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shared my astonishment.
    “Phèdre.” It was Joscelin’s voice, calm and thoughtful. “If you are right, then there is an avenue of questioning unpursued. Surely Chouma’s household must share his fears. Who would be a client too dangerous to be named?” I looked at him and he shrugged. “No one asked them that, I’ll warrant. But...” he plucked the cup from my hand, peering into the dregs of barley beer, “we’re not like to get further with it tonight.”
    “Fairly said.” I placed both hands on the table and pushed myself upright, tiredness dragging at me. “My lords, my ladies ... let us adjourn.”
    No one gave argument, for which I was grateful. With a solicitous hand beneath my elbow, Joscelin escorted me back to our pleasant rooms, where windows were open onto the night breeze with its citrus scent. Once we were there, he leaned against a wall, watching me with faint amusement as I reclined on the comfortable mattress, my mind filled with thoughts that dispelled sleep.
    “Well?” he said at length.
    I sighed, propping myself on my elbows. “What would you have me say? That I am clinging to faint hope? That it is a crime that the Menekhetan ambassador does not speak the native tongue?”
    He raised his eyebrows. “It’s a start.”
    “Hyacinthe’s plight comes first.” I made my voice firm, trying not to think on the promise I had made Melisande. “We will see those arrangements made. Then ... mayhap we will see what there is to be learned in Iskandria that lies beyond the Hellene stratum of Menekhetan society.”
    Joscelin smiled. “I thought you would say as much.”

Thirty-One
    IN THE morning, we reconvened over breakfast, which consisted of pungent bean-cakes, fried in oil and served with a sweet condiment of jellied figs, a strange but pleasing combination of flavors. Amaury Trente had already sent word to Ambassador de Penfars to arrange for an appointment. He was more optimistic than he had been last night; if nothing else, at least my suggestions had given him purpose.
    Joscelin and I would explore Iskandria ... and no matter what promises I had made to Melisande, I did intend to settle the matter of a guide to Jebe-Barkal first and foremost. Once the arrangements were made, I could dedicate my energies to aiding Amaury in the search for Imriel’s mysterious purchaser with a clear mind.
    True to his word, the boy Nesmut appeared while we were still eating, bright-eyed and cheerful. “You have work for me, yes?” he asked with a winning smile. “Gracious lord and lady need a guide to see the city? I show the best places!”
    I took the scrap of vellum Melisande had given me from the purse at my girdle and showed it to him. “I am looking for a man named Radi Arumi, who resides at this address on the Street of Crocodiles. Do you know this place?”
    Nesmut peered at it. “Gracious lady, I cannot read, but I know the Street of Crocodiles. If you tell me the number, I will take you there, yes.”
    After a brief negotiation, we were agreed.
    The heat of the day struck us like a blast from a forge as we left Metriche’s inn. It was hard to believe, I thought, that in Terre d’Ange, the fields lay in stubble and the chill autumn rains fell upon the land. In Menekhet, the sun blazed unceasing and the sky was a hard blue, copper-tinged with heat. Although the broad streets were swept clean, there was taste of dust in my mouth.
    For all that, the city bustled. It would, Nesmut informed us, grow hotter yet; at midday, everyone retired to the shade until the worst of the heat had passed. It was well that we had risen early. He kept up a running commentary as he led us through the city, pausing to greet a half-dozen people on every block-servants, carriage-drivers, housewives, water-sellers. Everyone, it seemed, had a good-natured word for the lad.
    And all, I noticed, in Menekhetan.
    “There is the Street of Moneylenders,” Nesmut announced, pointing, “if you like, I take you to a man to change your Serenissiman coin for Menekhetan, yes? Harder then for merchants to cheat you. I know a man who is fair.”
    I glanced at Joscelin, who raised his eyebrows. “ You wouldn’t cheat, us, would you, Nesmut?” he asked the boy in Hellene. “Because if you did ...” In a movement too quick for the eye to follow, his daggers leapt from their sheaths and into his hands, crossed tips hovering under the lad’s chin. “I would be very angry.”
    Nesmut’s dark eyes widened.