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for it would have been pleasant to have a female companion. Still, I could not fault her choice, and she would bear my letter to the Queen to the nearest Royal Couriers’ waypost, for which I was grateful.
    There was considerable debate over whether or not the word of the Tsingani could be trusted, which I ignored. Millard Verreuil decreed at length that the search would go on as planned, on a slightly smaller scale. It was a sound decision. Whether they believed Kristof’s story was true or no, where there was rumor of slave-traders, there might be trouble.
    Let them learn what they might. I was going to Amílcar.
    I knew it was true.
    Oh, Kristof might have left out details, and he might have been mistaken about the men being Carthaginian, although I doubted it. But I knew, in my bones, that it was Imriel he had seen. It had an awful symmetry that spoke of Kushiel’s presence at work. It was as Hyacinthe had said. There was a pattern here, too vast to be compassed. No one can fathom the will of gods and angels as they shape mortal lives; I could sense the purpose in it, and pray it was less dire than it seemed. When Joscelin and I had stumbled unwitting into Melisande’s conspiracy, she could easily have had us killed. She didn’t. Instead, she disposed of us in another way, selling us into slavery among the Skaldi. We had survived. Imriel de la Courcel had a chance of doing the same.
    I was going to Amílcar.
    We set out ere midday, taking the high trails and shorter routes known to the Siovalese. On level ground, we could have covered the distance in a few days’ ride. In the mountains, it would take thrice as long-and that only if the weather held.
    No one spoke of the need for speed, though we pushed as hard as we dared. Three months and more gone by. The trail, if we found it, would be cold. I had hope of obtaining aid in Amílcar. Two years ago, Ramiro Zornín de Aragon had been named King’s Consul to the city, royal liaison to the Count of Amílcar. With Elua’s blessing, his wife would be in residence, and Nicola L’Envers y Aragon was both a kinswoman of the Queen and a friend. If Nicola was there, I had no doubt she would do everything in her power to assist us.
    That was the good thing about Amílcar.
    It is forbidden to own slaves of Aragonian or D’Angeline birth in Aragonia, that much I knew. And it would be a bold Aragonian lord indeed who dared defy that edict. Terre d’Ange is their nation’s greatest ally. Without our might at their back, Aragonia would be vulnerable to the empire of Carthage to its south. As it is, they enjoy an uneasy trade alliance. What do you know of trade, tall gadjo ? Enough, I thought, to know that illicit trade goes on everywhere. But if Carthaginian slavers were trading in D’Angeline children in Aragonia, they’d likely want them off their hands and out of sight as quickly as possible.
    And Amílcar was a port city.
    That was the bad thing about Amílcar.
    On the third day, our course intersected the road through the eastern Pass of Aragon and we were able to travel with greater ease, following a great river basin in the shadows of towering peaks. Luc went fishing in the twilight as the men of Verreuil made camp that evening, setting lines in the swift-flowing river and catching several trout ere the light faded.
    “Do you still remember how to clean a fish, little brother?” he asked Joscelin, grinning as he returned from the riverbank, gleaming fish dangling from his line.
    Joscelin raised a laconic eyebrow. “I might.”
    I studied the translation of my Jebean scroll and watched from the corner of my eye, amused, as the sons of Millard Verreuil cleaned and gutted trout by the light of our campfire, a messy job at best. Luc jabbed his thumb removing a hook, swore, stuck his thumb in his mouth and yanked it out, swearing again and spitting at the taste of fish-slime.
    “You shouldn’t laugh, my lady,” he said, aggrieved. “I’m trying to be gallant. Your consort there told me you like trout.”
    “I do,” I said. “And thank you.”
    “You’re welcome.” Luc cast a disgruntled glance at Joscelin, who held up two fish without comment, neatly cleaned and deboned. “Oh, go ahead, you may as well do the rest. I didn’t think anyone fished in the City of Elua.”
    “I don’t.” Joscelin started on a third trout. “I fish in Montrève.”
    “I should have guessed.” Luc sat beside me, unselfconsciously rubbing his hands together to