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floor has carpets, whole kingdoms’ worth. And they can travel with their man, though they travel in curtained wagons.”
    “If a prison moves, is it any less a prison?”
    “Philosophy,” said Thaïs, not quite mockingly, as a eunuch approached them.
    He was old, thin-limbed but heavy-bellied, in a coat so rich it seemed to parody itself: deep crimson silk crusted with embroidery. He made Meriamon think of the baboon in Thoth’s temple, irascible and holy, with his too-long arms and his withered face. He bowed to them, a bow carefully calculated, neither low enough to grant them sovereignty nor slight enough to offer insult. His greeting was faultless, and expressed in court Persian.
    Meriamon did not speak it well, but she understood its meaning. Too well. Conquerors these interlopers might be, but they would speak the language of Cyrus and Cambyses, or not speak at all.
    She inclined her head a meticulous degree. “We return your sentiments, 0 prince of servants. This lady who accompanies me is a friend of the king. Will the great royal lady deign to grant her audience?”
    His lip curled the merest degree: at her accent, no doubt, as much as at her presumption. But he was a courtier. His face changed no line of-its expression. “Is such a choice granted a prisoner?”
    “A queen may always choose,” said Meriamon.
    “I will ask,” said the eunuch. And went away.
    Meriamon sat on a couch, finding it too soft, but better than nothing at all. Thaïs stayed where she was, standing by the opening in the inner wall. “What did he say?”
    “He’s going to ask the queen if she will speak with you.” Meriamon sat back. Sekhmet left her shoulder and walked along the back of the couch, prowling, relaxed but wary. Once she sneezed. Meriamon smiled. Sekhmet did not like Persian perfumes, either.
    “He was rude,” said Thaïs, “to speak Persian.”
    “So he was,” Meriamon said. “And ruder yet to leave so abruptly, without a word of thanks or parting. He’s not happy at all to be where he is now.”
    “He should be.” Thaïs left the door and sat beside Meriamon. After a moment she tucked up her feet and reclined against the long curving arm. “In any war that ever was, a conquering king would have taken his enemy’s women for his own. Alexander hasn’t come here at all.”
    “Yet.”
    “When he comes,” said Thais, “that’s not what he’ll come for.”
    “So,” said Meriamon. “He’s Greek clear through.”
    Thaïs let fall her veil, baring her face. “Greek enough, that’s true. But he’s Alexander. He won’t ever take a lover by force. He likes his pleasure willing, and he likes to have love if he can get it.”
    “I can hardly see him wooing a Persian princess,” said Meriamon.
    “I can,” said Thaïs. “He’d like the challenge.”
    “Not that she’d be worth it once he won her,” said Meriamon. “Cage-birds seldom learn to fly.”
    “One with spirit, maybe,” said Thaïs. “One who wants to be free.”
    “Spirit goes sour fast in a harem. It goes to wine or it goes to fat, or it takes to poisoning people.”
    “In Egypt, too?” asked Thaïs.
    “Not in Egypt,” said Meriamon, but softly. Sekhmet returned from her quartering of the room and curled in Meriamon’s lap. She stroked the sleek fur, taking comfort from it. “Not... for a very long time.”
    Thaïs’ eyes begged to differ, but she held her peace. She was like a cat herself, relaxed and supple, but ready to leap at a word.
    They were not kept waiting long. Neither were they brought the cups of wine and the sweets that would have been proper.
    The eunuch who came for them was another than the one who had taken their message, younger though still no youth, who looked as if he might have been beautiful once. His eyes were lovely still, great frightened doe-eyes, taking in the Greek woman and the Egyptian in Persian dress without seeming to comprehend them.
    His voice was strong and piercing sweet as eunuchs’