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accustomed to dealing with the distraction. “Nicola,” I said. “I would that it were otherwise, but we’re not here on pleasure. It’s a serious matter.”
    “I assumed as much.” She nodded toward a group of over-gilded chairs set around a low ebony table. Wine and olives awaited us on a tray. “Ramiro should be back before sundown. He’s meeting with Fernan’s Chancellor of the Exchequer to go over some accounts. Do you want to tell me now, or shall it wait?”
    “I’d sooner you heard it first,” I said.
    Nicola listened without interruption as I laid out the story, her face betraying little of her thoughts. It was odd, seeing her in Amílcar, with her D’Angeline composure and beauty, clad in an Aragonian gown with a square-cut neck, her bronze hair pinned in an elaborate coif, stuck through with a pair of long hair-pins that sported the golden crown of the House of Aragon at the ends. Luc watched her raptly, unabashedly fascinated. I didn’t blame him. I continued with my account, tracing our journey through Siovale. It was not until I related what the Tsingano Kristof had told us that Nicola reacted in astonishment.
    “ What ?” Her violet eyes went wide with outrage.
    “So he said, my lady,” I said. “Carthaginian slave-traders, bound for Amílcar. Do you say it cannot be so?”
    “I don’t know.” Nicola rested her chin on one fist, frowning. The dangling seal at her wrist winked gold in the slanting light from the high windows, the sun’s rays turning lucent the cabochon garnet with which it was set. “No. I won’t say it’s impossible. Count Fernan does his best to see the harbor is patrolled, but there’s a good deal of illicit trade goes on anyway.”
    “The harbor,” Joscelin said. “What about the rest of the city? What if they were but passing through en route to Carthage?”
    Nicola shook her head in dismissal. “If they were taking the risk of transporting D’Angeline captives to Amílcar, it would be for the seaport. There’s no other reason.”
    “Can you help?” I asked her. “I’ve sent word to Ysandre, if it needs must go to a matter of state. She would demand Aragonia’s aid. But it will be some time before a delegation could arrive, and every day we lose, the trail grows colder.”
    “Oh, I can help, all right.” Her lovely jaw set and a look of cold determination settled in her gaze, familiar to anyone who knew members of House L’Envers. I’d seen it in the Queen, and Duc Barquiel before her. “You may be sure of it.” Nicola picked up a small gilded bell from the table and rang it. A liveried servant entered the room in prompt reply, and she addressed him in fluent Aragonian. “I’m sending word for Ramiro to return posthaste,” she added to us in unapologetic D’Angeline. “He’s like to linger over his cups if I don’t. It shouldn’t be more than an hour.”
    “My lady Nicola.” Joscelin stood. “With your permission, there are a few things Luc and I must needs procure at the market. Shall we return in an hour’s time?”
    Luc opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. Nicola looked at Joscelin, and what unspoken words were exchanged between them, I could not say. She inclined her head. “As you will, Messire Cassiline. I have given standing orders that you are to be admitted to the Consul’s quarters.”
    “On the hour, then.” Joscelin bowed and left, taking Luc in tow.
    I watched them leave.
    “He’s learned a measure of grace,” Nicola observed, refilling our wine-cups and sitting back in her chair, relaxed and less formal now that we were alone.
    “He likes you,” I murmured into my wine. “I don’t think he wanted to, but he does.”
    “And why not?” She gave her cat’s-paw smile, like unto her cousin Barquiel’s, but more subtle. “I’m likeable enough, after all.”
    “You are.” I lifted my head and met her eyes. “Truly, I’m sorry to come to you like this, my lady. It was never my intent.”
    “Phèdre.” There was a mix of resignation and genuine affection in Nicola’s voice. “Much as I would enjoy it, I never expected you to turn up on my doorstep on a pleasure-jaunt. I know what you are. I’ve known from the beginning, Kushiel’s Chosen. It is folly, to make claim on one whom the gods have marked for their own. And unlike the others, I am no fool, to grasp at that which burns to the touch. What you have given ...” she raised one hand, palm upward, the garnet seal dangling