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

Kushiel's Avatar (Phedre's Trilogy #3) Page 47

"Persis-that-was?" Joscelin frowned. "You mean they are descendents of the Persians?"

"No." Nesmut chewed and swallowed, pouring a glass of water. "That is, yes, gracious lord, they are of the ancient bloodlines, but there are many Persians in Khebbel-im-Akkad. The Skotophagoti. . ." he dropped his voice again, ". . . are of the kingdom that died and lives."

Joscelin raised his eyebrows at me and I shook my head. I knew something of Akkadian history through my studies with Eleazar ben Enoch, and a good deal of the language, but nothing of a kingdom that died and lives. Of Persis itself, I knew little, for that once-mighty empire was overthrown by Ahzimandias and the resurgent House of Ur some five hundred years gone by. The Akkadians were not merciful, doing their best to obliterate the remnants of Persian culture.

There is, of course, one story that lives in D'Angeline memory. It was the King of Persis who imprisoned Blessed Elua when he first wandered the earth . . . and it was Naamah who freed him, offering the king a single night of pleasure if he would release Elua. It is why we revere Naamah, and enter her service in homage.

I was disquieted by the thought.

"Nesmut," I began, but I never finished my question, for at that moment, Lord Amaury Trente entered the dining-hall, flanked by a pair of delegates, looking distractedly about the room.

"Phèdre!" he exclaimed, spotting me and hurrying over. "My lady, I'm glad you're still here. Pharaoh has sent word through Ambassador de Penfars. You are summoned to an audience," he said, adding, "Now."

THIRTY-FIVE

ONE DOES not ignore a summons from a sitting regent in his own capital city, free D'Angeline or no. I changed my attire, donning the one suitable gown I had brought, a deep rose-hued silk bedecked with crystal beadwork. It was a full year out of date, but Favrielle nó Eg lantine had designed it, and the slim-fitting lines and the way an extra measure of fabric pooled at the hem were still being copied this year.I'd brought it because it packed light.

"Very nice," Joscelin said in a neutral voice, watching me braid my hair into a coronet.

"He is Pharaoh of Menekhet, Joscelin." I fixed the braids in place with jeweled hairpins, turning my head to see them glitter in the room's dull bronze mirror. "Should I present myself before him in riding garb?"

Joscelin shrugged and made no reply. He had changed into a dou blet and breeches of dove-grey velvet, the crest of Montrève worked small on the breast. If he'd worn his hair in a club at the neck, he could have passed for a Cassiline Brother.

I eyed him with resignation. "You'll not be able to take your blades into Pharaoh's presence, you know."

"I know. I'll leave them when asked."

It would have to do. I sighed and kissed him before applying car mine to my lips with a delicate brush. Mayhap it gave him dour amuse ment that I needs must dress my beauty in its finest rainment to meet a foreign sovereign, but he'd never been described as a treasure of D'Angeline womanhood, either. Whatever else transpired, trade negotiations with Menekhet were like to continue, and thanks to the Lady Denise's idea, I had a level of credibility to meet.

The Ambassador had sent his carriage, and Comte Raife Laniol greeted us himself in his courtyard, accompanied by his wife. He was a tall man with brown hair turning to silver, courtly and well-spoken. He was, I was told, an excellent Hellene scholar; well and so, I could admire that, though I thought him a fool for failing to learn Menekhetan. It is a scholar's weakness, to run narrow and deep. I rather liked his wife, Juliette, who had a grave loveliness that lit unexpectedly when she smiled.

"Comtesse," she murmured, giving me the kiss of greeting. "It is an honor to meet you. We would have had you to dine, you and messire Verreuil, only I feared to disturb your travails."

I assured her that it would be a pleasure, and then her husband held open the door of the carriage and we reboarded once more, all of us pressed close in the small space. Amaury Trente looked anxious, as well he might; although he said naught of it, I know he regarded the inspired plans to which I was prone with a degree of trepidation.

For my part, I felt only an unwarranted calm. I listened to Raife Laniol instruct us on the protocol of the presence, committing it to memory. We were to pause at the door to the throne-room, then follow three steps behind the Chamberlain upon being announced, preceded by the Ambassador and his wife. We were to make a full kneeling obei sance, and then stand with our eyes cast down until Pharaoh addressed us. Upon leaving, we were to wait for the Chamberlain to pass, and follow three steps behind, departing in the order of arrival.

There was more, too. I waited until he was finished. "My lord Ambassador, what do you know of these priests the Iskandrians call Skowphagoti?"

Comte Raife blinked, perplexed. His wife whispered in his ear. "Oh yes," he said, expression clearing. "It is some native superstition, I am told. Menekhet is like any place, full of its soothsayers and harbingers. Do they concern you?"

"They might," I said. "Where are they from? I was told Persis."

"Persis!" He laughed. "Someone has been filling your ears with nonsense."

"You have never heard of a kingdom that died and lives?"

"Ah." Comte Raife gave me a benevolent look. "It is Khebbel-im- Akkad you're thinking of, my dear. I am given to understand that the name itself means ..."

"Akkad-that-is-reborn," I said. "Yes, my lord, I know it. This is something different."

He shook his head, bemused. "I think not, my lady."

And then there was no more time for conversation, for we had reached the Palace of Pharaohs. It is a gorgeous structure, to be sure, sheathed in white marble and jutting out into the harbor. Pharaoh's guards knew the Ambassador by sight, but they took no chances, peer ing into the carriage and confirming our identities, matching them against a list on a waxen tablet. Our entrance was authorized and we were waved through the gate.

Inside, the Palace was open and airy, with high ceilings and innumerable windows positioned to catch the sea breeze. Clearly, it was meant to be defended from without and not within. We were ushered into an antechamber where we were served a cooling drink of steeped hibiscus petals, and stoic slaves worked fans of massive palm fronds. Presently the Chamberlain came for us, accompanied by a pair of attendants. He was a tall, gaunt man with a slight stoop, and no trace of humor in his mien.

"My lord Ambassador," he greeted Raife Laniol in Hellene.

Comte Raife bowed. "My lord Chamberlain. You know Lord Amaury Trente, and his companions, Lord Nicolas Vigny and the Baron de Chalais. May I present the Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève, and her consort Joscelin Verreuil?"

The Chamberlain's eyelids flickered. It is not done, in Menekhet, for women to take consorts as we do in Terre d'Ange—not openly, at least. "Pharaoh will be pleased," was all he said. "My lord Verreuil, will you consent to leave your weapons in our keeping?"

Joscelin gave a Cassiline bow in response, removing his daggers from their sheathes and unbuckling his baldric with practiced ease. One of the Chamberlain's attendants stepped forward, opening a length of the best Menekhetan linen to accept his weapons. The unadorned steel, oiled leather and worn hilts looked plain and utilitarian against the fine white cloth.

"Those blades once saved her majesty's life," Comte Raife said. "Guard them well, my lord Chamberlain."

So, I thought, he is not entirely unsuited to diplomacy. The Cham berlain glanced at Joscelin with a measure of increased respect. "It shall be done," he said, bowing briefly. "Now, if you will follow, Pharaoh is waiting."

We followed, Comte Raife and his wife three steps behind the Chamberlain, Amaury Trente and the delegates, and Joscelin and me at the rear. I kept my eyes downcast, walking at a measured pace, feeling the vastness of the throne-room echo on my ears. The air moved, fanned by slaves, scented with camphor and sandalwood. By the faint creak of armor, I guessed there were guards present, a dozen or more. I heard our names announced, and caught a glimpse of Comte Raife and Juliette making their obeisance, then Lord Amaury and his delegates. A male voice addressed them in pleasant tones, and another, a woman's, young and piping.

And then it was our turn. Approaching the throne, I sank to my knees, feeling the marble cool through the silk of my dress, bowing deeply and rising, keeping my gaze on the floor, conscious of Joscelin doing the same.

"Lady Phèdre." It was Pharaoh's voice that addressed me. I met his eyes. Despite his gilt-encrusted robes, Ptolemy Dikaios, Pharaoh of Menekhet, was only a man, of middle years, the gold diadem of his office set atop thinning hair. He smiled at me. "So this is the treasure of Terre d'Ange."

"My lord Pharaoh." I inclined my head. "Others have said it, not I."

"Oh, they've said well enough." He reached out to take the hand of the woman seated at his side; scarce more than a girl, really. "Do you not agree, my darling Clytemne?"

The Pharaoh's second wife and current Queen giggled. "It is true, then! My ladies said as much. Tell me ..." She leaned forward, wide- eyed and curious. "Do you bathe in the milk of wild asses to make your skin so fair? I have heard it is so."

"No, my lady." I curtsied to her, keeping my expression serious. Well and so; this audience was not entirely what I had expected. Across from me, I could see Joscelin biting his lip and studying the floor. "I use a salve of wool-fat, from the first shearing, rendered with an attar of rose. It gives a marvelous suppleness. I am certain Lord Amaury could procure it if my lady wishes."

"Oh, yes!" Queen Clytemne clapped her hands together. Ptolemy Dikaios looked amused and indulgent. Amaury Trente looked dumb struck, and hid it poorly. "Of a surety," the young Queen continued eagerly, "you recommend tincture of nightshade to give your eyes such luster, is it not so?"

"No, my lady." I shook my head and smiled gently at her. "It makes the eyes ill able to bear light, and I fear I would find myself blinded by your majesty's brilliance."