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bindings. I slipped into the cool, quiet temple, which was empty but for a few slaves preparing for the offerings. I forced myself to walk a measured pace to the steps, not allowing myself to think, or to wonder.
    Or to wish.
    I hurried to the basement to change, glad of a few minutes alone to process what had happened with Prince Mati. But when I opened the door to the dressing room, someone was already there.

Lanea saw her husband’s fury that Sotia had gotten to Suna first, and she offered herself to distract him. She could not bear to see proud Sotia suffer at Gyotia’s hands again. The others, she knew, would assume that she acted out of weakness, for they did not understand her kind of strength.
FIVE
    THE CURLY-HAIRED SLAVE sat at the dressing table, tapping his fingers as if I were late for an appointment. I considered shouting for help, but before I could even open my mouth, he had lunged at me and clapped one hand over it.
    I wasn’t really frightened until he did that. I struggled, but he tightened his hand and grabbed my wrist.
    â€œI only want to talk to you,” he said. “But I can’t have you calling the guards. If I let go, will you listen to me?” He smelled of sweat and wine, and something else, a bitter scent that I vaguely recognized.
    He wasn’t much older than I was. He didn’t seem dangerous, but still . . .
    Curiosity won over prudence. I nodded, though my heart thumped.
    He released me and took a step backward. “You know what Tyasha ke Demit did?”
    My mouth went dry.
    â€œWell, do you?” he asked.
    I nodded slowly.
    â€œThen you realize you have an opportunity to serve your people as she did.”
    I gaped at him. “Serve . . . my people?”
    He glowered as though he thought I was being stupid on purpose. “Of course. You can give back the knowledge that the Qilarites have taken from us. Do you really think those idiots were the first group that Tyasha taught? She went years without being caught.”
    Abruptly I realized what the bitter scent was: ink. I swallowed hard. “And you want me to . . .” He couldn’t know what he was asking. I hardly knew myself.
    He took a step forward. “I want you to help your people.”
    â€œYou want me to become a traitor.”
    He snorted. “If not, you betray the Arnathim instead.”
    I shook my head. Realizing that I was pressed defensively against the door, I forced myself to relax.
    â€œNeed help with those?” he said, indicating the ropes at my wrists.
    â€œNo,” I snapped. “I can do it myself.” I looped the bindings off my hands and threw them onto the dressing table, then started on the knot of the gag that hung around my neck.
    â€œHere, let me,” he said. He picked at the knot with surprisingly nimble fingers. My mind raced—I had to get rid of him before the Gamo girls came down to change.
    The gag came apart and I turned to face him. “I won’t helpyou,” I told him, “so you might as well leave now. The less I know about you, the better.”
    He raised his eyebrows. His eyes were green, the exact color of the fog-jade vase in the palace entryway. I used to hate cleaning that vase—it always seemed ready to tip over at the slightest provocation.
    â€œInteresting,” he said smugly. “You’re not planning to tell anyone about me being here. Not what I expected from a qodder willing to humiliate herself in a Qilarite pantomime.”
    That stung, though I didn’t know what a qodder was, or why I should care what he thought. “What does it matter? In case you haven’t noticed, the Qilarites are in charge.”
    â€œIt matters,” he said coldly, “because the rest of us don’t have a choice about being humiliated for the pleasure of Qilarites. You do.”
    Suddenly I was irrationally angry. Who was he to judge me? “Get out,” I spat. “I’ll scream for