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made camp on the outskirts of villages, and traded with the villagers for our meals as we had done before.
    It was after we had stopped to pay homage at the temple of Sebek-at Inherit’s insistence, for I would gladly have foregone the pleasure a second time-that we realized how swiftly indeed this leg of our journey would come to an end.
    “Phèdre.” In the prow of the felucca, Joscelin set down his neatly wound fishing line. “What happens when we reach Iskandria?”
    I glanced toward the stern, where Inherit was teaching Imriel to steer the vessel, both of them absorbed with the tiller. “We present ourselves to Ambassador de Penfars, I suppose. If we’re not seized on arrival.”
    He raised his brows. “You think Ysandre’s that angry?”
    “No. I don’t know. She’ll have taken the betrayal harder, coming from the two of us.” I thought about it. “We’ve broken no law in Menekhet. But certainly she would be within her rights to ask Pharaoh for the favor.”
    “And risk exposing Imriel?”
    “Probably not,” I conceded.
    “I don’t think so, either. So,” he said. “If we’re to be hauled back in disgrace, like as not a delegation awaits us at the embassy.”
    “Like as not.” I looked at him. “I’m sorry.”
    Joscelin shrugged. “I made the decision first, Phèdre. Have you thought of what you’ll say to Ysandre?”
    “Yes,” I said and swallowed hard.
    “She owes you a boon,” he said. “The Companion’s Star?”
    I nodded.
    “Aught within her power and right to grant,” Joscelin mused. “It is that, although she’ll not like it, not one bit. ’Tis your decision to make, love. Is it worth it, to lose the goodwill of the Queen forever?”
    I turned to watch Imriel; we both did. Under Inherit’s guidance, he held the tiller with both hands, white-knuckled, eyes bright with excitement in his sun-tanned face. Catching sight of us, he grinned with pride.
    “Yes,” I said. “It’s worth it.”
    In a scant handful of days, we reached the end of the broad, stately river to enter the myriad waterways south of the city. The vegetation was lusher than ever after the rains, the odor moist and rank. Here our course slowed and it took the better part of a day to navigate the swampy delta. The air was unmoving, the felucca’s sail hanging slack. We drifted slowly on the sluggish current. Inherit used a long pole to facilitate our passage, humming cheerfully and pointing out black-headed ibis and egrets with their snowy crests, describing how they differed from their brethren further upstream.
    “To the market wharf, Kyria?” he asked in a mix of Menekhetan and Hellene when we drew within sight of the city, clusters of palms bowing over the buildings. “You can hire a carriage there, but if you get out before we reach the wharf, there is no toll to pay.”
    “No,” I said. “Take us to the wharf, Inherit.”
    He complied, poling briskly, then springing to attend the sail as a little breeze arose. I watched the city of Iskandria take shape around us, the familiar landmark of the great lighthouse visible at a distance, the wide, gracious streets and elegant buildings. It was gilded in the evening light, and I could smell the odors that had seemed so exotic upon our first arrival, the scent of oranges and strong spices in the air, and meat grilling for the evening meal.
    The market wharf was a busy place, the canal laden with small craft; farmers selling the season’s first produce, loading the remnants for departure; fishermen and hunters of waterfowl returning with their catch. There were few travellers such as ourselves, for most went by caravan or caught the larger barges at the port south of the city. We had to wait and jockey for position before we could secure a place and disembark. The tax-collector strolled over as Joscelin and Inherit unloaded our goods, paying us scant attention as he inspected our trunks.
    “You speak Menekhetan?” he asked, holding up one of my Jebean gowns.
    “A little, only,” I said. “Hellene?”
    “Do you take me for a farmer or a fisherman? Yes, I speak Hellene.” He gave me a brusque nod. “Are these for trade, Kyria, or personal... Serapis !” The tax-collector’s face turned pale as he regarded me for the first time.
    “My lord?” I asked, puzzled.
    He grabbed my wrist, leaning close. “Kyria, are you ... Nesmut’s friend ?”
    I drew back, seeing Imriel fetch Joscelin. “And if I am?”
    “Forgive me.” The