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

Kushiel's Avatar (Phedre's Trilogy #3) Page 40

And somewhere, too, was a ten-year-old boy with eyes the color of sapphires, sold into slavery in a strange land. How they were linked, I could not yet fathom. I knew only that they were.

We belonged where we were, Joscelin and I.

So passed our journey.

For those who have not seen it, Iskandria is a splendid and enduring city, the product of many cultures. It is young as the Menekhetans reckon such things, for it was founded by the Hellene conqueror who freed them from Persian rule; Al-Iskandr, they called him, and crowned him with the horns of Ammon. It is his heirs who moved the seat of rule to his city, but within a generation of his death they ceased to rule in his name and took on the trappings of Pharaoh, wedding Menekhetan tradition with Hellene blood.

Like many other countries, Menekhet fell under the shadow of the empire of Tiberium; unlike many others, it retained its sovereign status, bowing to inevitability and paying homage in grain to its mighty neigh bor. There was a cunning Queen who ruled as Pharaoh when Tiberium's might was at its apex, tricking the Tiberian generals into quarreling until their forces were spread too thin to seize the prize of Menekhet. My lord Delaunay had always admired her; Cleopatra Philopater, she was called. Afterward, Tiberium's difficulties in Alba began, and Menekhet was left untroubled.

It is different now, of course; it is the desert-riders of the Umaiyyat who threaten Menekhet's borders, and the vast power of Khebbel-im- Akkad. Menekhet walks a fine line between the two, placating both and maintaining its ties to the city-states of Caerdicca Unitas—especially La Serenissima, with its skilled navy—and to Carthage. We D'Angelines are newly arrived to this arena of politics, although not to be disdained; I daresay no one in Menekhet has forgotten that Terre d'Ange defeated the Akkadians in a sea-battle not twenty years past.

We entered the Great Harbour at sunset, and it was indeed a sight to see as we passed the offshore island which held the famed Lighthouse of Iskandria, a massive colossus thrusting some five hundred feet into the air, its white marble walls washed red in the setting sun. It is built in three tiers, and the base is as broad as a fortress. The ship's captain informed us it held an entire squadron of cavalry. I had to crane my head to see the top, where a plume of smoke unfurled against the sky.

To my disappointment, the beacon itself seemed dim and unim pressive in the gilded light, but the captain assured me that encroaching darkness would render it bright as a star, visible for many miles at sea. He pointed out the inscription rendered on the foundation stone.

"We are not near enough to read it, my lady, but it says, 'Sostrates, son of Dexiphanes of Knidos, on behalf of all mariners, to the savior gods,' " he told me. "The architect Sostrates was bade to inscribe the name of Pharaoh on the stone, but he carved his own, then covered it with plaster and chiseled Pharaoh's dedication atop it. In a hundred years, the plaster had chipped away and Pharaoh's name was forgotten. It is the clever architect's which will stand for eternity, and well it should, for the Lighthouse of Iskandria has no equal."

Joscelin smiled, the story tickling his Siovalese fancy; all of Shemhazai's descendents have a fondness for architects and engineers and the like, the cleverer, the better. I thanked the captain, who bowed and excused himself to oversee our entry into port. Although he had been exceedingly gracious, I was never fully at ease in his presence. Truly, it was through no fault of his own. The last time I'd been aboard a Serenissiman vessel, I'd come within a hair's breadth of being beheaded. 'Tis a hard thing to forget.

The sky was a vivid hue of purple by the time we made port, the unfamiliar shapes of date palms 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 dash ing 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 uncomfort able. "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 impa tiently, 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 op posite 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 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 pleas ant, 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."