CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

                                        
LOYALTIES

KENNIT LOOKED DOWN AT THE SCROLL IN HIS HAND. THE PIECES of wax seal on his desk had borne the sigil of Sincure Faldin. That worthy merchant had adapted to the loss of his wife and one daughter. His sons and his ship had survived the slavers’ raid on Divvytown unscathed, for they had been out trading at the time. As Kennit had predicted to Sorcor, Sincure Faldin had accepted Sorcor’s marriage to Alyssum, for the Durjan merchant had always been swift to see where power resided. This urgent message was but one more effort by him to curry goodwill with Kennit. As such, he regarded it suspiciously.

The writing on the scroll was laboriously elaborate, and the wording stilted. A full third of the page was an opulent greeting and wish for Kennit’s good health. How like the overdressed Durjan merchant, to waste his ink and his time so painstakingly before unfolding his dire news. Despite the hammering of his heart, Kennit forced himself to reread the scroll with an impassive face. He sifted facts from the merchant’s flowery prose. Faldin had mistrusted the strangers who came to Divvytown, and had been among the first to suspect the ship was a liveship. He had had his son lure the captain and his woman into his shop and ply them with tales to get them to divulge some of their own history, but to little avail.

Their abrupt departure in the middle of the night was as strange as their arrival had been, and tales told the next day by men who had deserted the ship bore out his suspicions. On board was one Althea Vestrit, who claimed ownership of the Vivacia. The crew of the liveship had been oddly mixed, men and women, but the captain had been that Brashen fellow, lately of the Springeve, and before that, Bingtown born and bred, or so rumor had it. If one could believe deserters, the ship’s true mission was to reclaim the liveship Vivacia. The ship had been a liveship, the figurehead badly damaged, and by name Paragon.

The inked name seemed to burn into his eyes. It was hard to concentrate on the meandering section that followed and quoted gossip and bird-borne rumors that Jamaillia City was raising a fleet to sail northward and inflict punishment on Bingtown for the kidnapping of the Satrap and the destruction of his tariff dock there. It was Faldin’s studied opinion that the nobles of Jamaillia had long been seeking an excuse to plunder Bingtown. They seemed to have found it.

Kennit raised incredulous eyebrows at that tale. The Satrap had left Jamaillia, gone to Bingtown and been kidnapped there? The whole narrative seemed far-fetched. The meat of the rumor, of course, was that Jamaillia City was raising a retaliatory fleet. Purposeful warships passing through Pirate Isles waters were to be avoided. When they returned with the spoils of their war-making, however, they would be fat prey. His serpents would make such piracy near effortless.

The missive closed with another string of earnest compliments and good wishes, and rather unsubtle reminders that Kennit should be grateful to Sincure Faldin for sending him these tidings. At the bottom was an intricate signature done in two colors of ink, followed by a tasteless postscript exulting over how ripely Alyssum was swelling with Sorcor’s seed.

Kennit set the scroll down on his desk and let the cursed thing roll itself up. Sorcor and the others gathered in his cabin stolidly waited to hear the news. The messenger had followed Faldin’s explicit orders to deliver the message to Sorcor so that he could take it immediately to Captain Kennit, probably so Sorcor could admire his father-in-law’s cleverness and loyalty.

Or was there more? Could either Sorcor or Sincure Faldin suspect what this news meant to Kennit? Had there been another message, for Sorcor’s eyes only, in which Faldin bid him watch how his captain reacted? For an instant, doubt and suspicion gnawed at Kennit, but for an instant only. Sorcor could not read. If Faldin had wanted to rope his son-in-law into a plot against Kennit, he had chosen the wrong medium.

The first time Kennit had read the liveship’s name and description, his heart had lurched in his chest. He had forced himself to continue breathing evenly, and maintained his calm expression. A second slow perusal of the page had allowed him time to compose his voice and manner. There were many questions to answer. Did Faldin suspect the connection? If so, how? He did not mention it, unless the words about the sailors who had jumped ship from the Paragon were a hint. Did those sailors know and had they talked? Did this Althea Vestrit know, and if she did, did she intend to use Paragon somehow as a weapon against him? If it was known, how widely was it known? Was it beyond the control of killing a few men and sinking a ship again?

Would his past never stay submerged?

For one wild instant, Kennit offered himself escape. He did not have to go back to Divvytown. He had a liveship under him and a fleet of serpents at his disposal. He could abandon all and go anywhere, anywhere there was water, and still make his fortune. He would have to begin all over, of course, to establish his reputation, but the serpents would assure that that happened swiftly. He lifted his eyes briefly and scanned the people in his room. They would all have to die, unfortunately. Even Wintrow, he thought with a pang. And he’d have to get rid of his entire crew and replace them somehow. And still the ship would know who he had been . . .

“Captain?” Sorcor prodded him gently.

The daydream popped like a bubble. It wasn’t feasible. Far more pragmatic to go back to Divvytown, tidy away whoever suspected and go on as before. There was the ship himself, of course, but he had dealt with Paragon once. He’d just have to do it again. He pushed that thought aside. He could not face it yet.

“Bad news, Cap’n?” Sorcor dared to ask.

Kennit managed a sardonic smile. He would parcel out the tidings and see if anyone flinched. “News is news, Captain Sorcor. It is up to the recipient to make good or bad of it. But these tidings are . . . interesting. I am sure we are all pleased to know that your Alyssum grows ever rounder. Sincure Faldin also reports that a strange ship has visited Divvytown, professing a desire to join us in our crusade to rid the Inside Passage of slaveships. But our good friend Faldin was not convinced of their sincerity. The ship arrived rather mysteriously, negotiating the passage to the harbor in the dark of night and leaving the same way.” He glanced back at the scroll negligently. “And there is a rumor that Jamaillia City raises a fleet to plunder Bingtown, in revenge for some affront to the Satrap.”

Kennit leaned back casually in his chair to have more faces in view. Etta was there with Wintrow at her side. He always seemed to be at her side lately, he reflected briefly. Sorcor, his broad, scarred face beaming loyalty and devotion to Kennit and pride in his woman’s fecundity, stood next to Jola, Kennit’s current first mate.

All were resplendent in the rich yields of their most recent piracies. Etta had coaxed even Wintrow into a wide-sleeved shirt of dark blue silk embroidered with ravens by Etta’s own needle. Staunch Sorcor wore emeralds in his ears now, and a broad belt of leather worked with silver held two matching swords. The richness of the fabrics Etta wore was only heightened by her remarkable cut of them. Had cloth-of-gold ever been worn to climb a mast before? In the hold were other harvests from the sea: rare medicines and exotic perfume oils, gold and silver stamped with the likenesses of many different Satraps, jewels both raw and wrought into jewelry, fabulous pelts and glowing tapestries. The wealth in his hold now easily equaled last year’s full gathering.

Hunting had been bountiful lately; piracy had never been so effortless. Flanked by his flotilla of serpents, he need do no more than sight an interesting sail. He and Bolt selected their targets and she sent the serpents forth. An hour or two of harassment by the serpents, and the prey surrendered. At first, he had then closed on the demoralized ships and demanded surrender of all their valuables. The crews had always been subservient and willing. Without even a sword drawn, Kennit fleeced the vessels and then sent them on their way, with a stern reminder that these waters were now the province of King Kennit of the Pirate Isles. He suggested that if their rulers were interested in establishing generous tariffs to pass through his territory, he might be willing to treat with them.

The last two ships he had ordered the serpents to “fetch” for him. The Vivacia anchored until the serpents herded her victims to her. The last captain had surrendered on his knees while Kennit sat enthroned on a comfortable chair on the Vivacia’s foredeck. Bolt delighted in the captive captain’s ill-concealed terror of her. After Kennit had made his selections from the ship’s manifests, the captured crew had seen to the cargo transfer. Kennit’s only concern would be to keep his own crew from becoming bored or complacent. From time to time, he planned to stop a slaver, to let the crew indulge their need for bloodshed and feed the serpents to increase their loyalty to him.

Faldin’s message had arrived on a swift little ship named Sprite. Although Jola had recognized the ship and she had been flying Kennit’s raven flag, neither Kennit nor Bolt had been able to resist flaunting their power. The serpents had been sent forth to surround the small ship and escort it to Kennit. The captain had made a brave show of greeting Kennit but no amount of bravado could quite banish the quaver from his voice. The messenger had been pale and silent when he reached the deck of the Vivacia, for he had made the crossing in a tiny boat through the gleaming backs of serpents.

Kennit had taken the missive and dismissed the messenger to a “well-deserved ration of brandy.” Every man aboard the Sprite would carry word to Divvytown of Kennit’s new allies. It was well to impress one’s enemies with a show of strength. It was even better to be sure one’s friends remembered it as well. Kennit kept that in mind as he slowly surveyed the faces around him.

Sorcor’s brow furrowed as he endeavored to think. “Did Faldin know the skipper? He should. He knows damn near everyone in Divvytown, and it takes an experienced man to bring a ship up the slough, even in daylight.”

“He did,” Kennit confirmed easily. “One Brashen Trell, of Bingtown. I gather he did business in Divvytown last season on the Springeve with old Finney.” Kennit feigned glancing at the missive again. “Perhaps this Trell is an extraordinary navigator with an excellent memory, but Faldin suspects it was more the ship he used than the man. A liveship. With a chopped face. By name, Paragon.”

Wintrow’s face betrayed him. His cheeks had flushed at the name of Trell. Now he stood, tongue-tied and sweating. Interesting. Impossible that the lad was in league with Sincure Faldin; he simply had not had enough free time in Divvytown. So this was something else. As if by accident, he let his eyes meet the boy’s. He smiled mildly at him and waited.

Wintrow looked stricken. Twice his lips parted and closed again before he cleared his throat faintly. “Sir?” he managed in a whisper.

“Wintrow?” Kennit put warm query into his voice.

Wintrow crossed his arms on his chest. What secret, Kennit wondered, did he seek to hold inside? When Wintrow spoke, his voice was small. “You should heed Faldin’s warning. Brashen Trell was first mate to my grandfather, Captain Ephron Vestrit. Perhaps he truly seeks to join you, but I doubt it. He served aboard the Vivacia for years, and may still feel great loyalty to the Vestrits. To my family.”

At these final words, the boy’s fingers tightened on his arms. So there it was. Wintrow chose to be loyal to Kennit but still felt it as a betrayal of his family. Interesting. Almost touching. Kennit steepled his fingers on the table before him. “I see.” A vague shivering had passed throughout the ship at the mention of her old captain’s name. That was even more interesting than Wintrow’s divided loyalty. Bolt claimed that there was nothing left of the old Vivacia. Why, then, would she tremble at Captain Vestrit’s name?

Silence reigned. Wintrow stared down at the edge of the table. His face was very still, his jaw set. Kennit reflected, tossed up his last bit of information. He gave a small, resigned sigh. “Ah. That would explain the presence of Althea Vestrit among the crew. Deserters from the Paragon say that she intends to take Vivacia away from me.”

A second shivering ran through the ship. Wintrow froze, his face paling. “Althea Vestrit is my aunt,” he said faintly. “She was closely bonded to the ship, even before she awakened. She had expected to inherit Vivacia.” The boy swallowed. “Kennit, I know her. Not well, not in all things, but where this ship is concerned, she will not be dissuaded. She will try to take the Vivacia. That is as certain as sunrise.”

Kennit smiled faintly. “Through a wall of serpents? If she survives them, she will discover that Vivacia is no longer who she once was. I do not think I need to fear.”

“No longer who she once was,” Wintrow repeated in a whisper. His look had become distant. “Are any of us?” he asked, and lowered his face into his hands.

 

MALTA WAS SICK OF SHIPS. SHE HATED THE SMELLS, THE MOTION, the appalling food, the coarse men and most of all she hated the Satrap. No, she corrected herself. Worst of all she hated that she could not show the Satrap how much she loathed and despised him.

The Chalcedean mother ship had taken them up days ago. Kekki’s body had been hastily abandoned with the badly leaking galley. As Malta and the others had been hauled to safety aboard the three-masted ship, their rescuers hooted and pointed at the sinking galley. She suspected the captain of the galley had suffered a great loss of status by losing his ship that included forfeiting his rights to his “guests,” for they had not seen the man since they had come aboard.

The single chamber she now shared with the Satrap was larger, with real walls of solid wood and a door that latched securely. It was warmer and drier than the makeshift tent cabin on the deck of the galley, but just as bare. It had no window. It offered little more than the absolute necessities for life. Food was brought to them, and the dishes taken away afterward. Once every two days, a boy came to carry away their waste bucket. The air of the cabin was close and stuffy; the sole lantern that swung from an overhead beam smoked incessantly, contributing to the thick atmosphere.

Fastened to the wall were a small table that folded down for use and a narrow bunk with a flattened mattress and two blankets. The Satrap ate while seated on his bunk; Malta stood. The chamber pot was under the bunk, with a small railing to keep it from sliding about. A jug for water and a single mug rested on a small, railed shelf by the door. That was it. As Malta disdained to share the bunk with the Satrap, the floor was her bed. After he was asleep, she could sometimes filch one of the blankets from under his slack grip.

When she and the Satrap had first been shown to the room and the door shut securely behind them, he had stared slowly around himself. His pinched lips white with fury, he had demanded, “This is the best you could do for us?”

She had still been sodden with shock. Her near-rape, the death of Kekki and the sudden change in ships had left her reeling. “I could do for us?” she asked stupidly.

“Go now! Tell them I will not tolerate this. Right now!”

Her temper snapped. She hated the tears that brimmed her eyes and spilled down her cheeks as she demanded, “Just how am I to do that? I don’t speak Chalcedean; I don’t know who to complain to if I did. Nor would these animals listen to me. In case you haven’t noticed, Chalcedeans don’t exactly respect women.”

He gave a snort of contempt. “Not women like you, they don’t. If Kekki were here, she would soon set things right. You should have been the one to die. At least Kekki knew how to manage things!”

Going to the door, he had flung it open. He stood in the door frame and yelled for attention until a deckhand came, then shrieked at the man in Chalcedean. The deckhand had looked from the Satrap to Malta and back again, in obvious puzzlement. Then he had bowed sketchily and disappeared. “It’s your fault if he doesn’t even come back!” the Satrap had spat at her, flinging himself down on the bunk. He pulled the blankets over himself and ignored her. Malta had sat down in the corner on the floor and sulked. The deckhand had not returned.

The corner had become her part of the room. She sat there now, her back braced against the wall, contemplating her grubby feet. She longed to get out on the deck, to get one breath of clean, cold air, to see the sky and above all to discover in which direction they sailed. The galley had been carrying them northward, toward Chalced. The Chalcedean ship that had picked them up had been traveling south. But she had no way of knowing if it had continued on its course, or had turned back to Chalced. To be so confined and have no idea of when their voyage would end was yet another torture. Enforced idleness and tedium had become the fabric of her days.

Nor could she wring any information from the Satrap. The wallowing of this round-hulled ship made him queasy. When he was not vomiting, he was complaining of hunger and thirst. When food and drink were brought to him, he immediately gorged himself, only to disgorge it a few hours later. With each of his meals came a small quantity of coarse smoking herbs. He would thicken the air of the small cabin until Malta was dizzy with the odor, all the while complaining that the poor quality of the herb left his throat raw and his head unsoothed. In vain had Malta entreated him to take a bit of air; all he would do was lie on the bed and groan, or demand that she rub his feet or his neck.

As long as the Satrap confined himself to the cabin, Malta was effectively jailed there as well. She dared not venture out without him.

She rubbed at her burning eyes. The smoke from the lantern inflamed them. Their noonday repast had already been cleared away. The long hours until dinner stretched endlessly before her. The Satrap, against her gentle counseling, had once more stuffed himself. He now puffed at a short black pipe. He took it from his mouth, glared at it, and then drew on it again. The dissatisfied look on his face spoke of trouble brewing for Malta. He shifted uncomfortably on the bed, and then belched loudly.

“A stroll about the deck might aid your digestion,” Malta suggested quietly.

“Oh, do be quiet. The mere thought of the effort of walking makes my poor belly heave.” He suddenly snatched the pipe from his mouth and flung it at her. Without even waiting for her reaction, he rolled to face the wall, ending the conversation.

Malta leaned her head back against the wall. The pipe had not hit her, but the implied threat of his temper had rattled her nerves. She tried to think of what she should do next. Tears threatened. She set her jaw and clenched her fists against her eyes. She would not cry. She was a tough descendant of a determined folk, she reminded herself, a Bingtown Trader’s daughter. What, she wondered, would her grandmother have done? Or Althea? They were strong and smart. They would have discovered a way out of this.

Malta realized she was absently fingering the scar on her forehead and pulled her hand away. The injury had closed again, but the healed flesh had an unpleasant gristly texture. The ridged scar extended back into her hairline a full finger’s length. Malta wondered what it looked like and swallowed sickly.

She pulled her knees in tightly to her chest and hugged them. She closed her eyes, but kept sleep at bay. Sleep brought dreams, terrible dreams of all she refused to face by day. Dreams of Selden buried in the city, dreams of her mother and grandmother reviling her for luring him to his death. She dreamed of Delo, recoiling in horror from Malta’s ruined face. She dreamed of her father, turning away, face set, from his disgraced daughter. Worst were the dreams of Reyn. Always, they were dancing, the music sweet, the torches glowing. First, her slippers fell away, showing her scabby, dirty feet. Then her dress tattered suddenly into filthy rags. Finally, as her hair tumbled lankly to her shoulders and her scar oozed fluid down her face, Reyn thrust her from him. She fell sprawling to the floor, and all the dancers surrounded her, pointing in horror. “A moment of beauty, ruined forever,” they taunted, pointing.

A few nights ago, the dream had been different. It had been so real, almost like the shared visions of the dream-box. He had outstretched his hands to grasp hers. “Malta, reach for me!” he had begged. “Help me come to you.” But, even in the dream, she had known it was useless. She had clasped her hands behind her, and hidden her shame from him. Better never to touch him again than to see pity or revulsion on his face. She had awakened sobbing, stabbed by the sweetness of his voice. That dream had been worst of all.

When she thought of Reyn, her heart ached. She touched her lips, remembering a stolen kiss, the fabric of his veil a soft barrier between their mouths. But every sweet memory was edged with a hundred sharp regrets. Too late, she told herself. Forever too late.

With a sigh, she lifted her head and opened her eyes. So. Here she was, on a ship, bound Sa knows where, dressed in rags, scar-faced, stripped of her rights and rank as a Trader’s daughter, and in the company of an insufferable prig of a boy. She certainly couldn’t depend on him to do anything to better their circumstances. All he did was lie on the bunk and whimper that this was no way to treat the Satrap of all Jamaillia. Clearly, he had not yet grasped that they were the prisoners of the Chalcedeans.

She looked at Cosgo and tried to see him impartially. He had grown pale and bony. Now that she thought of it, he had not even complained much the last day or so. He no longer tried to groom himself. When they had first come aboard, he had tried to keep up his appearance. With no combs or brushes, he had directed Malta to groom his unbound hair with her fingers. She had done so, but had scarcely managed to conceal her distaste. He had enjoyed her touch too obviously, leaning his body back against her as she sat on the edge of his bed. In grotesque flirtation, he had mocked her, foretelling that someday she would brag to others of how she had attended the Satrap in his hardship. But he would tell all how miserably she had failed as both a dutiful subject and a woman. Unless . . . And then he had seized her wrist and tried to guide it where she would not let it go. She had jerked free of him and retreated.

But all of that had been before the seasickness mastered him. Since he had become sick, he had grown quieter every day. A sudden worry shook her. If he died, what would become of her? Dimly, she recalled something Kekki had said, back on the galley. . . . She knit her brow, and the words came back to her. “His status will protect us, if we protect it.” Abruptly she sat up straight and stared at him. She did not need to be a Bingtown Trader here; to survive on this ship, she must think like a woman of Chalced.

Malta went to the bunk and stood over the Satrap. His closed eyelids were dark; he clutched feebly at the blanket with thin hands. As much as she disliked him, she found she pitied him. What had she been thinking, to imagine that he could do anything for them? If anyone was to better their situation, it would have to be her. It was what the Satrap expected, that his Companions would care for his needs. More, she realized, it was what the Chalcedeans had expected. She had cowered in their room while she should have angrily demanded good treatment for her man. Chalcedeans would not respect a man whose own woman doubted his power. The Satrap had been right. She, not he, had condemned them to this miserable treatment. She only hoped it was not too late to salvage his status.

She dragged the blanket away from him despite his mumbled protest. As she had seen her mother do when Selden was sick, she set her hand to the Satrap’s brow, and then felt under his arms, but found no fever or swellings. Very gently, she tapped his cheek until his eyes cracked open. The whites were yellowish, and when he spoke, his breath was foul. “Leave me alone,” he moaned, groping for the blankets.

“If I do, I fear you will die, illustrious one.” She tried for the tone that Kekki had always used with him. “It grieves me beyond words to see you misused this way. I shall risk myself and go to the captain myself to protest this.” The thought of venturing out alone terrified her, yet she knew it was their only chance. She rehearsed the words that she hoped she’d be brave enough to say to the man’s face. “He is a fool, to treat the Satrap of all Jamaillia so shamefully. He deserves to die, and his honor and name with him.”

The Satrap’s eyes opened wider and he stared at her in dull surprise. He blinked and sparks of righteous anger began to burn in his eyes. Good. If she played her role well enough, he would have to live up to it with disdain of his own. She took a breath.

“Even on this tub of a ship, they should be able to provide better for you! Does the captain reside in a bare room, with no comfort or beauty? I doubt it. Does he eat coarse food; does he smoke stable straw? Whatever balm for the soul he enjoys should have been offered you when you boarded. Day after cruel day, you have waited with patience for them to treat you as you deserve. If the wrath of all Jamaillia falls upon them now, they have only themselves to blame. You have practiced the very patience of Sa himself. Now I shall demand that they right this disgrace.” She crossed her arms on her chest. “What is the Chalcedean word for ‘captain’?”

Consternation touched his face. He took a breath. “Leu-fay.”

“Leu-fay,” she repeated. She paused and looked more closely at the Satrap. Tears of either self-pity or amazement had welled to his eyes. She covered him, snuggling the blankets around him as if he were Selden. A strange resolve had wakened in her. “Rest now, lordly one. I shall prepare myself, and then I shall see that you are treated as the Satrap of Jamaillia deserves, or die trying.” That last, she feared, was true.

When his eyes sagged shut again, she stood and went to work. The robe she wore was the same one she had worn since the night she had left Trehaug. She had managed to rinse it out once on board the galley. The hem hung in tatters, and it was stained with hard use. She took it off, and with fingers and teeth she tore the dangling pieces away. She shook it well, and rubbed the worst of the dirt from it before putting it back on. It left her legs bared from the knees down, but that could not be helped. She used the scraps from her robe to fashion a long braid of material. She combed her hair as best she could with her fingers, and then fashioned the braided fabric into a head wrap for herself. Covering her hair, she hoped, would make her appear older, as well as concealing most of her scar. There was some water in the pitcher. She used a scrap of material as a washcloth to cleanse her face and hands, and then her feet and legs.

With a bitter smile, she recalled how carefully she had prepared herself for her Presentation Ball, and how she had fretted over her madeover gown and slippers. “Attitude and bearing,” Rache had counseled her then. “Believe you are beautiful, and so will everyone else.” She had not been able to believe the slave woman. Now her words were Malta’s only hope.

When she had done her best, she composed herself. Stand straight, head up. Imagine little brocade slippers on her feet, rings on her fingers, a crown of blossoms on her head. She fixed her eyes angrily on the door and addressed it firmly. “Leu-fay!” she demanded of it. She took a deep breath, then another. On the third she walked to the door, lifted the latch and went out.

She ventured down a long walkway lit only by a swaying lantern at the other end. The shadows shifted with the light, making it difficult to keep her regal bearing. She walked between stowed cargo. The variety of it aroused her suspicions. Honest merchant ships did not carry such a wide spectrum of goods, nor would they stow them so haphazardly. Pirates or raiders, she told herself, though perhaps they thought otherwise of themselves. Was the Satrap no more to them than plunder to be sold to the highest bidder? The thought nearly sent her back to the room. Then she told herself that she would still demand that he be treated well. Surely, such a trade good would command a better price if it were in the best possible condition.

She went up a short ladder, and found herself in a room full of men. It stank of sweat and smoke. Hammocks swung nearby, some with snoring occupants. One man mended canvas trousers in the corner. Three others were seated around a crate, with a game of pegs scattered across the top of it. As she entered, they all turned to stare. One, a blond man of about her age, dared to grin. His grimy striped shirt was opened halfway down his chest. She lifted her chin, and reminded herself once more of her glittering rings and blossom crown. She neither smiled nor looked away from him. Instead, she reached for her mother’s disapproving stare when she encountered idle servants. “Leu-fay.”

“Leufay?” a grizzled old man at the game table asked incredulously. His eyebrows leapt toward his balding pate in astonishment. The other man at the table chuckled.

Malta did not allow her face to change expression. Only her eyes became colder. “Leu-fay!” she insisted.

With a shrug and a sigh, the blond man stood. As he advanced toward her, she forced herself to stand her ground. She had to look up at him to meet his eyes. It was hard to keep her bearing. When he reached for her arm, she slapped his hand away contemptuously. Eyes blazing, she touched two fingers to her breast. “Satrap’s,” she told him coldly. “Leu-fay. Right now!” she snapped, not caring if they understood her words or not. The blond man glanced back at his companions and shrugged, but he did not try to touch her again. Instead, he pointed past her. A flip of her hand indicated that he should lead the way. She did not think she could stand to have anyone behind her.

He led her swiftly through the ship. A ladder took them up through a hatch onto a wind-washed deck. Her senses were dazzled by the fresh cold air and the smell of salt water and the sun sinking to its rest behind a bank of rosy clouds. Her heart leapt. South. The ship was taking them south, toward Jamaillia, not north to Chalced. Was there any chance a Bingtown ship might see them and try to stop them? She slowed her steps, hoping to catch sight of land, but the sea merged with clouds at the horizon. She could not even guess where they were. She lengthened her stride to catch up with her guide.

He took her to a tall, brawny man who was directing several crewmembers splicing lines. The sailor bobbed his head to the man, indicated Malta, and rattled off something, in which Malta caught the word “leu-fay.” The man ran his eyes up and down her in a familiar way, but she returned his look with a haughty stare. “What you want?” he asked her.

It took every grain of her courage. “I will speak to your captain.” She guessed that the sailor had taken her to the mate.

“Tell me what you want.” His accent was heavy, but the words were clear.

Malta folded her hands on her chest. “I will speak to your captain.” She spoke slowly and distinctly as if he might be merely stupid.

“Tell me,” he insisted.

It was her turn to look him up and down. “Certainly not!” she snapped. She tossed her head, turned with a motion that she and Delo had practiced since they were nine years old (it would have flounced the skirts on a proper gown), then walked away from them all, keeping her head high and trying to breathe past her hammering heart. She was trying to remember which hatch they had come up when he called out, “Wait!”

She halted. Slowly she turned her head to look back at him over her shoulder. She raised one brow questioningly.

“Come back. I take you Captain Deiari.” He made small hand motions to be sure she understood.

She let him flap his hand at her several times before returning, at a dignified pace.

The captain’s quarters in the stern were resplendent compared to the chamber she shared with the Satrap. There was a large bay window, a thick rug on the floor and several comfortable chairs, and the chamber smelled sweetly of tobacco smoke and other herbs. In one corner, the captain’s bed boasted a fat feather mattress as well as thick coverlets and even a throw of thick white fur. Books leaned against one another on a shelf, and several glass decanters held liquors of various colors.

The captain himself was seated in one of the comfortable chairs, his legs stretched out before him and a book in his hands. He wore a shirt of soft gray wool over heavy trousers. Thick socks shielded his feet from the cold; his sturdy wet boots were by the door. Malta longed for such warm, dry, clean clothing. He looked up in annoyance as they entered. At the sight of her, he barked a rough question at the mate. Before the man could reply, Malta cut in smoothly.

“Deiari Leu-fay. At the merciful Satrap Cosgo’s pleasure, I have come to offer you the chance to correct your mistakes before they become irredeemable.” She met his eyes, her gaze cold, and waited.

He let her wait. A chilling certainty grew in her; she had miscalculated. He was going to have her killed and thrown overboard. She let only the coldness show on her face. Jewels on her fingers, a crown of blossoms, no, of thick gold on her brow. It was heavy; she lifted her chin to bear the weight and watched the man’s pale eyes.

“The merciful Satrap Cosgo,” the man finally said colorlessly. His words were clear, unaccented.

Malta gave a tiny nod of acknowledgment. “He is a more patient man than many. When first we came aboard, he excused your lack of courtesy toward him. Surely, he told me, the captain is busy with all the men he has taken aboard. He has reports to hear, and decisions to consider. The Satrap knows what it is to command, you see. He said to me, ‘Contain your impatience at this insult to me. When he has had time to prepare a proper reception, then the leufay will send an envoy to this poor cabin, little better than a kennel, that he has provided for me.’ Then, as day after day passed, he found excuse after excuse for you. Perhaps you have been ill; perhaps you did not wish to disturb him while he was recovering his own strength. Perhaps you were ignorant as to the full honor that should be accorded him.

“As a man, he makes little of personal discomfort. What is a bare floor or poor food compared to the hardships he endured in the Rain Wilds? Yet as his loyal servant, I am offended for him. Charitably, he supposes that what you have offered him is your best.” She paused, and looked about the chamber slowly. “Such a tale this will make in Jamaillia,” she observed quietly, as if to herself.

The captain came to his feet. He rubbed the side of his nose nervously, then made a dismissive wave to the mate who still stood at the door. The man whisked himself out of sight immediately, and the door shut solidly behind him. Malta could smell the tang of sudden sweat, but the captain appeared outwardly calm.

“It was such a wild tale, I scarcely gave it credit. This man is truly the Satrap of all Jamaillia?”

She gambled. All pleasantness faded from her face as she lowered her voice to an accusation. “You know that he is. To profess ignorance of his rank is a poor excuse, sir.”

“And I suppose you are a lady of his court, then?”

She met his sarcasm squarely. “Of course not. My accent is Bingtown, as I am sure you know. I am the humblest of his servants, honored to serve him in his hour of need. I am acutely aware of my unworthiness.” She gambled again. “The demise of his Companion Kekki on board a Chalcedean galley has grieved him greatly. Not that he blames the captain of the galley. But surely if first his Companion, and then the Satrap himself dies in Chalcedean hands, it will speak poorly of your hospitality.” Very softly, she added, “It may even be seen as political intent, in some circles.”

“If any were to hear of it,” the captain pointed out heavily. Malta wondered if she had overplayed her game. But his next question re-armed her. “What, exactly, were you doing up that river anyway?”

She smiled enigmatically. “The secrets of the Rain Wilds are not for me to divulge. If you wish to know more perhaps the Satrap might choose to enlighten you.” Cosgo did not know enough about the Rain Wilds to betray anything of significance. She breathed out. “Or not. Why should he share such secrets with one who has treated him so shamefully? For one who is nominally his ally, you have shown yourself a poor host. Or are we your captives in fact as well as in circumstance? Do you hold us with no thought but to ransom us, as if you were a common pirate?”

The directness of her question jolted the man. “I . . . of course not, not captives.” His chin came up. “If he were a captive, would I be bearing him with all haste to Jamaillia?”

“Where he will be sold to the highest bidder?” Malta asked dryly. The captain took a sudden angry breath, but she went on before he could speak. “There must, of course, be that temptation. Only a fool would not see that possibility, in the midst of the current unrest. Yet, a wise man would know of the legendary generosity of the Satrap to his friends. Whereas the largesse of a man who pays you blood money brings his disdain and shame with it.” She cocked her head slightly. “Will you be instrumental in cementing the friendship of Chalced and Jamaillia? Or will you forever tarnish the reputation of Chalcedeans, as turncoats who sell their allies?”

A long silence followed her words. “You speak like a Bingtown Trader. Yet the Traders have never been fond of Chalced. What is your interest in this?”

My life, you idiot. Malta feigned scandalized surprise. “You wish to know the interest of a woman, sir? Then I tell you: my father is of Chalced, sir. But my interest, of course, does not factor into this. The only interest I consider is the Satrap’s.” She bowed her head reverently.

Those last words lay like ashes on her tongue. In the silence that followed them, she watched the careful working of the man’s mind. He had nothing to lose by treating the Satrap well. A healthy, living hostage would undoubtedly bring more than one on the point of death. And the gratitude of the Satrap might be worth more than what could be wrung out of his nobles for his return.

“You may go,” the man dismissed her abruptly.

“As you wish, I am sure,” Malta murmured, her submission tinged with sarcasm. It would not do for the Satrap’s woman to be too humble. Kekki had shown her that. She inclined her head gravely, but then turned her back on him rather than reversing from the room. Let him make what he would of that.

When she stepped out into the chill evening wind, a wave of vertigo spun her, yet she forced herself to remain upright. She was exhausted. She once more lifted her head beneath the weight of her imaginary crown. She did not hasten. She found the right hatch, and descended into the noisome depths of the ship. As she passed through the crew quarters, she pretended not to notice any of the men; for their part, they ceased all conversation and stared after her.

She regained the cabin, shut the door behind her, crossed to the bed and sank shakily to her knees before it. It was as well that this collapse fit with the role she must continue to play. “Exalted one, I have returned,” she said quietly. “Are you well?”

“Well? I am half-starved and nattered at by a woman,” the Satrap retorted.

“Ah. I see. Well, lordly one, I have hopes that I have bettered our situation.”

“You? I doubt it.”

Malta bowed her forehead to her knees and sat trembling for a time. Just as she decided she had failed, there was a knock at the door. That would be the ship’s boy with their dinner. She forced herself to stand and open the door rather than simply bid him enter.

Three brawny sailors stood behind the mate. The mate bowed stiffly. “You come to leu-fay’s table tonight. You, for you, wash, dress.” This message seemed to strain his vocabulary, but a gesture indicated the men bearing buckets of steaming water and armloads of clothing. Some, she noted, was woman’s garb. She had convinced him of her own status as well. She fought to keep delight and triumph from her face.

“If it pleases the Satrap,” she replied coolly, and with a gesture bade them bring it all inside.

 

WHAT WILL YOU DO? WINTROW DARED TO ASK THE SHIP. THE chill night wind blew past them. He stood on the foredeck, arms wrapped around himself against the cold. They were making good time back to Divvytown. If Wintrow could have done so, he would have stilled the wind, slowed the ship, anything to gain time to think.

The sea was not dark. The tips of the waves caught the moonlight and carried it with them. Starlight snagged and rippled on the backs of the serpents that hummocked through the water beside them. Their eyes shone in lambent colors, copper, silver and warm gold, eerie pink and blue, like night-blooming sea flowers. Wintrow felt they were always watching him whenever he came to the foredeck. Perhaps they were. Coinciding with the thought, a head lifted from the water. He could not be sure in the gloom, but he thought that it was the green-gold serpent from the Others’ beach. For the space of three breaths, she held her place beside the ship, watching him. Two-legs, I know you, whispered through his mind, but he could not decide if she spoke to him or if he only recalled her voice from the beach.

“What will I do?” the ship taunted him lazily.

She could smash him at will. Wintrow pushed the useless fear aside. “You know what I mean. Althea and Brashen are seeking us. They may be lying in wait for us near Divvytown, or they may simply confront us in the harbor. What will you do, you and your serpents?”

“Ah. About that. Well.” The figurehead leaned back toward him. Her dark locks writhed like a nest of snakes. She put a hand to one side of her mouth, as if to share a secret with him. But her whisper was loud, a stage whisper intended for Kennit as he came step-tapping onto the deck. “I will do whatever I please about that.” She smiled past him at the pirate. “Good evening, my dear.”

“Good evening, and good wind, lovely one,” Kennit responded. He leaned over the railing and touched the large hand the ship held up to him in greeting. Then he smiled at Wintrow, his teeth white as a serpent’s in the moonlight. “Good evening, Wintrow. I trust you are well. When you left my cabin earlier, you looked a bit peaked.”

“I am not well,” Wintrow replied flatly. He looked at Kennit, and his heart came up in his throat. “I am torn, and I cannot sleep for the fears that roil through me.” He turned his gaze back to the ship. “Please, do not be so flippant with me. We are speaking of our family. Althea is my aunt, and your longtime companion. Think, ship! She set the peg in you, and welcomed you as you awoke. Don’t you remember that?”

“I well remember that she left me not long after that. And allowed Kyle to turn me into a slaver.” Bolt arched one eyebrow at him. “If those were your final memories of her, what reaction would you have to her name?”

Wintrow clenched his fists at his sides. He would not be distracted from his question. “But what are we to do? She is still our family!”

“Our? What is this ‘our’? Are you confusing me with Vivacia again? Dear boy, between us there is no ‘we,’ no ‘our.’ There is you and there is me. When I say ‘we’ or ‘our,’ I am not referring to you.” She ran her eyes over Kennit caressingly.

Wintrow was stubborn. “I refuse to believe there is nothing of Vivacia in you. Otherwise how could you be so bitter at the memories you do recall?”

“Oh, dear,” the ship muttered, and sighed. “Are we back to that again?”

“I’m afraid we are,” Kennit answered her consolingly. “Come, Wintrow, don’t glare like that. Be honest with me, lad. What do you expect us to do? Surrender Bolt back to Althea to prevent your feelings from being hurt? Where is your loyalty to me in that?”

Wintrow came slowly to stand beside Kennit at the railing. Eventually, he spoke. “My loyalty is yours, Kennit. You know that. I think you knew it even before I admitted it to myself. If you did not have my loyalty, I would not be in such pain now.”

The pirate seemed genuinely moved by this confession. He set his hand on Wintrow’s shoulder. For a time, they shared silence. “You, my dear boy, are so very young. You must speak aloud what you want.” Kennit’s voice was no more than a whisper.

Wintrow turned to him in surprise. Kennit gazed ahead through the night as if he had not spoken. Wintrow took a breath and forced his thoughts into order. “What I would ask of you both is that Althea not be harmed. She is my mother’s sister, blood of my blood, and true family to the ship. Bolt may deny it, but I cannot believe that she could see Althea die and not be harmed by it.” In a lower voice he added, “I know I could not.”

“Blood of your blood, and true family to the ship,” Kennit repeated to himself. He squeezed Wintrow’s shoulder. “For myself, I promise not to harm a hair of her head. Ship?”

The figurehead shrugged her great shoulders. “Whatever Kennit says. I feel nothing, you see. I have no desire to kill her, or to let her live.”

Wintrow heaved a sigh of relief. He did not believe that Bolt felt nothing. There was too much tension thrumming through him: not all of it could be his own. “And her crew?” he ventured.

Kennit laughed, and gave his shoulder a friendly shake. “Come, Wintrow, we can scarcely guarantee how they will fare. If a man chooses to fight to the death, how am I to stop him? But as you have seen, of late we shed blood only when forced to it. Consider all the ships we have set free to continue on their way. Slavers, of course, are another matter. When it comes to slavers, I must keep faith with all the people in my kingdom. To the bottom they must go. You cannot save everyone, Wintrow. Some folk have made up their minds to be killed by me long before I encounter them. When we encounter Captain Trell and Paragon, then we will act as befits the situation. Surely you can ask no more of us than that.”

“I suppose not.” It was the best he could do tonight. He wondered, if he had been alone with the ship, could he have forced her to admit she still had a bond with Althea? Althea, he thought fiercely at the ship. I know you remember her. She woke you from your long sleep; she greeted your return to life. She loved you. Can you turn your back on that kind of love?

A shudder of agitation ran through the ship, and beside her, a loud splashing announced the return of the green-gold serpent. The figurehead, eyes narrowed and nostrils flared, turned to glare at Wintrow. He braced himself, expecting her to fling pain at him. Instead, Kennit gave him a shake. “Enough of that!” he told Wintrow sternly. “Do you think I cannot feel what you are doing to her? She has said she feels nothing. Accept it.” Then he gave Wintrow’s shoulder a sympathetic push. “Feelings end, lad. Bolt is not who she was to you. Why don’t you go find Etta? She always seems to cheer you.”

 

AS KENNIT WATCHED WINTROW CROSS THE MAIN DECK, THE charm spoke. It did not whisper, or try to conceal itself from the ship at all. “Feelings end,” it mocked. “Bolt is not who she was. Oh, yes. Convince yourself of that, dear heart, and you’ll be able to deal with Paragon again.” It suddenly dropped its voice to a confiding undertone. “You always knew you’d have to deal with him again, didn’t you? When first the rumor reached you of a blinded liveship returned to Bingtown, you knew that eventually your paths must cross again.”

“Shut up!” Fear tinged Kennit’s flash of fury. The hair on the back of his neck prickled against his collar.

“I know Paragon,” the ship said suddenly. “That is, I have Althea’s memories of him. And her father’s. Ephron Vestrit did not like that ship. He didn’t want his daughter to play near him. Paragon is mad, you know. Quite mad.”

“Oh, quite mad,” the charm agreed affably. “But then, who wouldn’t be, given all the memories that are soaked into his planks? It’s a wonder he can speak at all. Don’t you agree, Kennit? Wasn’t it enough to strike a boy dumb? No need to cut his tongue out, when he hardly spoke a word for three years. Oh, Igrot believed his secrets were quite safe. All his secrets. But secrets do have a way of leaking out.”

“Be silent!” Kennit raged in a hoarse whisper.

“Silent,” the carved wizardwood on his wrist breathed. “Silent as a blinded ship, floating hull-up in the sea. Silent as a scream underwater.”