I could feel his breath against the side of my neck, though he wasn't that close-my awareness of him was stronger than it had ever been. I tugged my arm free to take the drink the Pithar servant offered.

"What is this?" I said, suddenly aware of my accent. The servant eyed my shadow-stained arm uneasily.

"Its effects are similar to an iceflower blend," the servant replied. "Dulls the senses, lifts the spirits. Sweet and sour, both."

Akos also took one, smiling at the servant as she walked on.

"If it's not made of iceflowers, what's it made of?" he asked. Thuvhesits worshipped iceflowers, after all. What did he know of other substances?

"I don't know. Salt water? Engine grease?" I said. "Try it; I'm sure it won't hurt you."

We both drank. Across the room, Ryzek and Yma were smiling politely at Chancellor Natto's husband, Vek. His face had a grayish cast, and his skin sagged from his bones like it was half liquid. Maybe gravity was stronger here. I certainly felt heavier than usual, though that was probably due to Vas's constant gaze. Making sure I behaved.

I cringed at my half-empty glass. "Disgusting."

"So, I'm curious," Akos said. "How many languages do you actually speak?"

"Really, it's just Shotet, Thuvhesit, Othyrian, and Trellan," I said. "But I know a little Zoldan, some Pithar, and I was working on Ogran before you arrived and distracted me."

His eyebrows lifted.

"What?" I said. "I don't have any friends. It gives me a lot of free time."

"You think you're so difficult to like."

"I know what I am."

"Oh? And what's that?"

"A knife," I said. "A hot poker. A rusty nail."

"You are more than any of those things." He touched my elbow to turn me toward him. I knew I was giving him a strange look, but I couldn't seem to stop. It was just the way my face wanted to be.

"I mean," he said, removing his hand, "it's not like you're going around . . . boiling the flesh of your enemies."

"Don't be stupid," I said. "If I was going to eat the flesh of my enemies, I would roast it, not boil it. Who wants to eat boiled flesh? Disgusting."

He laughed, and everything felt a little better.

"Silly me. I clearly wasn't thinking," he said. "I'm sorry to tell you this, but I think you're being summoned by the sovereign."

Sure enough, when I looked at Ryzek, his eyes were on me. He jerked his chin up.

"You didn't bring any poison, did you?" I said without looking away from my brother. "I could try to slip it in his drink."

"Wouldn't give it to you if I did," Akos said. When I gave him an incredulous look, he explained, "He's still the only one who can restore Eijeh. After he does that, I'll poison him with a song on my lips."

"No one does 'single-minded' quite like you, Kereseth," I said. "Your task while I'm gone is to compose your poisoning song so I can hear it when I get back."

"Easy," he said. "'Here I go a-poisoning . . .'"

Smirking, I swallowed the last of my vile Pithar engine grease, handed the glass to Akos, and crossed the room.

"Ah, there she is! Vek, this is my sister, Cyra." Ryzek was wearing his warmest smile, his arm outstretched toward me like he intended to fold me into his side. He didn't, of course, because it would have hurt him-the currentshadows were there to remind him, staining my cheek and the side of my nose. I nodded to Vek, who stared blank-eyed back without greeting.

"Your brother was just explaining the Shotet rationale behind some of the kidnapping reports associated with Shotet 'scavengers' over the past decade," he said. "He said you could vouch for the policy."

Oh he did, did he?

My anger, then, was like dry kindling, quickly ignited. I couldn't find a path through it; I just stared at Ryzek for a few moments. He smiled back at me, still with that kind look in his eyes. Beside him, Yma was also smiling.

"Because of your familiarity with your servant," Ryzek said lightly. "Of course."

Ah, yes. My familiarity with Akos-Ryzek's new tool of control.

"Right," I said. "Well, we don't consider it kidnapping, obviously. The Shotet call it 'Reclaiming' because everyone brought back to the fold speaks the revelatory tongue, the Shotet language, perfectly. No accent, no gaps in vocabulary. You cannot speak the Shotet language that way, so innately, without having Shotet blood. Without belonging to us, in a more significant way. And I have seen that . . . demonstrated."

"In what way?" Vek asked. As he lifted his glass to his lips, I spotted his rings, one for each finger. Each one smooth and otherwise undecorated. I wondered why he even wore them.

"My servant has shown himself to be a natural Shotet," I said. "A good fighter, with a good eye for what makes our people distinct. His ability to adapt to our culture is . . . shocking."

"Surely a sign of what I was telling you, sir," Yma chimed in. "That there is evidence of a cultural, historical memory in Shotet blood that ensures that all so-called 'kidnapped' people-people with the gift of Shotet language-who make it to our land find true belonging there."

She was so good at pretending to be devoted.

"Well," Vek said. "That is an interesting theory."

"We must also account for the past crimes of one of the . . . shall we say, more influential planets in the galaxy . . . against our people. Invasion of our territory, kidnapping of our children, violence toward-sometimes even the murder of-our citizens." Ryzek's brow furrowed as if the mere thought pained him. "Certainly this is not the fault of Pitha, to which we have always been kindly disposed. But reparations are certainly in order. From Thuvhe, particularly."

"Yet I have heard rumors that the Shotet are responsible for the death of one of Thuvhe's oracles, and the kidnapping of another," Vek replied, tapping his rings together as he spoke.

"Unfounded," Ryzek replied. "As to the reason the oldest Thuvhesit oracle took her own life, we can't know it. We don't know the reasons for anything the oracles do, do we?"

He was appealing to Vek's Pithar practicality. The oracles held no importance here; they were just madmen shouting over the waves.

Vek tapped his fingers against the glass in his other hand.

"Yes, perhaps we can discuss your proposition further," Vek said reluctantly. "There may be room for cooperation between our planet and your . . . nation."

"Nation," Ryzek said with a smile. "Yes, that is all we ask to be called. An independent nation, capable of determining its own future."

"Excuse me," I said, touching Ryzek's arm lightly. I hoped it stung. "I'm going to find another drink."

"Of course," Ryzek said to me. As I turned away, I heard him say to Vek, "Her currentgift gives her constant pain, you know-we are always looking for solutions to improve her functioning. Some days are better than others-"

Gritting my teeth, I kept marching until I was too far away to hear him. I felt like I might be sick. We had come to Pithar because of their advanced weaponry, because Ryzek wanted an alliance. I had just, in some way, helped him make one. And I knew what Ryzek wanted weapons for-to use against Thuvhe, not to "become an independent nation," as he would have Vek believe. How could I face Akos now, knowing I had helped my brother move toward war against his home? I didn't look for him.

I heard a deep rumble, like thunder. First I thought we were-impossibly-hearing the sounds of the storm through the stretch of water that separated us from the surface. Then I saw, through gaps in the crowd, a line of musicians at the front of the room. The overhead lights dimmed everywhere but above their heads. Each of them sat behind a low table, and on each table was one of the intricate instruments I had pointed out to Akos at the Shotet market. But these were much larger and more complex than the one we had seen. They glinted in the low light, waist-high, their iridescent panes half as wide as my palm.

A harsh crack followed the rumble of thunder, a lightning strike. With that, the other musicians began to play, bringing in the tinkling sounds of light rain, the deeper thrum of thicker droplets. The others played the crashing waves, the lapping of water against a nonexistent shore. All around us were the sounds of water, dripping from faucets, gushing from waterfalls. A Pithar woman with black hair standing to my right closed her eyes, swaying on the spot.

Without meaning to, I found Akos in the crowd, still holding two glasses, both now empty. He smiled a little.

I have to get you out of here, I thought, as if he could hear me. And I will.

CHAPTER 21: AKOS.

IN A COLD, BLANK room in Pitha's capital, Akos gave up on sleep. He and Cyra had never slept without a door between them before, so Akos hadn't known that she ground her teeth, or that she dreamt all the time, moaning and muttering. He'd spent most of the night with eyes open, waiting for her to settle, only it never happened. He was still too sore to get comfortable anyway.

He had never been in a room so bare. Gray floors gave way to pale walls. The beds had white sheets and no frames. At least there was a window. In the early morning hours, as light came back to the world, he could just barely make out a maze of scaffolding underwater, green slime and supple yellow vines wrapped around it. Holding up the city.

Well, that was something the Pithar and the Thuvhesit had in common, he thought-they lived in places that ought not to exist.

In those early hours, Akos was swallowed up in the question that wouldn't leave him be: Why hadn't he pulled away when Cyra kissed him? It wasn't like she had surprised him-she had leaned in, slow, her hand warm on his chest and pressing, almost like she was pushing him away. But he hadn't moved a muscle. He'd gone over it in his mind again and again.

Maybe, he thought, as he stuck his head under the bathroom faucet to wet his hair, I even liked it.

But he was scared to even entertain the notion. It meant the fate that worried at him, the fate that tugged at the strings connecting his heart to Thuvhe and home, was suddenly izits away from his face.

"You're quiet," Cyra said as they made their way to the landing bay side by side. "Did that engine grease you drank last night get to you?"

"No," he said. Somehow it felt wrong to tease her about talking in her sleep, when he knew the kinds of things that likely haunted her. No trifles there. "Just . . . new place, that's all."

"Right, well, I keep burping up sour, so." She pulled a face. "I am not enamored with Pitha, I have to say."

"Except-" he started, about to add something about the concert the night before.

She interrupted him with, "The music. Yes."

His knuckles brushed hers. He jerked away. He was too aware of every touch, now, even though Cyra had promised she wouldn't make another move, and hadn't talked about it since.

They reached the breezeway-not the word Akos would have picked, but there was a sign over the doorway saying what it was-where some of the others were putting on waterproof jumpsuits and boots. Ryzek, Yma, Vas, Suzao, and Eijeh weren't there, but Vakrez and Malan were, Malan sorting through boots to find the right size. He was a small, thin man, with a beard that was just a shadow under his jaw, and bright eyes. An unequal match for Vakrez, the cold military commander who had seen to Akos's Shotet education.

"Cyra," Malan said, nodding as Vakrez eyed Akos. Akos stood up straighter, lifting his chin. He could still hear Vakrez's relentless voice scolding him for slouching, for dragging his feet, for uttering so much as a curse in Thuvhesit.

"Kereseth," Vakrez said. "You look bigger."

"That's because I actually feed him, unlike your barracks kitchen." Cyra thrust a bright green jumpsuit into Akos's arms that was marked L. When he unfolded it, it looked nearly as wide as it was tall, but no reason to complain, as long as he didn't get water in his boots.

"Right you are," Malan said in his reedy voice.

"You used to eat there without complaining," Vakrez said, elbowing him.

"Only because I was trying to get you to notice me," Malan said. "Notice I haven't been back there since."

Akos watched Cyra put on her suit to see how she did it. It looked so easy for her that he wondered if she'd been to Pitha before, but he felt odd, asking her questions-acting at all normal-with Vakrez right there. She stepped into the suit and pulled straps he hadn't noticed before tight around her ankles, binding the fabric to her body. She did the same with hidden straps at her wrists, then fastened the suit up to her throat. Hers was as shapeless as his own, built for a person not made spare by the hard life of a Shotet.

"We were planning to join one of the platoons for the scavenge," Vakrez said to Cyra. "But if you prefer that we go out on a separate vessel-"

"No," Cyra said. "I'd rather try to blend in with your soldiers."

No "thank you," no niceties. It was Cyra's way.

Once they were all in suits and strapped into their boots, they walked the covered tunnel to a ship. Not the one they'd flown in the day before, but a smaller floater, round, with a domed roof so the water would slide off as it flew.

Soon enough they were drifting above the waves, which looked like snowdrifts to Akos, at a squint. They had the same captain they'd had yesterday-Rel was his name-and he pointed out where they were headed: a huge island, about the size of a city sector, piled up high with scrap. The Pithar kept their refuse afloat.

At a distance the trash pile looked like a brown-gray lump, but once they got closer he saw the pieces that made it up: huge sheets of twisted metal, old rusty girders with pins and screws still stuck in them, soaked fabric of all different colors, cracked glass as thick as his hand. Clustered between some of the larger piles was Vakrez's platoon, all wearing the same color suits they had on.

They touched down behind the platoon, and filed out of the floater one by one, Rel at the back. The drum of the rain on the roof gave way to its splatter on the ground. The drops were heavy, each one a hard tap on Akos's head and shoulders and arms. He could feel only their temperature on his cheeks. Warm, which was unexpected.

Someone at the head of the platoon was talking: "Your job is to spot things that are actually valuable. Newer current motors and engines, intact scrap metal, broken or discarded weapons. Do not cause trouble, and if you see any native observers, be courteous and show them to either me or Commander Noavek, who has just joined us. Welcome, sir."

Vakrez nodded to him, and added, "Remember, the reputation of your sovereign, and of Shotet itself, is at stake here. They see us as barbaric and ignorant. You must behave as if that is not the case."

A few of the soldiers laughed, like they weren't sure they ought to, since Vakrez wasn't smiling even a little. Akos wasn't sure the commander's face remembered how to do it.

"Get to it!"

A few soldiers surged ahead to climb the pile right in front of them, made up of floater parts. Akos searched the ones who dawdled behind for faces he knew from training, but it was hard to tell-they wore head-coverings that looked almost like helmets, and visors to protect their eyes from the rain. He and Cyra didn't have them-he kept blinking raindrops into his eyes.

"Helmets," Malan said. "I knew we forgot something. Would you like me to request that one of the soldiers give you theirs, Cyra?"

"No," Cyra said, almost snapping. "I mean . . . no, thank you."

"You Noaveks," Malan said. "How is it that simple words like 'please' and 'thank you' sound so unnatural coming from you?"

"Must be in the blood," Cyra said. "Come on, Akos. I think I see something useful."

She put her hand in his like it was natural. And maybe it should have been, just him relieving her pain, like he was supposed to. But after the way she had touched him in her room on the sojourn ship, fervently, reverently-after that, how could he possibly lay a casual hand on her again? All he could think about was how hard he was squeezing-too hard? Not hard enough?

They walked between two piles of floater pieces, toward a stretch of scrap metal, some of it warm in color, like sun-kissed skin. Akos walked to the edge of the island, where huge girders kept the shape of the man-made land. He wasn't looking for weapons, or scrap, or machines. He was looking for small things that would tell stories: broken toys, old shoes, kitchen utensils.

Cyra crouched next to a bent pole, scraped at the base like it had been the casualty of a collision. When she tugged at it, it just kept coming, knocking over empty cans and cracked pipes. At the end of the pole-now twice as long as Akos was tall-was a tattered flag with a gray background and a circle of symbols in its center.

"Look at this," she said to him, smiling. "This is their old flag, before their acceptance into the Assembly of Nine Planets. It's at least thirty seasons old."

"How has it not disintegrated in the rain?" he asked, pinching the frayed corner.

"Pitha specializes in durable materials-glass that doesn't erode, metal that doesn't rust, fabric that doesn't tear," she said. "Buoyant platforms that can carry whole cities."