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landowner's caps, priests and priestesses in their robes (though none from the more ascetic orders), and various others with less easily defined uniforms.  There was a tall, blonde woman sitting next to one of the men wearing a landowner's cap who was almost certainly Ossian.  She smiled at Liera when she caught her look, and there was something knowing there that made Liera flush and look away.
    To see Nari, who was one of Maash's friends, and who she knew in school, and who looked like he was about to burst out laughing!  It was . . . it was utterly, utterly mortifying, but the bell hadn't rung again, so she had to keep touching herself.
    Liera buried her face in her pillow.
    "Tsk, piglet," said Jalah.  She rang the bell, and Liera's fingers stopped moving along her pussy lips.  "If you misuse your presents, you do not get to keep them.  Pass it through the bars."
    The problem was that her right hand was held in place, so she had to pass the pillow through with her left hand, which was pretty well soaked, and everyone saw; if they didn't see it on her fingers, there were big wet stains on the pillow when she passed it back to Jalah.  There were murmurs at that, and some laughs; Liera knew that she was red as beet, head to toe, which drew more laughs.
    "And such lovely colors," said Jalah, and she rang the bell again.  "Do not hide from the guests, piglet—you are here for their amusement.  Perform for them."
    It wasn't easy, but it also was.  Mostly, they were ignoring her.  Nari wasn't—he was just delighted to see her, and whenever she looked in that direction, he was watching her, eyes dancing with mischief.  The Ossian woman was also watching, but less . . . she wasn't amused like Nari was amused—there was an edge to her smile, something delighted, but also cruel. Did that woman know her?  Know her family?  It didn't bear thinking about.
    For most of the others, she was just . . .  there.  Like the flowers in the center of the table, like the servants, like decanters.  They would raise an eyebrow if Liera moaned, or laugh if Jalah made her do a trick—she had to hold a banana in her mouth, or try to collect grapes that were spilled in her cage with her lips and her toes—that sort of thing.  But then they'd look away, continue talking about other things, or pay more attention to the food or the music.
    Occasionally, one of the guests would take more of an interest, have a whispered conversation with Jalah or the Krin, watching Liera writhe and moan.  A shake of the head, a regretful shrug of the shoulders, and then it was dropped, or Liera was given another humiliating trick to perform.
    The tricks were bad, but her reaction to them was worse.  After Jalah had finally let her finish, Liera had felt like she wasn't going to be interested in sex for a week.  But now . . . now she was close.  Every time Jalah let her touch herself, she was thrumming with need, and she was squeaking with disappointment every time she had to stop, her legs still moving, twisting against each other.
    The people at dinner were noticing, which made her more embarrassed, which got her closer.  Then the flute girl noticed as well, and matched her rhythm to Liera's—little fluttering trills as Liera got close, slower, languorous music as she writhed in her cage.  It took Liera a little while to catch on, but when she did, she looked over at the flute girl, hoping for some sort of sympathy, someone who'd see what was happening to her, and relent.
    The flute girl was young and dark and intent.  There was just the faintest look over Liera, the faintest little knowing smile.  Then she winked, and looked back down at the instrument, keeping pace with Liera's every motion.
    Finally, the tables were cleared, and the guests started saying their goodnights, heading out.  Most of them did.  On her way out, the Ossian woman stopped by Liera's cage to talk to Jalah.  As she did, she picked a stuffed fig up off the corner