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Erich the Skaldi made no reply or acknowledgment.

The effort made, I went upon my way, musing upon the strangeness of it all. It might have been day or night; I could not say. The rhythms of the Mahrkagir’s whims dictated life in the
zenana
. If the attendants had not brought food at regular intervals, if they had not interrupted to fetch women and boys for the lord’s amusement… who could say? There had been a garden, once, where the women of the Drujani prince might disport themselves-now it was barred, the rich soil tilled with salt, dead and barren, and strong timbers blocked the door, shutting out any glimpse of sky. The windows were shuttered. Day, night… it mattered naught. We lived here by lamplight, and the Mahrkagir’s whim.

And I sang the songs of my captivity, the songs with which I had once bought passage across the deadly Strait, to a Skaldi lad, blood of my enemies, who was unmanned by the man to whom I’d prevailed upon Joscelin to sell me.

Truly, ’twas strange.

At the carpeted island of the Jebeans and Nubians, I paused. The tall woman who was chiefest among them stared up at me, hostile and demanding. A frayed cloth of intricate pattern sheathed her body, and she wore long pins of ivory thrust in her black woolen hair.

“Selam,” I said respectfully, greeting her in Jeb’ez, bowing with my palms together.

She stared a minute longer, then laughed long and hard, saying something I could not understand to the others. “You think to speak Jeb’ez?” she asked me, then, in rude argot.

“Yequit’a,” I said; “excuse me,” adding in my best grasp of zenyan, “Only a little. I would learn more if you teach me.”

All of them laughed at that, and not kindly. “You have opium?” asked the tall woman, reclining on her couch. “Gems? Kumis? Sweetmeats, maybe?”

“No.” I shook my head. “Forgive me, Fedabin,” I said, according her the title the scroll granted to the Queen of Saba, ‘wise woman’. “I will not bother you.”

“Wait.” Her voice stopped me as I turned to leave. I stood as she regarded me, a trace of curiosity emerging in her mask of indifference. “Why do you wish to know this, little one? You come here to die, gebanum? Understand? It is only when that matters, and how much you suffer in between.”

“I understand, Fedabin.” I inclined my head to her. “I would still learn.”

Another of the women leaned over, whispering to the tall one; Kaneka, she called her. Kaneka listened with half-lidded eyes, then nodded, swinging herself upright. “Safiya has a thought,” she announced. “For your courtesy, I make you a gift, a gift of knowledge.” With one hand, she opened a woven pouch strung on a thong about her neck, shaking three unusual dice into her other palm. “You kneel, there,” she said, pointing to the carpet. “And learn.”

I knelt waiting. With great ceremony, one of the women brought out a tray of fine-combed sand, shaking it carefully until it was smooth, setting it down before me. Kaneka knelt opposite, her face as impassive as a warrior’s, drawing a small circle in the sand with one finger.

“Days,” she said, and drew another, larger, to enclose it. “Weeks.” Glancing at me to make certain I understood, she drew the outermost concentric circle. “Months.” Taking my wrist, she turned my hand over and placed the dice in it. “Hold them until they take on your heat.”

The dice were amber, six-pointed, with eight facing sides, each one etched with a number of dots. I closed my hand on them. The Jebeans and Nubians had drawn around, watching intently; even a few other women had gathered.

“You see!” Kaneka raised her voice, addressing them. “In Daršanga, Death is a man, and Lord Death is always waiting here in the
zenana
. How long will he wait to summon you to his bedchamber? How eager is he to plant his iron rod inside you? If it be three days, will it be five weeks until he summons you again? If it be five weeks, will it be two months? It is,” she said, looking at me once more, “the only question that matters.”

Clutched in my palm, the octohedral dice had grown warm. I gave them to her. Kaneka shook them in cupped hands over the tray, muttering a lengthy prayer in Jeb’ez. Opening both hands with a flourish, she cast the dice onto the sand.

Flawed amber glinted dully in the lamplight as they fell, one by one, within the concentric rings, forming a line as straight as an arrow-each face showing a single dot.

The taste of fear flooded my mouth.

Someone gasped; a number of women drew back. Kaneka stared at me, the whites of her eyes showing yellow around her dark irises. “You are marked for Death, little one. And soon.”

I gazed at the unwinking line of dice, three single eyes on the sand. “Does it mean that is when I will die?”

“I’ye, no.” Kaneka’s voice was rough with fear. “It says that is when Lord Death will send for you.” She pointed. “Day, after day; week after week; month upon month. No respite. When will you die?” She shrugged. “Like the rest. When he kills you, or when you can bear it no more.”

“I see.” I stood. “Thank you, Fedabin; amessaganun. If it please you to teach me Jeb’ez, I would learn it still, though I have nothing to trade.”

Kaneka scooped up her dice and rose. “You are a fool, little one,” she whispered harshly. “Believe, or not; the dice do not lie, and I have told you what any one of us would shudder to hear. Use the time left you wisely, and make peace with your gods while you may!”

“My gods.” I looked past her at the watching
zenana
. “It is they who marked me, Fedabin Kaneka; not for death, but for pain. How shall I make peace with that?”

To that, she had no answer.

Forty-Five

AFTER THAT, I was regarded with a certain fearful awe in the
zenana
.

It lasted all of a day until it changed.

It would have happened anyway, I daresay; the Mahrkagir would have sent for me when he did, Kaneka’s prophecy or no, and there would have followed what followed. I am an
anguissette
. It could not have fallen out differently. The dice had merely ensured that I was already branded a target for fear and speculation. In a community ruled by dread, it is never far from thence to hatred.

Hiu-Mei, the Mahrkagir’s favorite, had taken a turn for the worse. Drucilla tended her as best she might, but without medications, there was little she could do. It was not the blow to the face, I gathered, but a disease of long standing-a pox, one of the Illyrians swore, that men contract from congress with goats. The Tatar tribesmen whose aid the Mahrkagir courted were known to carry it.

Whether or not it is true, I cannot say; of a surety, the Ch’in woman was ill, a cause for bitter rejoicing in the
zenana
. Rejoicing, for any favorite was despised; bitter, for any favorite must be replaced … and the lot would fall upon one of us.

They looked at me and muttered about Kaneka’s dice.

For my part, I felt numb and hollow inside. Blessed Elua’s presence was long gone, and only his purpose remained, drawn with lines as straight and inevitable as the one cast by Kaneka’s dice, leading to the Mahrkagir’s bedchamber.

There was news, in the
zenana
; the Bhodistani woman was dead. One of the Mahrkagir’s men-the wolves of Angra Mainyu, Tizrav had called them-had made a wager that given a choice between the point of a dagger and a morsel of food, the woman would eat. The Mahrkagir had taken the wager. She never flinched as the Drujani dagger pierced her heart.

It passed for entertainment, in the festal hall, and the Mahrkagir was happy.

I heard, too, other news; news of the D’Angeline lordling who never smiled, whose beauty shone like a star in the cold, dark halls of Darsanga. In the
zenana
, Joscelin was already coveted. It afforded me a certain bleak amusement. Otherwise, I felt nothing.

Rushad stole cat-footed to my couch, bringing a gift hidden in his right hand. “See?” he said, opening it to reveal a single pellet, dark and resinous. “Opium! If you take it by mouth, they say, the effect lasts longer, much longer, and the … the pain is not so great, it is as if it were happening in a dream.”

“I see,” I smiled and shook my head, closing his hands over his treasure. “You are kind, Rushad, but it is not needful. Keep it.”

He looked at me with dismay. “The Mahrkagir has spoken of you. He will send for you tonight; I know it, everyone knows it!”

“I know.” I frowned, listening to the sounds of the
zenana
. Someone sighed, someone cried out, the door to the privy closet closed with a bang. I thought I had heard a voice murmuring sleepily in Hellene,
Lypiphera
. Pain-bearer. It was my imagination, like as not. “I know, Rushad. But I cannot afford the luxury of waking dreams.”

He went away disheartened. In truth, I was not sure of the wisdom of my choice. Of a surety, I had need of my wits … and yet. I had no plan; I had not even located Imriel de la Courcel. There was naught I could do. Even if I were able to speak with Joscelin-and I dared not risk it so soon-what would I tell him? That the Akkadian eunuchs despised their master and took bribes willingly? It was something, but not much. No more than he could learn on his own. Mayhap it would have been wiser to meet the Mahrkagir wrapped in a cocoon of dreams.

Or not.

I watched a Carthaginian woman draw lovingly at the mouthpiece of a water-pipe, limbs disposed in languor. Those who entered the world of dreams emerged only by force. It seemed a kindness, yes.
Until the Mahrkagir takes it away. Then they will suffer fresh torments and wish anew to die
.

I would have reason enough. No need to seek further.

So I waited in hollow despair, until the latticed doors opened and Nariman the Chief Eunuch conferred with the Drujani guards. The hushed and waiting silence fell as he returned. His pursed red lips quivered, and there was malice in his gaze as one plump hand rose, pointing first at me.

Even though I had expected it, my heart skipped a beat.

No one wept for me, as they had for the others summoned last night. Well and so; I was Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève, and I needed no one’s pity. I rose from my couch with dignity, inclining my head to the Akkadian escorts. “Khannat,” I murmured in their tongue, taking one’s arm; thank you. I felt his body stiffen, rigid with unnamed emotion, and then he bowed his head once, briefly.

Five others were chosen, and a boy, the little Menekhetan who’d been summoned last night. He was still alive, his eyes more sunken and hollow than any child’s ought to be. This time, the Menekhetan women on his carpeted island merely keened, low and agonized.

Thus were we summoned.

Our Drujani guards affected a careless demeanor, clanking in armor, talking over us as we ascended the narrow stair. I heard beneath their tone an undercurrent of excitement and knew why. I was something new; something different. My Akkadian escort’s eyes gleamed in the darkness, mouth fixed in a grimace. At the top of the stair, we waited, while each one of us was searched for weapons.

Naamah, I thought, the prayer coming unbidden as I awaited my turn. Gracious lady, mistress of my soul, I have consented to this; consented, as you did, once upon a time. For love of Blessed Elua, you lay down with the Great King of Persis. Because Elua has asked it of me, I do the same, though Persis is fallen and the king who remains in this isolated corner of it styles himself the Lord of Death. My lady Naamah, if you have a care for your faithful Servant, ward me well in this place.

For an instant-only an instant-I thought I smelled attar of roses, and heard a sound like the quick, fluttering wings of a dove taking flight. And then it was my turn, and the hard hands of a Drujani guard patted me down, lingering on my body, his face leering before me.

It is an
anguissette’s
nightmare. I kept my chin aloft, and betrayed no sign.

“Go on,” he said to the others in Persian, jerking his head. “He’s waiting.”

And so we went, down the darkened hallways, a single torch lighting our way. Two of the other women wept and dragged their feet; one of the eunuchs-not my escort, but another-cursed and struck one across the back. The others walked with leaden steps. The Menekhetan boy straggled, his ambling path sending him wandering from one side of the hall to the other. The Drujani guards pushed him and laughed, making jests about wagering on where his next staggering step would fall.

“Enough!” I said fiercely, unable to curb my tongue. “Can you not see he is injured?”

“Shut up.” The one with the torch thrust it toward my face, laughing when I flinched. “He entertained a few of the Shahryar’s friends, is all. You’ll be lucky if you can walk, you will, when his lordship’s done with you!”

Shahryar; sovereign lord. Nariman had said it, too. They acknowledged him that in Drujan, the bastard-born son of Hoshdar Ahzad. I kept my mouth closed, fearing further retribution. With a sidelong glance at me, my Akkadian escort stepped to the boy’s side, guiding him gently.

We were nearing the festal hall.

I could see it; the dull glow of a fireplace at one end and a few torches in between, much as the audience hall had been. It was different, though. That had been empty, subdued. We heard the roar from halfway down the hall. There were men here, many men, and drink flowing. I did not understand, at first, what it must be.

And then I saw the vaulted ceiling, rising to a sealed dome, and the low well beneath it, capped with rubble, and I knew. Men, elderly men, with white beards and filthy robes, waited on hands and knees, ropes around their necks, their faces a study in despair. They were Magi. I knew, I had seen them in the city.

This had been a fire-temple, once; the private temple of the princes of Daršanga.

Now it was the festal hall of the Mahrkagir.

Long, wooden tables had been set within the temple, and they were lined with men; Drujani, mostly, and some others with hard faces and slanted eyes whom I took to be Tatars, their expressions guarded and watchful. Starveling dogs scavenged beneath them for the remnants of the evening meal.

“My lords!” one of our guards cried in Persian, hoisting his torch. “I bring you tonight’s offering, from the
zenana
of the Shahryar Mahrkagir!”