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attendants.
    “Gracious lord, gracious lady, you are here, yes?” He held out one hand expectantly.
    I paid him in Serenissiman coin, having ascertained its relative value before I left; I am diligent about such things. He examined it carefully, biting down on the rim to be sure, reminding me anew of Hyacinthe. Joscelin supervised the removal of our belongings into the inn.
    “It is good,” Nesmut acknowledged at length, giving half the coins to the carriage-driver and tucking the remainder into a hidden pocket in his tunic. “I come in the morning, yes? Gracious lady, will need a guide to the city.”
    I began to demur, then thought better of it. “All right,” I said in Hellene. “Thank you, Nesmut. I cannot promise I will need your aid, but I will pay you for your time nonetheless.”
    He grinned and made a surprisingly precise bow, then took to his heels. I watched his slight form recede into darkness, then followed Joscelin into the inn.
    Beyond the broad, arched doorway, we were met by a solid figure of a woman in her forties, swathed in layers of silk. Her calculating eyes were lined in kohl, and her hair was caught in a neat bun at the nape of her neck, covered in an elaborate gilt cap. She placed her hands together and bowed, greeting us in flawless Hellene. “My lord and lady, I am Metriche. The boy Nesmut said you wished lodgings?”
    “Yes,” I said. “You have other D’Angeline patrons here?”
    “Yes.” Metriche bowed again. Her eyes were watchful. “Kyrios Trente and his party have taken lodging here. We are very near your ambassador’s home. May I show you to your rooms? The supper hour,” her eyes flashed briefly, “is nearly finished.”
    “Please,” I said humbly.
    Our hostess Metriche-Maharet, the boy had called her-led us to our rooms, which were gracious and well-appointed, cool in the evening air with a draft of citron coming from an unseen courtyard. “There is the ewer,” she said, pointing, “if you wish to bathe your face. If you do not come to the dining-hall in a quarter of an hour, you will not eat.”
    With that, she left us.
    I sat down on the bed and sighed. The mattress felt firm and pleasant, the cotton bedding exquisitely soft. After weeks aboard a ship, solid earth was unsteady under my feet. I welcomed the idea of sleep far more than sustenance. Joscelin poured water from the ewer into a marble basin, splashing noisily. “Ah!” He tossed his head back, looking unnaturally refreshed, in my opinion. “Phèdre, are you coming?” he asked, adding plaintively, “you needn’t, but I’m ravenous.”
    “I’m coming,” I said, and sighed again, hauling myself off the bed. I felt a mess, salt-stained and travel-weary. I smoothed my garments-I was wearing the celadon green silks-and silently blessed Favrielle nó Eglantine for her irascible genius.
    The dining-hall was a vast open space with vaulted ceilings, punctuated by slender columns. Fretted lamps cast a gentle glow, and white-clad attendants moved on hushed feet. The whole of the space was dominated by a single table, where a large party sat, flanking a man who was obviously its leader. He sat with his head bowed, both hands fisted in his curly hair, while his companions sought to give him counsel.
    It was not until we entered the room that he looked up and I recognized him.
    “Phèdre nó Delaunay,” Lord Amaury Trente exclaimed. “Thanks be to Blessed Elua! I thought you’d never get here.”

Thirty
    fadil chouma was dead.
    That was the story that emerged over the course of an hour as the Menekhetan servants brought out plate after plate of rich, spicy food-grilled eggplant, broad beans, lamb with onion and parsley, pickled limes, chickpeas and sesame, fish in a sharp garlic sauce, all served with flat bread and a honey-sweetened barley beer.
    Although I had not thought myself hungry, my appetite manifested unexpectedly and I ate with good will as Lord Trente told his story.
    The delegation had had a swift, uneventful journey from Marsilikos and arrived a scant week before us. Raife Laniol, Comte de Penfars, was Ysandre’s ambassador in Iskandria. He had bade them fair welcome and arranged for lodgings for the party with the lady Metriche. She was a widow of mixed blood, Menekhetan and Hellene alike; there was, I understood, an unofficial caste system at work in Iskandria, and native Menekhetans are reckoned of less worth than those descendants of Hellas.
    Comte Raife had quickly grasped the