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making tufted silhouettes above the roofs. Twilight brought little coolness this far south and the hot air was dense, rife with strange odors. I have travelled to many places, willingly or no, and thought myself immune to strangeness, but Iskandria was different, more alien than aught I had experienced. We had arrived late and, aside from our crew, the people in the harbor-men and boys, for I saw no women-were quick and dark, speaking no tongue I recognized.
    It is one thing to travel to a strange place on foot or on horseback, observing the gradual change in landscape and culture; if I may say so, it is quite another to travel by sea, and find oneself arriving unceremoniously in a foreign city. I glanced at Joscelin, who stood on the quai beside our bags and trunks looking bewildered, and wished for a moment that we had brought Ti-Philippe. A former sailor and veteran adventurer, he would have spent his days aboard the ship gambling and swapping tales, and arrived fully prepared to lead us to the best possible lodgings that might be arranged in Iskandria.
    “My lady.” It was the Serenissiman captain, who approached with a bow, a smiling Menekhetan lad trailing at his heels. “Since you did not speak of your arrangements, I have taken the liberty of asking young Nesmut on your behalf. He is,” he shot the boy a warning glance, “one of the most trustworthy of the young pups who hang about the harbor, and he speaks a little Hellene. He says there is a D’Angeline delegation lodged in the Street of Oranges, and he will procure a carriage and take you there for twenty obols. It is a fair price.”
    “We accept,” I said, nodding to the lad. “Thank you.”
    He grinned, his teeth a flash of white in the gloaming, before dashing away. It reminded me with a pang of Hyacinthe’s smile, the way it had been when he was a boy. In a little while, he was back, leading a carriage-horse, one hand on the bridle, all self-importance. It was an open-air carriage, plain but suitable. The taciturn driver perched in his seat and looked bored.
    “Nesmut’s a good lad,” the captain said when our goods were loaded. “If you’ve need of a guide in the city, he’ll serve. I’ve dealt with him before, and he knows I’ll box his ears if I hear he’s cheated a passenger of mine.”
    “Thank you, my lord captain,” I said, with more sincerity than I’d evinced before. “Truly, I am grateful for your kindness.”
    ’Tis naught.” He shuffled and looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. “I’ve heard tell, you see. Sailors do. You’re the one ... you’re the one that fell from the cliffs of La Dolorosa, and lived. They say Asherat-of-the-Sea held you in her hand and bore you up on the waves. I know ... I know Marco Stregazza ordered you slain. I don’t blame you for being uneasy with it. Still, I’ll carry you anywhere you want to go. We’re in harbor two weeks. You only need to send word.”
    What could I say to that? I thanked him for it again, feeling odd. At my side, Joscelin laughed softly. The boy Nesmut shifted impatiently, holding the carriage-horse’s reins. “Gracious lord, gracious lady,” he called in Hellene, “we go now, or you miss the supper hour, yes? Kyria Maharet, she will be angry.”
    Heeding his call, we said our good-byes and boarded the carriage; the Serenissiman captain bowed one last time and held it, low and sweeping. I didn’t even know his name. And then the driver twitched his whip and we were moving through the warm twilight, the carriage-horse’s hooves clopping on the broad, straight streets. Nesmut sat opposite us, wrapping his arms around himself and grinning. He wore a white garment like a tunic, ragged but clean, and his coarse black hair was cut like a bowl, falling into his dark eyes. I guessed his age at thirteen.
    It is hard to get an impression of a city at night, but I gathered somewhat; Iskandria was a well-planned city, filled with elegant temples and parks, gorgeous palaces, and clean streets laid out in a grid. Nesmut raised his head and sniffed deeply as we turned a corner, waving one slender hand. “Street of Oranges,” he announced. “You smell it?”
    I could, a citron tang permeating the heavy air. A short way down, the driver drew rein before a low, arched doorway, twin torches burning untended in the sconces. Nesmut leapt down and dashed inside, barefoot and soundless. In a moment, he returned, grinning anew, flanked by a pair of well-muscled