Kushiel's Avatar (Phedre's Trilogy #3)

Kushiel's Avatar (Phedre's Trilogy #3) Page 116

"To the market wharf, Kyria?" he asked in a mix of Menekhetan and Hellene when we drew within sight of the city, clusters of palms bowing over the buildings. "You can hire a carriage there, but if you get out before we reach the wharf, there is no toll to pay."

"No," I said. "Take us to the wharf, Inherit.”

He complied, poling briskly, then springing to attend the sail as a little breeze arose. I watched the city of Iskandria take shape around us, the familiar landmark of the great lighthouse visible at a distance, the wide, gracious streets and elegant buildings. It was gilded in the evening light, and I could smell the odors that had seemed so exotic upon our first arrival, the scent of oranges and strong spices in the air, and meat grilling for the evening meal.

The market wharf was a busy place, the canal laden with small craft; farmers selling the season's first produce, loading the remnants for departure; fishermen and hunters of waterfowl returning with their catch. There were few travellers such as ourselves, for most went by caravan or caught the larger barges at the port south of the city. We had to wait and jockey for position before we could secure a place and disembark. The tax-collector strolled over as Joscelin and Inherit unloaded our goods, paying us scant attention as he inspected our trunks.

"You speak Menekhetan?" he asked, holding up one of my Jebean gowns.

"A little, only," I said. "Hellene?"

"Do you take me for a farmer or a fisherman? Yes, I speak Hel lene." He gave me a brusque nod. "Are these for trade, Kyria, or personal. . . Serapis!" The tax-collector's face turned pale as he regarded me for the first time.

"My lord?" I asked, puzzled.

He grabbed my wrist, leaning close. "Kyria, are you . . . Nesmut's friend?"

I drew back, seeing Imriel fetch Joscelin. "And if I am?"

"Forgive me." The tax-collector released my wrist and bowed, watching out of the corner of his eye as Joscelin approached, hands resting lightly on his dagger-hilts. "I have been charged with a message for you, Kyria. All of us have, who ward the passages of the city. 'A D'Angeline woman of surpassing beauty, dark of hair and fair of face, with a mark as red as hibiscus in her left eye.' "

"Nesmut said that?" I asked.

"No, Kyria." He shook his head. "That was only what I was told to ask. My orders come from Pharaoh."

"And what," I asked, "is Pharaoh's message?"

"He wants to see you," said the tax-collector. "Immediately."

Immediately proved to be a relative term; it took time to settle our accounts with Inherit, and it took time for Joscelin and me to argue the matter to our satisfaction, while Imriel sat on a trunk and watched. In the end, of course, it was a foregone conclusion; a request from Pharaoh in the city of Iskandria amounted to a command. The tax-collector sent word to the Palace of Pharaohs through discreet channels that "Nesmut's friend" had arrived; a covered carriage with a pair of royal guards arrived in short order.

All the while, we stood in plain sight in the marketplace, surrounded by curious denizens. In any other city, I daresay word of our arrival would have reached the D'Angeline embassy before we departed—but this was Iskandria, and those surrounding us were fishers, farmers and hunters, and commonfolk of the city. And Ambassador de Penfars had never bothered to court the Menekhetans, only those of Hellene lineage.

His loss, I thought, and hoped it was not ours.

Our goods were loaded into the carriage, and we ourselves embarked, sitting apprehensively with the curtains drawn.

"Phèdre?" Imriel's voice was worried. "Are we in trouble?"

I shook my head. "I don't think so, love. Ptolemy Dikaios is ... well, not a friend, but an ally, of sorts. I don't think he would harm us. There's no profit in it."

"Likely he wishes to turn us over to Ambassador de Penfars him self," Joscelin said quietly. "If he lost stature for letting us slip through Iskandria before, this will restore it."

"Oh." Imriel continued to look worried. I didn't blame him.

At the gates, the Pharaoh's guard searched our things, taking con siderable interest in the immense, bejeweled necklace at the bottom of my trunk.

"It is a gift," I told them. "From Queen Zanadakhete of Jebe-Barkal to her majesty Queen Ysandre de la Courcel of Terre d'Ange. And neither one, I daresay, would be pleased to find it gone astray in Pharaoh's palace."

"You will get your things back, Kyria," one of them replied. "Do not fear. Kyrios, your weapons, please."

Joscelin disarmed with reluctance, handing over his daggers and his sword. These the guardsmen took, and we were driven around the Palace to a side entrance, one I had entered before. Servants unloaded our trunks, and where they were taken, I could not say, for we were ushered to the self-same reception-chamber I had visited twice before. This time, not even the silent fan-bearers were present.

And here we were left.

For how long? Hours, it seemed. Outside the high windows, dusk fell and the shadows grew long and blue, thickening to darkness. Imriel took out the flint-striker that Bizan had given him and kindled the oil lamps. The frescoed walls leapt to life and glowed, depicting the deeds of the Ptolemaic Dynasty. A servant entered with a tray containing a pitcher of steeped hibiscus-water, set it on the table and departed without a word.

"What do you think?" Joscelin asked in a low voice.

"I think Ptolemy Dikaios is repaying us for forcing his hand," I replying, pouring a cup and tasting it. "If he wanted us dead, he'd have no need of poison."

"I meant the waiting."

I shrugged. "He is Pharaoh, Joscelin. We wait on his pleasure. He means us to know it."

It was another hour before Ptolemy Dikaios arrived, by which time we were tired and hungry. Four guards escorted him into the reception- chamber and waited while we made full obeisance, kneeling and bowing low, then standing with downcast eyes. Imriel followed Joscelin and me, lingering a half-step behind us. I could see the lamplight gleaming from the jewels that bedecked Pharaoh's robes. He waited until his guards had left to address us.

"I rather think we're beyond standing on ceremony, Phèdre nó Delaunay."

I looked up to meet his clever gaze. "As you will, my lord Phar aoh."

He walked over to the low table and smelled the pitcher. "What, no beer? I trust you were well fed, at least."

"No, my lord," I said, watching him. "We have not eaten."

Ptolemy Dikaios made a tsking sound. "My servants misunderstood. I beg your pardon. Well, it will have to be remedied later. Messire Verreuil, it is a pleasure to see you again."

"My lord." Joscelin gave his Cassiline bow.

"And you." Pharaoh turned to Imriel and made a courtly half-bow. "I trust I have the pleasure of meeting Prince Imriel de la Courcel?"

I am given to understand that her son stands third in line for the D'Angeline throne.

Imriel glanced uncertainly at me. I nodded. "My lord Pharaoh," he murmured in schoolboy Hellene, returning Pharaoh's bow.

"A beautiful boy," Ptolemy Dikaios said to me.

"Yes, my lord," I said politely. "My lord, if you will forgive me for being importunate, it is incumbent upon us to report to the house hold of Comte Raife Laniol, Ambassador de Penfars. Is it your intention to see us delivered there?"

"In gilded chains, perhaps?" Pharaoh chuckled at the notion. "Pa raded through the streets of Iskandria, with the rescued D'Angeline Prince carried in a jeweled litter? Yes, that would look well for me, wouldn't it? And I daresay your ambassador would be glad of it. He feels you made a fool of him in more ways than one."

I felt myself blanch, but kept my voice steady. "It is Pharaoh's privilege. Is it his will?"

Ptolemy Dikaios rubbed his chin. "I've not decided. Somehow I suspect your Queen would not be as pleased, after the attempt on the boy's life in Nineveh. Doubtless she would prefer not to have his iden tity shouted throughout the city, especially given the large Akkadian presence and the fact that no ships are due to sail to Terre d'Ange until spring." He smiled at my expression. "Ah, now, I've my own informants in Khebbel-im-Akkad, my dear. You needn't look surprised."

"Ships can be obtained," I said. "My lord Pharaoh, if you will not deliver us to the embassy, I must ask you to let us go."

"To de Penfars?" He raised his brows. "He will clap you in chains, you know. He's of a mind that the Queen should charge you with treason for the abduction of a member of the Royal House."

"Enough." Pharaoh raised one hand, jeweled rings gleaming. "It is not my affair to sit in judgement on your guilt."

"With all due respect, my lord," I said, "nor is it your place to detain us. We are D'Angeline citizens, and whatever else we have done, we have broken no Menekhetan law."

"Always thinking," he said with amusement, "always arguing, Phèdre nó Delaunay. Do you bargain with your own sovereign thusly?"

"No, my lord." I held his gaze. "But Ysandre de la Courcel does not play such games as you."

He laughed. "She might, if she ruled Menekhet and not Terre d'Ange. Those of us whose power rests precariously upon our wits learn to play them early. But you wrong me this time, Lady Phèdre. It is no game I play, but an act of kindness on behalf of an old, dear friend. And where you go when you leave my Palace is entirely up to you, although I might add that there is a very fine trade-ship sailing on the morrow for La Serenissima, and I happen to know there are berths open."

"My lord?"

Ptolemy Dikaios took a sealed letter from the folds of his robe. "The last time you were here, you gave to me letters I would deny receiving from your hand. This time, I have one such for you," he said, and tossed it onto the table.

I didn't need to see the seal. I knew the handwriting.