The beecraft set down on a flat concrete pad near a few ragged old fuel wagons. Tired, dusty men approached the two craft, dragging long, flat sand-colored hoses behind them. They waited for the props to stop spinning, then tugged the hoses to within a few steps of the side doors. Oresias swung their door open and jumped down, followed by Atta, the bodyguards and Demetrios. The Kelt took a deep breath and shook his head as if to clear it.

Atta conferred with the closest field attendant, who seemed reluctant to say anything, concentrating on hooking up the hose and starting the fuel pumping. Atta then walked over to speak to a wagon driver, and seemed to have better luck. When he returned, he appeared, if such a thing was possible, even more desolate.

Rhita stood beside the mekhanikos as Atta told them what he had heard. “There’s no communication out of Alexandreia. We’re getting our fuel, but we were supposed to get aerial charts of the steppes from the Syrian Map Center, and they haven’t shown up.”

“What do they mean, no communication?” Oresias asked.

“Just that. No radio, no telephone, nothing, as far as the driver knows. He’s an officer, too; he talks with pilots coming in to the aerodromos. All flights are being held in Alexandreia. Ours are the only craft to land today.”

Oresias circled his fingers around his wrist and twisted them. “Something’s gone wrong.”

Demetrios squinted quizzically. “What—”

“We’re being slighted,” Atta said. “We get our fuel, but the powers in Damaske are being spare with other amenities. That tells me the queen’s influence may now be less important to them…”

Oresias chafed his wrist until the skin seemed about to rupture. “A blow against the palace?”

Atta shook his head, unwilling to speculate. “We still have our mission. But something’s wrong. It must have begun just before we left. We can’t radio back…it would take an hour or more to go into the city, or to the aerodromos administration and place a cable…” He shrugged. “We have no choice but to go on.”

Rhita stared at the distant towers and squat ziggurats of Damaske, realizing she was not scared, but should be. The flight’s mixed exhilaration and boredom still had a grip on her, like a drug.

“Check with your clavicle, please,” Oresias told her softly as they re-boarded the beecraft. “I want to know whether our goal is still there.”

She pulled the box from its rack and opened it, touching the handlebars with one finger. The brilliantly colored world spun before her again, and the cross reappeared in the same position, unchanged.

“Still there,” she affirmed. Oresias strapped himself into his seat, leaned his head back and closed his eyes.