My lord Mahrkagir!” I said urgently, pointing at the prostrate figure. “He is having seizures!”
    With a muttered curse, Gashtaham shoved me out of the way and hurried into the room, Tahmuras hard on his heels. I slammed the doors closed behind them, shoving the shaft of the spear through the door handles and lashing it in place with the long thong of the bull-whip.
    The doors shuddered under the impact of Tahmuras, on the far side, hurling himself against them. The spear buckled, and held. It would not hold him forever. I raced down the Mahrkagir’s hidden passageway to the zenana , a path I could trace in the dark. That night, I did.
    They were waiting, in the zenana . Nariman the Chief Eunuch lay silent on the floor, his plump throat slit like a pig’s. Uru-Azag was smiling with grim pleasure.
    “Is it done?” asked Kaneka.
    I nodded, not trusting my voice.
    If anyone had been listening, the cheering that went up at my nod would have brought the wrath of Daršanga down upon the zenana . No one was. A veritable mob bolted for the latticed door, and only the cool head of Erich, cursing and fending them off, kept them momentarily at bay. “The sword-priest is above?” he asked me in Skaldic, jerking his head at the stairs.
    “I’ll see,” I said. “It was my plan.”
    Uru-Azag went with me, taking the stairs two at once, dragging me with him, his dagger in his free hand. Behind us, the women of the zenana overran Erich, pushing hard. If Joscelin had not been there ... if Joscelin had not been there, I daresay they would have torn the guards limb from limb.
    But he was there, waiting, wearing a chain-mail shirt over a leather jerkin.
    Hordes of women shoved their way into the empty hallway. Two Akkadian eunuchs knelt and began to efficiently strip the slain Drujani guards of their arms and armor. And I ignored it all, flinging my arms around Joscelin’s neck, willing, in that moment, to die if only to feel him hold me one last time, chain-mail or