CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

                                        
FLIGHTS

REYN HAD NOT BELIEVED HE COULD FALL ASLEEP IN THE dragon’s clutches, but he had. He twitched awake, then gave a half-yell at the sight of his feet dangling over nothing. He felt a chuckle from the dragon in response, but she said nothing.

They were getting to know one another well. He could feel her weariness in the rhythm of her wing beats. She needed to rest soon. But for his presence, she had told him, she could have plunged down into shallows near an island, allowing the water to absorb her impact. Because he occupied her forepaws, she sought a beach that was open enough to permit a ponderously flapping landing. In the Pirate Isles, that was not easy to find. The little islands below them were steep-sided and pointed, like mountaintops poking up out of the sea. A few had gentle, sandy beaches. Each rest period, she would select a site and descend in sickening circles. Then, as she got closer to the ground, she would beat her great leathery wings so fiercely that their motion snatched the breath from Reyn’s lungs while filling the air with dust and sand. Once down, she would casually dump him on the sand and bid him get out of her way. Whether he did or not, she leapt into flight again. The turbulence of her passage was enough to fling him to the ground. She would be gone for a few hours or half a day, to hunt, feed, sleep and sometimes feed again.

Reyn used these solitary hours to kindle a fire, eat from his dwindling supplies, and then roll himself up in his cloak to sleep; if he could not sleep, he tormented himself with thoughts of Malta, or with wondering what would become of him if the dragon failed to return.

In the fading light of the winter afternoon, Reyn sighted a beach of black sand amid out-thrusts of black rock. Tintaglia banked her wings and swung toward it. As they circled, several of the black boulders littering the beach stirred. Napping marine mammals lifted their ponderous heads. The sight of the dragon sent them galloping heavily into the waves. Tintaglia cursed, finishing with, “But for carrying you, I’d have a fine, fat meal in my talons right now. It’s rare to find sea bullocks so far north this time of year. I won’t have another chance like that again!”

The layer of black sand over the black bedrock proved to be shallower than it looked. Tintaglia landed, but without dignity, as her great talons scrabbled on the beach like a dog’s claws on a flagged floor. Lashing her tail wildly to keep her balance, she nearly fell on top of him before she managed to stop.

Once she dropped him on the beach, he scuttled hastily away from her, but she did not take off immediately. She was still muttering disconsolately to herself about fine, fat sea bullocks. “Lean, dark red meat and layers of blubber and, oh, the richness of the liver, nothing compares to it, soft and hot in the mouth,” she mourned.

He glanced back at the thickly forested island. “I’ve no doubt you’ll find other game here,” he assured her.

But she was not consoled. “Oh, certainly I will. Lean bony rabbits by the score, or a doe going to ribs already. That is not what I crave, Reyn. Such meat will keep me, but my body clamors to grow. If I had emerged in spring, as I should have, I would have had the whole summer to hunt. I would have grown strong, then fat, and then strong again, and fatter still, until by the time winter threatened, I would have had the reserves to subsist easily on such lean and bony creatures. But I did not.” She shook out her wings and surveyed herself dolefully. “I am hungry all the time, Reyn. And when I briefly sate that hunger, my body demands sleep, so it can build itself up. But I know I cannot sleep, nor hunt and eat as much as I should. Because I must keep my promise to you, if I am to save the last of my kind.”

He stood without words, seeing an entirely different creature than he had but a few minutes before. She was young and growing, despite having lived a hundred lifetimes. How would it feel, to step forth into life after endless waiting, only to be seized by the necessity for selflessness? He suddenly felt pity for her.

She must have sensed his emotion, but her eyes spun coldly. She tucked her wings back to her body. “Get out of my way,” she warned him, but did not give him enough time to move. The wind of her wings sent a stinging cloud of sand against his abused flesh.

When he dared to open his eyes again, she was a flash of blue, iridescent as a hummingbird, still rising into the sky. For an instant, his heart sang with the pure beauty of such a creature. What right had he to delay her in her quest to perpetuate her species? Then he thought of Malta and his resolution firmed. Once she was safe, he would be willing to devote all his efforts to aiding Tintaglia.

He chose a sheltered place in the lee of some boulders. The winter day was clear, and the thin sunlight almost warm. He ate sparingly of his dried food and drank water from his bag. He tried to sleep, but the bruises from her claws ached and the sun was too bright against his eyelids. He watched the sky for her return, but saw only wheeling gulls. Resigned to a substantial wait, he ventured into the forest to look for fresh water.

It was odd to walk beneath trees on solid ground. The lush Rain Wild growth towering over swamp was the only forest he had ever known. Here the branches of trees swooped lower, and the undergrowth was thicker. Dead leaves were thick underfoot. He heard birds, but he saw few signs of small game, and none at all of deer or pig. Perhaps this island boasted no large animals. If so, Tintaglia might return as empty as she had left. The terrain became steeper and he soon doubted he would find a stream. Reluctantly, he turned back toward the beach.

As he drew close to where the darkness of the forest was shot through with the light from the open beach beyond, he heard an odd sound. Deep and reverberating, it reminded him of a large skin drum struck with a soft object. He slowed his pace and peered from the brush before venturing out into the open.

The sea bullocks had returned. Half a dozen of them basked on the sand. One lifted his muzzle; his thick throat worked like a bellows to produce the sound. Reyn stared, fascinated. He had never seen such immense creatures at close range. The creature lowered his massive head and snuffed loudly at the sand, apparently puzzled by the unfamiliar scent of dragon. He bared thick yellow tusks in distaste, shook his head, then sprawled down in the sand once more. The other dozing creatures ignored him. One turned over on its back and waved its flippers lazily before its face. It turned its head toward Reyn, and widened its nostrils. He thought it would immediately roll to its feet and wallow toward the sea, but it closed its eyes and went back to sleep.

A plan unfolded in Reyn’s head. Silently, he retreated from the beach. Sticks were plentiful under the trees; he selected one that was straight, stout and long, then lashed his knife firmly to the end of it. He had never hunted before, let alone killed for meat, but he was not daunted. How hard could it be to creep up on one of the fat, docile creatures and make an end of it? A single spear thrust through the neck would provide fresh meat for both of them. When his makeshift spear was to his satisfaction, he sharpened another stake to back it up, then circled through the woods to the far end of the beach. When he emerged from the trees onto the sand, he bent low and raced up the beach to put himself between the creatures and their retreat to the water.

He had expected some alarm at the sight of him. One or two turned their heads to regard him, but the bulk of the herd went on dozing and sunbathing. Even the nervous fellow who had earlier bellowed at the dragon’s scent ignored him. Emboldened, he chose a target on the outskirts of the scattered herd: a fine, fat one, scarred by a long life. It would not be tender, but there would be lots of it, and he surmised that would be more important to Tintaglia.

His crouching stalk was a foolish waste of time. The sea bullock did not so much as open an eye until Reyn was within a spear’s length of it. Feeling almost ashamed for killing such dull prey, Reyn drew back his arm. The creature’s wrinkled hide looked thick. He wanted to give it a swift death. He took a deep breath and put all his weight behind his thrust as he stabbed.

A moment before the point touched flesh, the sea bullock rolled to its feet with a roar. Reyn knew instantly that he had misjudged the creatures’ temperaments. The spear that he had aimed at the animal’s neck plunged deeply in behind its shoulder. Blood sprayed from the sea bullock’s nostrils. He’d pierced his prey’s lung. He clung doggedly to his spear and tried to thrust it deeper as the entire herd stirred to sudden activity.

With a roar, the animal spun to confront him. Reyn was carried along on his spear, his feet dragging in the sand. He barely managed to keep a grip on his sharpened stake. It now looked as effective as a handful of daisies, but it was the only weapon he had. For a stride, he managed to get his feet under him. He used his thrust to push the spear deeper. The animal bellowed again, blood starting from its mouth now as well as flying from its nostrils. He would win. Through the shaft of the spear, he could feel its strength waning.

Then another sea bullock seized a great mouthful of his cloak and jerked him off his feet. He lost his grip on the spear, and as he went down, the wounded animal turned on him. Its big dull tusks suddenly looked sharp and powerful as it lunged at Reyn, jaws wide. He rolled clear of the attack, but that motion wrapped his cloak around him. He fought his sharpened stick clear of the entrapping fabric, and then jerked his foot away from the snapping jaws. He tried to stand up, but the other animal still gripped a corner of his cloak. It threw its head from side to side, jerking Reyn to his knees. Other sea bullocks were closing in swiftly. Reyn tried to tear free of his cloak and flee, but the knots defied him. Somehow, he had lost his sharpened stake. Another animal butted him, slamming him into the bullock that still gripped his cloak. He had a brief glimpse of his prey sprawling dead on the sand. Much good that did him now.

Tintaglia’s shrill ki-i-i split the winter sky. Without releasing his cloak, the animal that held it twisted its head to stare up at the sky. An instant later, the entire herd was in a humping gallop toward the water. Reyn was dragged along, his cloak snagged on the sea bullock’s tusks.

When the dragon hit the bullock, Reyn thought his neck would snap. They skidded through the sand together, the sea bullock squealing with amazing shrillness as Tintaglia’s jaws closed on its neck. With a single bite, she half-severed its head from its thick shoulders. The head, Reyn’s cloak still clutched in its jaws, sagged to one side of the twitching body under Tintaglia’s hind feet. Dazed, he crawled toward it and unsnagged his cloak from its tusks.

“Mine!” roared Tintaglia, darting her head at him menacingly. “My kill! My food! Get away from it.”

As he stumbled hastily away, she lowered her jaws over the animal’s belly. A single bite and she lifted her head, to snap up and gulp down the dangling entrails. A waft of gut stench drifted over Reyn. She swallowed. “My meat!” she warned him again, and lowered her head for another bite.

“There’s another one over there. You can eat him, too,” Reyn told her. He waved a hand at the sea bullock with the spear in it. He collapsed onto the sand, and finally succeeded in undoing the ties of his cloak. Snatching it off, he threw it down in disgust. Whatever had made him think he could hunt? He was a digger, a thinker, an explorer. Not a hunter.

Tintaglia had frozen, a dripping mouthful of entrails dangling from her jaws. She stared at him, the silver of her eyes glistening. Then she threw her head back, snapped down her mouthful and demanded, “I can eat your kill? That is what you said?”

“I killed it for you. You don’t think I could eat an animal that size, do you?”

She turned her head as if he were something she had never seen before. “Frankly, I was amazed that you could kill one. I thought you must have been very hungry to try.”

“No. It’s for you. You said you were hungry. Though maybe I could take some of the meat with me for tomorrow.” Perhaps by then the sight of her feeding and the smell of blood would not seem so disgusting.

She turned her head sideways to shear off most of the sea bullock’s neck hump. She chewed twice, and swallowed. “You meant it for me? When you killed it?”

“Yes.”

“And what do you want from me in return?” she asked guardedly.

“Nothing more than what we’ve already agreed upon: help me find Malta. I saw that you wouldn’t find much game here. We travel better if you are well fed. That is all I was thinking.”

“Indeed.”

He could not read her odd inflection. He limped over to the animal he had killed and managed, on his third effort, to pull out the spear. He recovered his knife, cleaned it off and put it back in its sheath.

Tintaglia ate her kill down to a collapse of bones before she began on his. Reyn watched in a sort of awe. He had not dreamed her belly could hold that much. Halfway through his kill, she slowed her famished devouring. Jaws and claws, she seized what remained of the carcass and dragged it up the beach out of reach of the incoming tide and adjacent to his fire. Without a word, she curled herself protectively around the carcass and fell into a deep sleep.

Reyn awoke shivering in full dark. The chill and damp of the night had penetrated his misused cloak and his fire had died to coals. He replenished it and found himself suddenly hungry. He tiptoed past the curl of Tintaglia’s tail and hunched over the chewed carcass in the darkness. While he was still trying to find some meat that was unmarred by the dragon’s teeth and saliva, she opened one huge eye. She regarded him without surprise. “I left you both front flippers,” she told him, and then closed her eyes again.

He suspected she had portioned him the least appetizing part of the animal, but he cut off both platter-sized limbs. The fat, pink, hairless flippers with their dulled black claws did little to tempt his appetite, but he speared one on a stick and propped the meat over his fire. In a short time, the savory smell of fat meat cooking filled the night. By the time it was cooked, his stomach was rumbling his hunger. The fat was crisp and dripping, and the meat of the reduced digits was as flavorful as anything he’d ever eaten. He put the other flipper on to cook before he’d finished eating the first one.

Tintaglia woke, snuffing, just as he took the second fin from the fire. “Do you want some?” he asked reluctantly.

“Scarcely!” she replied with some humor. As he ate the second flipper, she finished off the rest of the animal. She ate in a more leisurely manner now and her enjoyment was obvious. Reyn nibbled the last meat from the bones and tossed them into the embers of the fire. He washed the grease from his hands in the icy lap of the waves. When he returned, he built up the fire against the deepening chill of the night. Tintaglia sighed contentedly and stretched out, her belly toward the fire. Reyn, seated between the dragon and the fire, found himself cradled in stupefying warmth. He lay on top of his cloak and closed his eyes.

“You are different from what I expected humans to be,” Tintaglia observed.

“You are not what I thought a dragon would be,” he replied. He heaved a sigh of satiation. “We’ll fly at first light?”

“Of course. Though if I had my choice, I’d stay here and pick off a few more of those sea bullocks.”

“You can’t still be hungry.”

“Not now. But one should always have a care for the morrow.”

For a time, silence hovered between them. Then Reyn had to ask, “Will you grow even larger than you are now?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“I just thought . . . well, you seem very large now. How big do dragons get?”

“While we live, we grow. So it depends on how long one lives.”

“How long do you expect to live?”

She gave a snort of amusement. “As long as I can. How long do you expect to live?”

“Well . . . eighty years would be a good, long life. But few Rain Wilders last that long.” He tried to confront his own mortality. “My father died when he was forty-three. If I am fortunate, I hope to have another score of years. Enough to have children and see them past their childhood.”

“A mere sneeze of time.” Tintaglia stretched negligently. “I suspect that your years will stretch far longer than that, now that you have journeyed with a dragon.”

“Do you mean it will just seem that way?” Reyn asked, attempting levity at her confusing words.

“No. Not at all. Do you know nothing? Do you think a few scales or bronze eyes are all a dragon can share with her companion? As you take on more of my characteristics, your years will stretch out as well. I would not be surprised to see you pass the century mark, and still keep the use of your limbs. At least, so it was with the Elderlings. Some of them reached three and four centuries. But of course, those ones had generations of dragon-touch to draw on. You may not live so long, but your children likely will.”

Reyn sat up, suddenly wide-awake. “Are you teasing me?”

“Of course not. Why would I?”

“Nothing. I just . . . I am not sure I wish to live that long.” He was silent for a time. He imagined watching his mother and older brother die. That was tolerable; one expected to see one’s parents die. But what if he had to watch Malta grow old and die? What if they had children and he had to see them, too, become feeble and fade while he himself remained able and alert? An extended lifetime seemed a dubious reward for the doubtful honor of being a dragon’s companion. He spoke his next thought aloud. “I’d give all the years I hope to see for a single one assured with Malta.”

The speaking of her name was like a magical summoning. He saw her in his mind’s eye, the luster of her black hair, and how her eyes had shone as she looked up at him. His traitor memory took him back to the harvest ball, and holding her in his arms as they swept around the dance floor. Her Presentation Ball and he had given her but one dance before he had rushed off to save the world. Instead of which he had lost everything, including Malta.

His hand remembered the smallness of her fingers in his. Her head came only to his chin. He pushed away savagely the thought of Malta on a Chalcedean galley. The ways of Chalcedean men and unprotected women were well known. Terrible fear and seething anger rocketed through him. In their wake, he felt weak and negligent. It was all his fault, that she had been so endangered. She could not forgive him. He would not even dare ask it. Even if he rescued her and took her safely home, he doubted that she would ever endure his presence again. Despair roiled in him.

“Such a storm of emotions as humans can evoke, all on the basis of imagination,” the dragon observed condescendingly. In a more reflective voice she asked, “Do you do this because you live such short lives? Tell yourselves wild tales of what might happen tomorrow, and feel all the feelings of events that will never happen? Perhaps to make up for the pasts you cannot recall, you invent futures that will not exist.”

“Perhaps,” Reyn agreed grudgingly. Her amusement stung him. “I suppose dragons never need imagine futures, being so rich with pasts to recall.”

She made an odd sound in her throat. He was not sure if she was amused or annoyed at his jab. “I do not need to imagine a future. I know the future that will be. Dragons will be restored to their rightful place as Lords of the Three Realms. We will once more rule the sky, the sea and the land.” She closed her eyes.

Reyn mulled over what she had said. “And where is this Land of the Dragons? Upriver from Trehaug, past the Rain Wilds?”

One eye opened halfway. This time he was sure he saw amusement in the silver glints. “Land of the Dragons? As if there were only one, a space defined by boundaries? Now there is a future only a human could imagine. We rule the sky. We rule the sea. And we rule the land. All land, everywhere.” The eye started to close again.

“But what about us? What about our cities, our farms, our fields and vineyards?”

The eye slid open again. “What about them? Humans will continue to squabble with other humans about who can harvest plants where, and what cow belongs to whom. That is the way of humanity. Dragons know better. What there is on the earth belongs to the one who eats it first. My kill is my food. Your kill is your food. It is all very simple.”

Earlier in the day, he had almost felt love for her. He had marveled at her blue sparkle as she glinted across the sky. She had come to his rescue when the sea bullocks would have killed him and freed her from her promise. Even now, he rested in the shelter she made with her body and the fire. But whenever they approached true companionship, she would say something so arrogant and alien that all he could feel for her was wariness. He closed his eyes but could not sleep for pondering what he had turned loose on the world. If she kept her word and rescued Malta, then he must keep his. He imagined serpents hatching into dragons, and other dragons emerging from the buried city. Was he selling humanity into slavery for the sake of one woman?

Try as he would, he could not make it seem too high a price.

 

MALTA TAPPED ON THE DOOR, THEN HURRIED IN WITHOUT waiting for a reply. She exclaimed in annoyance at the darkness. Two strides carried her across the room. She tugged open the window curtain. “You shouldn’t lie about in the dark and pity yourself,” she told Cosgo sternly.

He looked up at her from his pallet. His eyes were squinted nearly shut. “I’m dying,” he complained hoarsely. “And no one cares. He deliberately makes the ship pitch, I know he does. Just so he can mock me before the crew.”

“No, he does not. The Motley just moves like that. He showed me, last night at dinner. It has to do with her hull design. If you would come up on deck, breathe some cool air and look at the water, the motion would not bother you so much.”

“You only say that. I know what would help me. Smoke. It is a sure cure for seasickness.”

“It’s true. I was sick my first two days aboard. Captain Red told me to try that, and I was so desperate that I did. It works. He said it is something about seeing the ship move in relation to the water. When you sit in here and watch the walls, or huddle in the dark, your belly can’t make sense of what your head feels.”

“Perhaps my belly can’t make sense of what my head knows,” Cosgo retorted. “I am the Magnadon Satrap of all Jamaillia. Yet a ragtag gang of pirates holds me prisoner in appalling conditions. I hold the Pearl Throne: I am Beloved of Sa. I am descended of a thousand wise rulers dating back to the beginning of the world. Yet you speak to me as if I were a child, and do not even grant me the courtesy of formal address.” He turned his face to the wall. “Death is better. Let me die and then the world will rise up in wrath and punish all of you for what you have done.”

Every shred of sympathy that Malta had for him vanished beneath his wave of self-pity. Appalling conditions indeed. He meant that his room was small and that no one but herself would wait on him. It irked him most that she had been given her own chamber. The Motley was not a capacious ship, but these particular pirates assigned a high priority to comfort. She had intended to coax him to the captain’s table. She abandoned the idea but made a final effort. “You would do better to show a bit of spirit rather than sulking like a child and imagining some future revenge on behalf of your dead body. Right now, the name you carry is the only thing that makes you valuable to them. Stand up and show them there is a man behind that title. Then they may respect you.”

“The respect of pirates, murderers and thieves! Now there is a lofty goal for me.” He rolled to face her. His face was pale and thin. His eyes roved up and down her disgustedly. “And do they respect you for how quickly you have turned on me? Do they respect how swiftly you whored yourself to them for the sake of your life?”

The old Malta would have slapped his insolent staring face. But the new Malta could ignore insults, swallow affront and adapt to any situation. This Malta would survive. She shook out the bright skirts she wore, red layered upon yellow over blue. Her stockings were red and white stripes, very warm. Her shirt was white, but the vest that buttoned snugly over it was both yellow and red. She had pieced it together herself last night. The scraps of the garments she had cannibalized to make it now formed her new headwear.

“I will be late,” she told him coolly. “I will bring you something to eat later.”

“I shall have small appetite for your scraps and leavings,” he told her sourly. As she reached the door he added, “Your ‘hat’ doesn’t fit well. It doesn’t cover your scar.”

“It wasn’t intended to.” She did not look back at him.

“Bring me some smoking herbs instead!” he suddenly yelled. “I know that they have some on board. They must! You lie when you say that they have none. They are the only thing that can settle my belly, and you deliberately keep them from me. You witless whore! You stupid female!”

Outside, the door shut firmly behind her, she leaned against the wall and took a long breath. Then, she lifted her skirts and ran. Captain Red disliked folk coming late to his table.

At the door, she paused to catch her breath. In a habit from another world, she pinched up her cheeks to rosy them and patted her hair into place. She hastily smoothed her skirts, and then entered. They were all seated at table already. Captain Red fixed her with a grave stare. She dropped a low curtsey. “Your pardon, sirs. I was detained.”

“Indeed.” The captain’s single word was his only reply. She hastened to take her place at his left hand. The first mate, a man intricately tattooed from brow to throat, sat to his right. Captain Red’s own small tattoo was subtler, done in yellow ink that scarcely showed unless one knew to look for it. While slave actors and musicians were prized as possessions, their owners usually refrained from obvious ownership tattoos that might detract from their performances. The Motley’s crew was largely composed of an acting troupe that had been freed by Captain Kennit.

At a sign from the captain, the ship’s boy sprang to life, serving the table. The snowy cloth, heavy china and glittering crystal belied the plainness of the fare. Ship’s food, Malta had decided, changed little from vessel to vessel. Bread was hard, meat was salt and vegetables were roots. At least on the Motley, her food was not someone else’s leavings and she ate at a table with cutlery. The wine, recent loot from the Chalcedean vessel, far surpassed the food it accompanied.

There was table conversation, too, and if it was not always elevated, at least it was mannered and stylish, due to the composition of the crew. Neither slavery nor piracy had eroded their intelligence nor their braggadocio. Bereft of a theater, the table became the stage for their performances, and Malta their audience. They vied to make her laugh or gasp with shock. Lively wit was expected at the table, as were excellent manners. Had not Malta known, she would never have guessed these same men who jested and jousted with words were also bloody-handed pirates capable of slaughtering every soul on a ship. She felt she walked a tightrope when she dined amongst them. They had extended to her the courtesy of their company, yet she never allowed herself to forget that she was their captive as well. Malta had never expected that the social graces she had learned as a Bingtown Trader’s daughter would serve her in such good stead.

Yet whilst they conversed with razor wit on the true meaning of the widow’s son in Redoief’s comedies or debated Saldon’s command of language versus his deplorable lack of dramatic pacing, she longed to turn the talk in more informative directions. Her opportunity did not come until the end of the meal. As the others were excused and pushed away from the table, the captain turned his attention to Malta.

“So. Our Magnadon Satrap Cosgo again saw fit not to join us at table?”

Malta patted her lips and took her time answering. “Captain, I’m afraid he is still indisposed. His upbringing did not school him to the rigors of sea travel, I fear.”

“His upbringing did not school him to any rigors. Say rather that he disdains our company.”

“His health is delicate, and his circumstances distress him,” Malta replied easily, determined not to speak critically of the Satrap. If she turned on him, she would no longer be seen as his loyal, and perhaps valuable, attendant. She cleared her throat slightly. “He again requested smoking herbs, to ease his seasickness.”

“Pah. They do nothing for seasickness, save make a man too dazed to be bothered by it. I have told you we allow none aboard. It was debt for smoking herbs and other similar amusements that brought our company to the tattooist’s stocks.”

“I have told him that, Captain. I fear he does not believe me.”

“He longs for them so that he cannot imagine we do without them,” the captain scoffed. He cleared his own throat. His demeanor changed. “He would do well to join us tomorrow. We should like to discuss with him, genteelly, the terms of his ransom. Do urge him to be here tomorrow.”

“I shall,” Malta replied earnestly. “But I fear I cannot convince him that this would better the circumstances of his captivity. Perhaps you would allow me to act as a go-between with your terms. I am accustomed to his temperament.”

“Better say that you are accustomed to his temper, to his sulks, his arrogance, his childish spite. As to confiding my intentions, well, all have agreed that the Satrap of all Jamaillia will make a fine gift for Kennit, King of the Pirate Isles. Many of us would find it amusing if our boy-Satrap finished his days wearing a crow tattooed beside his nose and shackles on his feet. Perhaps he could be taught to wait at table for Kennit’s meals.

“But Kennit tends toward greater pragmatism. I suspect that King Kennit will ransom the Lord High Spoiled One back to whoever will have him. It would behoove Cosgo to think of who that might be. It would please me to present him to Kennit with a list of names to be invited to bid for this prize.”

Kennit. The name of the man who had taken her father and his ship. What could this mean? Could she herself eventually stand before the man and somehow negotiate her father’s release? The Satrap Cosgo suddenly took on new value in her eyes. She took a breath and found a smile.

“I shall persuade him to draw up such a list of names,” Malta assured the captain. Her eyes followed the mate; he was the last of the company to leave the room. “If you will excuse me, I will see if I cannot begin tonight.” The door shut firmly behind the man. She cursed the increased beat of her heart, for she knew that the blood rose betrayingly to her face as well. She smiled as she edged toward the door.

“Are you in such a hurry to leave me?” Captain Red asked with mock sorrow. He stood and walked around the table toward her.

“I hasten to do your bidding,” Malta replied. She smiled and let a glint of flirtation come into her eyes. She walked a difficult line with this man. He thought very well of himself, and that was to her advantage. It pleased him to suppose that she desired him, and he enjoyed his pursuit and the dramatic opportunities it afforded him. He flaunted his courtship of her to his own crew. Nor did her scar daunt him. Perhaps, she thought, once a man’s own face had been marked against his will, he made less of the marks on others’ faces.

“Could not you stay here and do my bidding as well?” he asked her with a warm smile. He was a very handsome man, with handsome ways. A cold, hard part of herself speculated that if she made herself mistress of this man, she could use him against Kennit. But no. It was not the sudden memory of Reyn’s wide shoulders or her hand resting in his strong one as they danced. Not at all. She had set all thoughts of the Rain Wilder aside as a future she would never see. She was ruined forever for marriage to such a man. But it was just possible, if she was ruthless enough, that she still could save her father. Despite all that had befallen her, he would love her still, with a father’s true love.

She had been too distracted. Captain Red captured her hands and stood looking down on her with amusement. “I really must go,” she murmured, feigning reluctance. “I’ve taken the Satrap no dinner yet. If I am late, it will put him in a foul temper, and getting those names for you may prove—”

“Let him starve,” Captain Red suggested brusquely, his glance roving over her face. “I’ll wager it’s a tactic no one has ever tried on him before: it might be exactly what he needs to make him more reasonable.”

She managed gently to disengage one hand. “Were not his health so delicate, I would surely be tempted to try such a tactic. But he is the Satrap, and lord of all Jamaillia. Such an important man must be kept healthy. Do not you agree?”

In reply, his free hand suddenly swooped around her waist. He pulled her close and bent to kiss her. She closed her eyes and held her breath. She tried to make her mouth move as if she welcomed this, but all she could imagine was how it would end. Suddenly he was the Chalcedean sailor, on one knee between her legs. She wrenched free of him, gasping, “No. Please, please, no!”

He stopped immediately. There was perhaps a trace of pity in his amusement. “I suspected as much. You’re a fine little actress. Were we both in Jamaillia, and I a free man and you unscarred, we might make much of you. But we are here, my dear, aboard the Motley. Such a crew as held you must have misused you. Was it very bad?”

She could not grasp that a man could ask her such a question. “I was threatened, but only threatened,” she managed to say. She looked away from him.

He did not believe her. “I will not force you. Never fear that. I have no need to force any woman. But I would not mind helping you unlearn your fear. Nor would I hurry you.” He reached out a hand and traced the line of her jaw. “Your demeanor and manners show that you were gently raised. But both of us are what life has made us. There is no going back to an innocent past. This may seem harsh advice, but it is given from my own experience. You are no longer your father’s virgin daughter saving herself for a well-negotiated marriage. That is gone. So, accept this new life wholeheartedly. Enjoy the pleasures and freedom it offers you in place of your old dreams of a proper marriage and a place in a staid society. Malta the Bingtown Trader’s daughter is gone. Become Malta of the Pirate Isles. You might find it a sweeter life than your old one.” His fingers moved lightly from the line of her jaw to the hollow of her throat.

She forced herself to stand quietly as she revealed her last weapon. “The cook told me that you have a wife and three children in Bull Creek. I fear folk would talk. Your wife might be hurt.”

“Folk always talk,” he assured her. His fingers toyed with her collar. “My wife pays no mind to it. She says it is the price she pays for having a handsome, clever husband. Put them from your mind, as I do. They have nothing to do with what happens on this ship.”

“Don’t they?” she asked him quietly. “And if your daughter was taken by Chalcedean slave raiders, would you approve the same advice for her? To become wholeheartedly what they made her? Would you tell her that her father would never accept her back because she was no longer his ‘virgin daughter’? Would it no longer matter to you how often she was taken, or by whom?” She lifted her chin.

“Damn you,” he cursed her, but with admiration. Frustration glittered in his eyes but he released her. She stepped back from him with relief. “I will get the names from the Satrap,” she offered him in compensation. “I will be sure he understands that his life depends on how much he can wring from his nobles. He sets great store on his own life. I am sure he will be generous with their coin.”

“He had better be.” Captain Red had recovered some of his aplomb. “To make up for how stingy you are with woman’s coin.”

Malta smiled at him, a genuine smile, and allowed a swagger to her walk as she left his chamber.