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had learned a bit, by then, of how she had come to be enslaved in Drujan. One did not ask such things, in the zenana of Daršanga. Women volunteered it or kept silent; one did not ask. Safiya’s father had entrusted her unto the keeping of a caravan-guide, to maintain the accounts, on a journey to Iskandria. It was there that the Skotophagoti had claimed her. Queen Zanadakhete had spoken true: the bone-priests had never penetrated Meroë. Of Kaneka’s case, I knew less, for she was reticent on the subject.
    We made merry after Safiya’s restoration; it had been a joyous homecoming, and we celebrated it into the small hours. I was glad, after all that had transpired, to see with my own eyes a member of the Mahrkagir’s hareem returned to the bosom of her family. It felt a victory.
    In the morning, Ras Lijasu’s guide came for us. He was mountain-bred, Tifari Amu, with skin the color of cinnamon, keen features and a quiet, capable manner. He and Kaneka conferred at length, arguing over the map, arguing over the number of donkeys required to bear our goods, arguing over everything; Kaneka truculent, the Ras’ guide calm and insistent.
    “I think she likes him,” Imriel observed.
    “Yes.” I hid a smile. I had taught him well. “I think so, too.”
    Their arguments were settled, and the matter decided. We would strike south for Debeho, and thence on to the fabled land of Saba. There were politics involved; there are always politics. It is a fact of life. Relations between Jebe-Barkal and Saba were nonexistent. We would test the waters for Queen Zanadakhete, our embassy owing naught as it did to Jebean politics. It was somewhat they could disown; a favor to the Lugal of Khebbel-im-Akkad, if need be.
    I didn’t care. Let them use us as they would. I was glad we were going.

Sixty-Eight
    OUR COMPANY consisted now of myself, Joscelin, Imriel and Kaneka, with the addition of Tifari Amu and a fellow soldier of Meroë, along with four hired bearers. Leaving the desert behind, we spent now on the purchase of a donkey-train and mounts for ourselves, swift horses of Umaiyyati stock, with arching necks and tails carried at a jaunty angle, flying like pennants.
    We followed the Tabara River as best we might, but our journey often took us far afield. Lacking a poet’s gifts, I am hard-pressed to describe the terrain we traversed. Such diversity! At its height, the landscape was nearly like unto the Camaeline Mountains that border Skaldi-forested and plunging, dense with pine and sycamore. Here the air grew thin and the nights were cold; so cold we huddled in our tents, shivering and glad of our woolen blankets.
    The deep valleys were another matter altogether, green and tropical, filled with all manner of birds, flashing from tree to tree with raucous cries and bright plumage. There were monkeys, too; cunning creatures with bold eyes and scolding voices, agile and long-limbed. Our progress was slow through the valleys, and I was glad of our guides, for we would have been lost on our own, map or no map.
    On the eleventh day, we reached the plain where Kaneka’s village was located, and it proved yet another new landscape, vast and tawny plains dotted with the gnarled forms of eucalyptus trees. Here we were able to follow the river once more. It flowed at a good pace, narrower and swifter than where it joined the Nahar upstream.
    As we drew near Debeho, Kaneka grew moody. I asked her about it when we made camp that evening, pitching our tents beneath a spreading eucalyptus.
    “I quarrelled with my brother, little one,” she said, her voice unwontedly somber. “Do you have brothers?”
    I shook my head. “Not that I know of.”
    Kaneka gave a faint smile. “They are a blessing and a curse. We sought, both of us, to be named our grandmother’s successor.”
    “The storyteller,” I said, remembering.
    “Even so.” She nodded. “There was a contest. Each of us was to tell a story, a true story, that had never been told before. Mafud lied. His story, of a magic ring and a spellbound prince-an Umaiyyati trader told it to him. I know, for I overheard it. But my grandmother did not know, and judged him the winner. No one believed me, so I ran away.”
    “The Skotophagoti found you? The Âka-Magi?”
    “Not in Jebe-Barkal.” Kaneka toyed with a gold necklace she held in her lap, a gift of the Lugal, bowing her head and polishing the gleaming metal. “Tigrati tribesmen found me; highlanders, like him.” She jerked