The Sheen of the Silk

chapter 5-6

Five

ZOE CHRYSAPHES STOOD AT THE WINDOW OF HER FAVORITE room and stared across the rooftops of the city to where the sunlight streamed onto the Golden Horn till the water was like molten metal. Her hands caressed the stones in front of her, still warm in the last glow of the day. Constantinople was spread out below her like a jeweled mosaic. The ancient magnificence of the Aqueduct of Valens was behind her, its arches sweeping in from the north like a Titan from the Roman past, an age when Constantinople was the eastern pillar of an empire that ruled the world. The Acropolis, far to the right, was far more Greek and therefore more comfortable to her, her language, her culture. Although its great days had been before she was born, the elderly woman still felt a pride in the thought of it.

She could see the tops of the trees that hid the ruins of the Bukoleon Palace, where her father had taken her as a child. She tried to bring back those bright memories, but they were too far away and slipped out of her grasp.

The radiance of the setting sun momentarily hid the squalor of the unmended walls, covering their scars with a veil of gold.

But Zoe never forgot the pain of the enemy invasion, of ignorant and careless feet trampling what had once been beautiful. She looked at the city now and saw it as exquisite and defiled, but still throbbing with a passion to taste every last drop of life and drain it to the lees.

The light was kind to her. She was past seventy, but the skin was smooth over her cheekbones. Her golden eyes were shadowed and hooded under her winged brows. Her mouth had always been too wide, but the curve of it was full. The luster of her hair was less than it had been and closer to brown than chestnut-there was only so much that herbs and dyes could do-but it was still beautiful.

She stared a few moments longer at the glittering skyline of Galata as the torches were lit. The east was fading rapidly, and the harbor was masked in purple. The spires and domes were sharper against the enamel blue of the sky. In thought she communed with the heart of the city, that part of it that was more than palaces or shrines, more even than the Hagia Sophia or the light on the sea. The soul of Constantinople was alive, and that was what she had seen raped by the Latins when she was a small child.

As the sun slid behind the low clouds and the air grew suddenly cold, she turned away at last. She stepped back into the room and its dazzling torchlight. She could smell the tar burning, see the faint shimmer of the flames in the draft. Between two of the finest tapestries in dark reds, purples, and umber, there was a gold crucifix more than a foot's length from top to bottom. She walked over and stood in front of it, staring at the Christ in agony. It was exquisitely wrought: Every fold of His loincloth, the sinews of His limbs, His face hollowed by pain, all were perfect.

Gently she reached up, eased it off its hook, and held it in her hands. She did not need to look at it, knowing as she did every line and shadow of the images on each of the four arms. Her fingers felt them now, going over them softly, like faces of those she loved; except that it was hate that moved Zoe, the envisioning over and over again of revenge: exquisite, slow, and complete.

On the top, above the Christ, was the family emblem of the Vatatzes, who had ruled Byzantium in the past. It was green, with a double-headed eagle in gold, above each head a silver star. They had betrayed Constantinople when the crusaders had come, fleeing the invaded city and taking with them priceless icons, not to save them from the Latins, but to sell for money. They had run like cowards, thieving from the holy sanctuaries as they went, abandoning to fire and the sword what they could not carry.

On the right arm was the emblem of the Doukas family, also rulers until more recently. Their arms were blue, with an imperial crown, a two-headed eagle with a silver sword in each claw; they were traitors as well, plunderers of those already robbed, homeless, and helpless. They would know in time what it was to starve.

On the left arm was the emblem of the Kantakouzenos, an imperial family older still; their arms were red, with the double-headed eagle in gold. They had been greedy, blasphemous, without honor or shame. To the third and fourth generation, they would pay. Constantinople did not forgive the violation of her body or her soul.

On the main trunk, against which hung the figure of Christ, was the emblem of the worst of them all, the Dandolo of Venice. Their coat of arms was just a simple lozenge horizontally halved, white above, red below. It was Doge Enrico Dandolo, over ninety years old and blind as a stone, who had stood in the prow of the leading ship of the Venetian fleet, impatient to invade, despoil, and then burn the Queen of Cities. When no one else had had the courage to be the first ashore, he had leapt down onto the sand, sightless and alone, and charged forward. The Dandolo family would pay for that as long as the scorch marks of ruin scarred the stones of Constantinople.

She heard a sound behind her, a clearing of the throat. It was Thomais, her black serving woman, with her close-cropped head and beautiful, fluid grace. "What is it?" Zoe asked without taking her eyes off the cross.

"Miss Helena has come to see you, my lady," Thomais replied. "Shall I ask her to wait?"

Zoe carefully replaced the cross on the wall and stepped back to regard it. Over the years since her return from exile, she had put it back up there hundreds of times, always perfectly straight.

"Walk slowly," Zoe replied. "Fetch her a glass of wine, then bring her here."

Thomais disappeared to obey. Zoe wanted to keep Helena waiting. Her daughter should not simply walk in at a whim and expect Zoe to be available. Helena was Zoe's only child, and she had molded her carefully, from the cradle; but no matter what she achieved, Helena would never outwit or outwill her mother.

Several minutes later, Helena entered quietly, smoothly. Her eyes were angry. Her respect was in her words, not in the tone of her voice. As was obligatory, she still wore mourning for her murdered husband, and she looked with some resentment at Zoe's amber-colored tunic, its flowing lines accentuated by the height that Zoe had and she did not.

"Good evening, Mother," she said stiffly. "I hope you are well?"

"Very, thank you," Zoe replied with a slight smile of amusement, not warmth. "You look pale, but then mourning is designed to do that. It is appropriate that a new widow should look as if she has been weeping, whether she has or not."

Helena ignored the remark. "Bishop Constantine came to see me."

"Naturally," Zoe responded, sitting down with easy grace. "Considering Bessarion's status, it is his duty. He would be remiss if he didn't, and other people would notice. Did he say something interesting?"

Helena turned away so Zoe did not see her face. "He was probing, as if he wondered how much I knew of Bessarion's death." She looked back at Zoe for a moment with blazing clarity. "And what I might say," she added. "Fool!" It was almost a whisper, but Zoe caught the edge of fear in it.

"Constantine has no choice but to be against union with Rome," she said sharply. "He's a eunuch. With Rome in charge, he would be nothing. Stay loyal to the Orthodox Church, and everything else will be forgiven you."

Helena's eyes widened. "That's cynical."

"It's realistic," Zoe pointed out. "And practical. We are Byzantine. Never forget it." Her voice was savage. "We are the heart and the brain of Christianity, and of light and thought and wisdom-of civilization itself. If we lose our identity, we have given away our purpose in living."

"I know that," Helena replied. "The question is, does he? What does he really want?"

Zoe looked at her with contempt. "Power, of course."

"He's a eunuch!" Helena spat the word. "The days are gone when a eunuch could be everything except emperor. Is he so stupid he doesn't know that yet?"

"In times of enough need, we will turn to anyone we think can save us," Zoe said quietly. "You would be wise not to forget that. Constantine is clever, and he needs to be loved. Don't underestimate him, Helena. He has your weakness for admiration, but he is braver than you are. And you can flatter even a eunuch, if you use your brains as well as your body. In fact, it would be a wise idea if you were to use your brains rather than your body where all men are concerned, for the time being."

Again the color surged up Helena's cheeks. "Said with all the wisdom and rectitude of a woman too old to do anything else," she sneered. She smoothed her hands over her slim waist and flat stomach, lifting her shoulders again, very slightly, to offer an even more voluptuous curve.

The taunt stung Zoe. There were places in her jaw and her neck she hated to see in the glass; the tops of her arms and her thighs no longer had the firmness they used to, even a few years ago.

"Use your beauty while you can," she replied. "You've nothing else. And as short as you are, when your waist thickens, you'll be square, and your breasts will sit on your belly."

Helena snatched up a length of silk tapestry from the chair and swung it as a lash, striking out at Zoe. The end of it caught one of the tall, bronze torch brackets and toppled it over, and burning pitch spilled on the floor. Instantly Zoe's tunic was on fire. She felt the heat of it scorch up her legs.

The pain was intense. She was suffocating in smoke. Her lungs were bursting, yet the shrill sounds deafening her were her own screams. She was hurled back into the far past, the crucible of all she had become. She was engulfed by the flaring red light in the darkness, the noise of walls collapsing, crashing stone on stone, the roar of flames, everywhere terror, confusion, throat and chest seared in the heat.

Helena was there, flinging water at her, shouting something, her voice high-pitched with panic, but Zoe was beyond thought. She was a tiny child clinging to her mother's hand, running, falling, dragged up and on, stumbling over the broken walls, bodies slashed and burned, blood on the pavement. She could smell the stench of human flesh on fire.

She fell again, bruised, aching. She climbed to her feet, and her mother was gone. Then she saw her; one of the crusaders had yanked her mother up off the ground and thrown her against a wall. He slashed at her robe and her tunic with his sword, then leaned against her, jerking violently. Zoe knew now what he had been doing. She could feel it as if it were her own body violated. When he finished, he had cut her mother's throat and let her slide, gushing blood onto the stones.

Zoe's father found them both, too late. Zoe was sitting on the ground as motionless as if she too were dead.

Everything after that was pain and loss. They were always in unfamiliar places, aching with hunger and the terrible emptiness of being dispossessed, and a horror inside her head that Zoe could never lose. And after horror came the hate. Prick her anywhere, and she bled rage.

Helena was close to her, wrapping her in something. The light of flames was gone, but the burning was still there, agonizing. Zoe's legs and thighs were throbbing with pain. She could make out words: Helena's voice, sharp and strained with fear.

"You're safe! You're safe! Thomais has gone for a physician. There's a good one just moved here, good for burns, for skin. You'll be all right."

Zoe wanted to swear at her, curse her for the stupid, vicious thing she had done, wreak a revenge on her that would be so terrible, she would want to die to escape it; but her throat was too tight and she could not speak. The pain robbed her of breath.

Zoe lost all awareness of time. The past was there again, over and over, her mother's face, her mother's bleeding body, the smell of burning. Then at last someone else was there, talking to her, a woman's voice. She was unwrapping the cloths Helena had put around the burns. It hurt appallingly. It felt as if her skin were still on fire. She bit her lips till she tasted blood, to stop herself from screaming. Damn Helena! Damn her, damn her, damn her!

The woman was touching her again, with something cold. The burning eased. She opened her eyes and saw the woman's face. Except it was not a woman, it was a eunuch. He had soft, hairless skin and his features were womanish, but there was a strength in them, and his gestures, the certainty with which he moved his hands, were masculine.

"It hurts, but it's not deep," he told her calmly. "Treat it properly and it'll heal. I'll give you ointment which will take the heat out of it."

It was not the pain now that troubled Zoe but the thought of scarring. She was terrified of disfigurement. She made a gasping sound, but her mouth would not form the words. Her back arched as she struggled.

"Do something!" Helena shouted at the physician. "She's in pain!"

The eunuch did not turn to Helena but looked steadily at Zoe's eyes, as if trying to read the terror in her. His own eyes were a curious gray. He was good-looking, in an effeminate way. Good bones, nice teeth. Pity they hadn't left him whole. Zoe tried to speak again. If she could make some sensible contact with him, she might drive away the panic that was welling up inside her.

"Do something, you fool!" Helena snarled at the eunuch. "Can't you see she's in agony? What are you just kneeling there for? Don't you know anything?"

The eunuch continued to ignore her. He seemed to be studying Zoe's face.

"Get out!" Helena ordered. "We'll get someone else."

"Bring me a goblet of light wine with two spoonfuls of honey in it," the eunuch told her. "Dissolve the honey well."

Helena hesitated.

"Please get it quickly," he urged.

Helena spun on her heel and left.

The eunuch busied himself putting more ointment on the burns, then binding them with cloths, but lightly. He was right; it took the heat away, and gradually the fearful pain subsided.

Helena returned with the wine. The physician took it and eased Zoe up gently until she was sitting and could hold the wine in her own hands. To begin with, her throat felt raw; but each mouthful was easier, and by the time she had drunk half of it, she could speak.

"Thank you," she said a little huskily. "How bad will the scarring be?"

"If you are lucky, keep the wounds clean, and the ointment on them, maybe there will be none at all," he replied.

Burning always scarred. Zoe knew that. She'd seen other people burned. "Liar!" she said between her teeth. Her body was stiff again, resisting his arms around her. "I saw the crusaders sack the city when I was a child," she told him. "I've seen fire burning before. I've smelled the stench of human flesh roasting and seen bodies you wouldn't recognize as having once been human."

There was pity in the eunuch's eyes as he looked at her, but Zoe was not sure whether pity was what she wanted.

"How bad?" Zoe hissed at him again.

"As I told you," he replied calmly. "If you look after the wounds properly, and use the ointment, there will be no scarring. You must take care of them. The burns are not deep; that is why they hurt so much. Deep ones don't, but often they don't heal, either."

"I suppose if you come back in a day or two, you'll want paying twice," Zoe snapped.

The physician smiled, as though it amused him. "Of course. Does that trouble you?"

Zoe leaned back a little. Suddenly she was desperately tired, and the pain had eased so much, she could almost put it from her mind. "Not in the slightest. My servant will attend to you." She closed her eyes. It was dismissal.

Zoe did not remember much of the next few hours, and when she awoke in her own bed, it was the middle of the following day. Helena stood beside her mother, looking down, and the light through the window was clear and harsh on her face. Her daughter's skin was blemishless, but the sun picked out the hardening line of her lips and the faintest slackening of the flesh under her chin. Helena's brow was puckered with anxiety. She smoothed away all sign of it as soon as she realized Zoe was awake.

Zoe looked at her coldly. Let her be afraid. Deliberately Zoe closed her eyes again, shutting her daughter out. The balance of power between them was changed. Helena had caused her both pain and terror, and the terror was worse. Neither of them would forget that.

The burning in her legs was no more than discomfort now. The eunuch was good. If he was right and there was no scarring, she would reward him well. It could also be profitable to cultivate his acquaintance and his gratitude by finding him other patients. Physicians found themselves in places others did not. They saw people at their most vulnerable; they learned their weaknesses, their fears, just as this one had learned Zoe's. He might also learn their strengths. Strength was a good place to attack because no one expected it. People did not realize that their strengths, if nurtured, praised, carried to excess, could also become their undoing.

She was intensely aware that she could have been crippled by the burning, even killed. If she waited any longer to begin her revenge, it could be too late. Something else might happen to her.

Or there was always that other unwelcome possibility-her enemies might die naturally, in their own beds, and she would be robbed of the victory. She had waited so long only that the full flavor might be realized. Before her foes had returned from exile and gained power and wealth in the new empire, there would have been no point. If they had nothing to lose, no riches to hold on to, vengeance would have no sweetness.

She breathed out slowly and smiled. It was time to begin.

Six

ANNA LEFT THE HOUSE OF ZOE CHRYSAPHES WITH A SOARING sense of achievement. At last she had been able to use her hard-won skills in the treatment of serious burns, which without the ointment from Colchis would have left lifelong scars. Her father had brought back the recipe from his travels in the Black Sea and the home of the legendary Medea, from whose name and science the very word medicine had sprung. Healing Zoe could bring more patients, if she was fortunate, among them those who had known Bessarion and therefore Justinian, Antoninus, and whoever was really responsible for the murder.

As she walked home in the warm night air, she thought of the house she had just left. Zoe was an extraordinary woman. Even when she was injured, terrified, and in pain, the intensity of feeling in her charged the air with the kind of tension before a great storm that makes the skin tingle.

What had caused the fire in that gorgeous room with its wrought-iron torch stands and its rich tapestries? Something deliberate? Was that why Helena was afraid?

Anna quickened her pace, her mind exploring every possible use she could make of this opportunity. As a eunuch, she was invisible, like a servant. She could overhear, piece together, make sense of odd threads of information.

She returned to see Zoe every day for the first week. The calls were brief, simply enough to ensure that the healing was continuing as expected. It was obvious from the texture of her skin and the rich color of her hair that Zoe herself was skilled in the use of herbs and unguents. Of course, Anna never mentioned it; it would have been tactless. However, on the fourth occasion she found Helena visiting her mother, and she had no such qualms.

Anna was sitting on the edge of Zoe's bed when Helena observed, "That smells disgusting." She wrinkled her nose at the sharp odor of the unguent Anna was using. "At least most of your other oils and creams are pleasant, if a little heavy."

Zoe's eyes narrowed to agate-hard slits. "You should learn their use, and the value of perfume. Beauty begins as a gift, but you are rapidly approaching the age when it begins to become an art."

"Followed by the age when it is a miracle," Helena snapped.

Zoe's golden eyes widened. "Difficult for someone with no soul to conceive of miracles."

"Maybe I will, by the time I need them."

Zoe looked her up and down. "You've left it late," she whispered.

Helena smiled, a slow, secret satisfaction oozing through it. "Not as late as you think. It was my intention that you should think you knew everything-but you didn't. You still don't."

Zoe hid her surprise almost instantly, but Anna saw it.

"If you mean about Bessarion's death," Zoe answered, "then of course I knew it. The poisonings, and the knifing in the street. They had your hand all over them-they failed. Misconceived, and stupid." She sat up a little, pushing Anna aside, her attention fully upon her daughter. "Who did you think would take his place, you fool? Justinian? Demetrios? That's it-Demetrios. I suppose I have Eirene to thank for that." It was a conclusion, not a question. She sank back against the pillows, the pain showing in her face again. And Helena walked out.

Anna tried to keep her concentration on the slowly healing skin, but the thoughts raced in her mind. There had been other attempts on Bessarion's life. By whom? Apparently Zoe thought by Helena. Why? Who was Demetrios? Who was Eirene? Now she had something concrete to seek.

She finished the bandages, willing herself to keep her fingers steady.

It was not difficult to make the initial inquiries. Eirene was a woman of great note, ugly, clever, of ancient imperial family both by birth as a Doukas and by marriage as a Vatatzes. Gossip had it that she was responsible for the steady increase of her husband's fortune, even though he had not yet returned from exile, for most of which he had been in Alexandria.

She had one son-Demetrios. There the information stopped, and as yet Anna dared not press it any further. The connections she was looking for now were more sinister, perhaps dangerous.

By August, Zoe's burns were almost entirely healed and her patronage was bringing other patients to Anna. Some of these were wealthy merchants, dealers in furs and spices, silver, gems, and silks. They were happy to pay two or three solidi for the best herbs and even more for personal attention on demand.

Anna told Simonis to buy lamb or kid, even though they were recommended only for the first half of the month. They had been frugal ever since they had arrived in March. Now it was time for a celebration. She should serve it hot, with honey-vinegar and perhaps some fresh gourd.

"You know what vegetables to eat in August," Anna added. "And yellow plums."

"I'll get some rose wine." Simonis had the last word.

Anna went back to the local silk shop and picked up the length she had admired before. She let the soft, cool fabric slide through her fingers, almost like liquid, and watched as the light fell on it, turning it slowly. The sheen was first amber, then apricot, then fire, changing as it moved like a living thing. People said that of eunuchs, that the essence of them was elusive, never the same twice. It was meant as condemnation-that they were unreliable.

She saw it only that they were different as they were viewed, because they needed to be to survive; and that they were human, full of hungers, fears, and dreams like everyone else, and had the same ability to be hurt.

She bought a length of the silk sufficient to make a dalmatica for herself and accepted the shop owner's offer to have it cut and stitched and delivered to her home. She thanked him and left, smiling even in the heat of the road outside and the dust of too many rainless days.

Then she went south toward Mese Street and looked at the shops there. She bought new linen tunics for both Leo and Simonis and a new outdoor cloak for each of them, requesting that they be delivered.

She had attended the nearest church every Sunday except when a patient required her urgent presence, but now she felt like taking a water taxi the considerable distance to the great cathedral of the Hagia Sophia. It stood out on the promontory, at the farthest end of Mese Street, between the Acropolis and the Hippodrome.

It was a calm evening, the air still close and warm, even on the water. As the sun sank lower in the west, color spilled across the Golden Horn, making it look like a sheet of silk. It was its brilliant reflection at sunrise that had given it its name.

The water taxi put ashore at dusk, and she climbed the steep streets up from the harbor as the lamps and torches were lit.

She approached the Hagia Sophia, now black against the fading sky, with a sense of awe and excitement. For a thousand years it had stood on this spot, the largest church in Christendom. It had been completely destroyed by fire in 532. The great dome had collapsed in 558, brought down by an earthquake, and been replaced almost immediately by the dome that now soared huge and dark against the sky.

Of course she had seen it many times from the outside. The building itself was over 250 feet in either direction. The stucco was of a reddish color, and in the rising or setting sun it glowed with such warmth that mariners approaching the city could see it from afar.

She went in through the bronze doors and then stopped in amazement. The vast interior was bathed in light from countless candles. It was like being in the heart of a jewel. The porphyry marble columns were deep red. Her father had told her they were originally from the Egyptian temple in Heliopolis, ancient, beautiful, and priceless. The polychrome marble in the walls was cool green and white, from Greece or Italy. The white of it was inlaid with ivory and pearls, and there were gold icons from the ancient temples of Ephesus. It far surpassed every description she had heard.

The impression of light was everywhere, as if the whole structure floated in the air, needing no physical support. The arches were inlaid with mosaics of staggering beauty, somber blues, grays, and browns against backgrounds of countless tiny squares of gold: pictures of saints and angels, Mary with the child Christ, prophets and martyrs from all the ages. Her eyes were dragged away from them only by the beginning of the Mass and the voices rising in unison and then in harmony.

Moved by the sacred solemnity of it, uplifted by a surge of her own faith and an ache to belong, she went toward the steps to the upper level. Head bent, she was carried forward by the others around her. This was the familiar ritual and the creed that had nourished her all her life. She had walked up to the women's section of her own church in Nicea as a little girl with her mother, while Justinian and her father went with the men to the main body of the hall.

She reached the top and stood with the others staring down into the heart of the church as, in profound reverence, the priests performed the blessing and the taking of the sacrament of Christ's body and blood, given to redeem mankind. The ritual was Byzantine to the heart, solemn and subtle, ancient as the trust between man and God.

The sermon was about the faith of Gideon leading the armies of the children of Israel against a force that seemed overwhelming. Again and again God commanded Gideon to reduce his meager army until it seemed absurd even to attempt a battle. The priest pointed out that this was so that when they won, as they would do, they would know that it was God who had made it possible. They would be victorious, but also both humble and grateful. They would know upon whom to rely in all future paths. First obey, and nothing is impossible, no matter what appearances suggest.

Was he speaking of the threat to the Church posed by the union with Rome? Or an invasion by crusading forces again, if the union was refused and the Latins returned, violent and bloody as before?

After the last notes of the singing faded away, she turned to leave, and then the horror dawned on her. Unthinking, she had followed the other women up to the women's section. She had utterly forgotten she was supposed to be a eunuch. What on earth could she do? How could she escape now? The sweat broke out on her body, drenching her and leaving her cold. Everyone knew that the balconies of the upper floor were for women. She was agonized with shame.

The women were streaming past her, eyes downcast, heads veiled, unlike hers. None of them looked back up to where she stood clinging to the banister, swaying a little as dizziness overwhelmed her. She must find an excuse, but what? Nothing could account for coming up here.

An old woman stopped beside her, her skin pale, her face withered. Dear heaven, was she going to demand an explanation? She looked ashen. Was she going to faint and draw the attention of the entire crowd?

The old woman swayed and gave a hacking cough; a spot of blood stained her lips.

The answer came like a shaft of light. Anna put her arm around the woman and eased her down to sit on the steps. "I'm a physician," she said gently. "I'll help you. I'll see you home."

A younger woman turned and saw them. She quickly came back up a step.

"I'm a physician," Anna said quickly. "I saw her looking ill and I came up to help her. I'll take her home." She assisted the old woman to her feet, arm around her again, supporting most of her weight. "Come," she encouraged. "Direct me where to go."

The younger woman smiled and made way for them, nodding approval.

Nevertheless, afterward, Anna arrived home trembling with relief. Simonis looked at her anxiously, knowing there was something wrong, but Anna was too ashamed of her stupidity to tell her what it was.

"Have you found anything further?" Simonis asked, holding out a goblet of wine and placing a dish of bread and chives in front of Anna.

"No," Anna said quietly. "Not yet."

Simonis said nothing, but her look was eloquent. They were not here risking their lives a hundred miles from home so Anna could gain a new medical practice. In Simonis's opinion, there was nothing wrong with the one Anna had had in Nicea. Their only reason for leaving it, and the places and friends they had known all their lives, was to rescue Justinian.

"My tunics are very good," Simonis said quietly. "Thank you. You must be getting new patients. Rich ones."

Anna could see the disapproval in her stiff shoulders and the way she pretended to be concentrating on grinding the mustard seeds to make the sauce for the flatfish she would cook tomorrow.

"Rich is incidental," she told her. "They knew Justinian and the other people around Bessarion. I am learning about his friends, and perhaps Bessarion's enemies."

Simonis looked up quickly, her eyes bright. She smiled briefly; it was as far as she dared go, in case her belief invited bad luck, and the prize slipped away. "Good." She nodded. "I see."

"You don't like the city much, do you?" Anna said softly. "I know you miss the people you knew at home. So do I."

"It's necessary," Simonis replied. "We've got to find the truth of what happened, and get Justinian back. You just keep trying. I'll make new friends. Now go to bed. It's late."