Kushiel's Avatar

won’t show if you wear your hair unbraided,” I said. “I always did like it loose.”
    He laughed, then stopped as I turned to tie up the water-skin. “You’re hurt.”
    “Some.” I peered over my shoulder, shrugging at the gouge. “A scratch, no more. I need to see to Bizan.”
    Over his protest, I went to supervise the extraction of the arrow, which was not so bad as it might have been. The Shamsun were poor. Their arrows were beautifully fletched-how not, with the birdlife that abounded?-but they were only fire-hardened wood, sharpened to a point. If it had been forged steel and barbed, we’d have had to cut it out. As it was, I had Nkuku withdraw it in one swift yank, and clapped a wad of clean cloth in place lest it had pierced an artery. Bizan was lucky, for it had not. I cleaned and dressed it.
    “Phèdre.” Joscelin had Imriel in tow. He took the jar of snakeroot from my hand. “Sit down,” he said, shoving me forcibly onto a rock. “Imri, you’re deft. See it cleaned, and put some of this on it.”
    “A lot you know about medicine -” I began.
    “Oh, hush.” Joscelin handed a damp rag to Imriel, who moved behind me and dabbed carefully at the graze through my rent gown. “Do you want it to fester?”
    “I heal clean,” I said, then drew in my breath as Imriel applied the snakeroot. Kaneka had said it was effective; she hadn’t mentioned it stung like seven hells. For an instant, my vision was veiled in crimson, and the surge of the Great Falls was like brazen wings buffeting in my ear. “Ah.”
    When I blinked, the world cleared. Joscelin’s expression had changed. “So,” he said softly. “That, too, is unchanged.”
    “Yes.” I held his gaze. “So it seems. Are you sorry, now?”
    After a moment, he shook his head. “No,” he said, stooping to brush my lips with his. “I’ll just have to catch more fish, that’s all.”
    I was still laughing when I saw them.
    Unlike the Shamsun, the Sabaeans had come ready for battle. They wore armor in an archaic style, or so I thought-bronze corselets over cotton tunics, pleated leather skirts and brightly woven cloaks. At second glance, I realized ’twas not the style, but the armor itself that was old, worn thin and bright with the patina of generations of polishing, traces of gilt lingering in the crevices here and there.
    Tifari Amu had spoken truly. No one had traded with Saba for a long, long time.
    We sat frozen, all of us, about our makeshift campsite, strewn with medicaments and the corpses of slain bandits. One of the Sabaeans stepped forward, frowning. Like the others, his skin was the hue of polished mahogany, and his bearded face was stern. He wore a helm like a pointed bronze cap, and only the leather straps were new.
    “You,” he said in Habiru, pointing to Tifari, who had risen, grasping his shield. “What passes here? Who has killed these men?”
    Tifari shook his head in a gesture of incomprehension.
    They spoke Habiru. After so long, they still spoke it. “Barukh hatah Adonai, father,” I said, getting to my feet. “Yeshua a’Mashiach ...” My voice trailed off. Whatever else these men were, they were not Yeshuite. I cleared my throat and continued in his tongue. “We have come seeking peaceful converse with Saba.”
    He stared at me unabashed, for which I did not blame him. We made an odd sight altogether, and while he might not know me for the most famous courtesan in Terre d’Ange, I was hardly what one expects to find in a Jebean forest surrounded by corpses. “You,” he said slowly. “What are you?”
    “I am Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève of Terre d’Ange,” I said. “It is a land very far away, farther even than the homeland of Shalomon. These are my companions,” I added, introducing them. Joscelin gave his Cassiline bow; the Jebeans nodded warily. Imriel kept still, seeking to read the Sabaean’s expression.
    “From Meroë.” The Sabaean captain frowned. “We have no friends in Meroë.”
    I translated his comment to Tifari Amu, who shrugged. “They have no enemies, either. The quarrel is an ancient one. Our wise Queen would see it laid to rest if Saba willed it. But we are not here to parlay, only to aid you in your quest. It is a favor to the gods, and to the Lugal of Khebbel-im-Akkad, nothing more.”
    When I relayed his words to the Saba ean captain, he gave a bitter smile. “Our memories are long, foreigner. The quarrel is not ancient to us, and we have no fondness for the