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it, who were doubtless on their way back to Tyre even as we spoke, taut and furious, holding in custody a disappointed Akkadian serving-lad.
    “He did it for love,” Joscelin said softly. “That’s the difference. And I don’t have it in my heart to betray him for it. Phèdre ... this boy could be dangerous. Or he could be something else. I can’t forgive Melisande. But I can forgive her son.”
    “Someone should,” I murmured. “It might as well be us.”
    “Why not?” He laughed, the sound blending with the rhythmic ripple of waves against the ship’s hull. “One way or another, it seems it usually is.”
    And so our journey passed. In the morning and the evenings, his seasickness faded, Joscelin performed his Cassiline exercises on the foredeck of the ship, sweating under the bright sun as he sought to regain his old balance, the steel daggers weaving intricate patterns-slowly, so slowly. After the first day of his discovery, Imriel joined him, using a pair of wooden practice-blades whittled for him by a bored sailor. With infinite patience, both for his own infirmity and Imri’s ineptness, Joscelin taught him the rudiments of it.
    I watched them both, stirred by emotions I could not name. In days long gone by, when first he had come to Delaunay’s service, I used to watch so, standing upon the terrace while he did his exercises in the garden, and wondered at the Cassiline’s patience when he began teaching Alcuin, my near-brother Alcuin, with his milk-white hair and his gentle smile.
    In those days, I had despised Joscelin.
    Now ...
    I loved him; I loved him still. And when his grin flashed, quick to forgive an error; when he pushed himself tirelessly, silhouetted against the sparkling sea; when Imriel’s laugh rang out, surprised and delighted-I loved him all the more, until my heart ached with it, too vast for the confines of my body.
    Yet we had not even kissed.
    Too many shadows lay between us, and all of them born in Drujan. I am an anguissette ; I have been so all of my life. Like Joscelin, I had made my way with balance; between the left side and the right, between pleasure and pain, between love and all that it was not. Somewhere, in Daršanga, I had gone too far. And something in me had shattered, as surely as his bones.
    I did not know how to find my way back.
    And so I watched them and was gladdened, taking secondhand pleasure where I might, in the clean sea and wind, the leap of blood resurgent in wasted muscles and the arc of steel cleaving sky, the sound of a boy’s laughter. And I composed, in my head, my letter to Lord Amaury Trente, striving to explain why I believed this was in accordance with the will of Blessed Elua.
    Thus did we arrive in Iskandria.
    I hadn’t expected Nesmut.
    “Gracious lady!” His voice rang the considerable length of the quai, his sandaled feet slapping the pavings as he pelted toward us, all dignity forgotten. “Gracious lord! You are alive !”
    “Nesmut.” I laughed, my heart rebounding with unwonted joy. “Are you free to take on an old client? There are more of us, this time.”
    After much negotiation, at once light-hearted and solemn, Nesmut contracted carriages and porters and led us to our lodgings-not Metriche’s, these, but a purely Menekhetan establishment, pleasant and modest. The women of the zenana were not like to complain. It was palatial, after Daršanga. And I did not want us to be easily found.
    I obtained parchment and a pen and ink, and spent the better part of a day writing the letters I’d composed-the one to Amaury, and a good many others. When I had finished, I sent a message, via Nesmut, to Ptolemy Dikaios. The lad’s status had risen in the world, that such a message might be sent and delivered without question. He preened with it, which I begrudged him not in the least.
    Pharaoh’s summons came almost immediately. As I had requested, it was a discreet meeting and not a formal one. This would all, I thought ruefully, be a great deal easier without Imriel. But the decision was made, and I would do what I could to ensure it done safely.
    Ptolemy Dikaios received me in the private reception-hall where we had struck our bargain, and under the impassive eyes of his fan-bearers I gave him a letter from the Lugal which detailed the events that had befallen and requested his aid in seeing the freed Menekhetans restored to their families or housed with honor. He read it without need of a translator and regarded me