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He considered this question for a while before saying, "Do you wish the truth?"
"I don't want a lie."
"Then you had better call me what you like. Spies don't give out their true names."
I had visited a few imprisoned spies over the years. All of them had told me fabricated stories, though a few had recited these tales with a merry look in their eyes that suggested they did not really expect me to believe them. I had never before met a spy who actually admitted to his calling. This one asked, "May I know your name?"
"Serva."
"Meaning 'slave.' Did your mother give you that name?"
"My mother died of childbed-fever. The wet-nurse gave me my name."
"So you prefer the name of Princess?"
He must have heard Sandy talking at the door. I said stiffly, "It's not a real name. Some people call me that because I'm the King's bastard daughter."
"Give your father my compliments when you meet him next. I prefer his accommodations to those of the Chara's palace dungeon."
There was not a trace of irony in his voice. He waved his hand toward the floor, as though offering me a fine chair. Once I was sitting on the filthy straw, he reseated himself. He was still at the opposite end of the room from me; he was taking care not to frighten me by coming too close.
"What brings you to visit, Princess?" he asked.
"I thought you might want someone to talk to."
He had one knee raised, with his arm slung over it. He looked at me steadily before replying, "That depends on the conversation."
"It sounds as though you're bargaining with me."
"That is appropriate, since I came to this land in the guise of a trader. But the goods I have to offer you are not of fine quality. You can offer me truth; I can only offer you half-truths. And you do not strike me as the sort of person to be satisfied with anything less than the full truth."
"When you're a slave, truth is the only thing you can possess. But give me whatever damaged goods you like. I'll give you the truth back in any case."
"Will you? Will you then tell me how it is that a palace slave comes to visit my cell?"
"The guard let me in."
"I heard him," he replied. "I also heard him say that you had asked for me. How did you know that I was here before you came to the dungeon?"
I felt my heart thumping. I had made careless promises before in my life, and had later felt myself obliged to keep my word. Perhaps it was because of the lectures I had received from my father about the importance of honor. Honor is a difficult lover to accommodate, especially when you are a slave and your very existence may depend on your willingness to discard honor. But I, who had once seen myself as a princess, had always preferred honor over safety.
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