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S ERILLA HAD NOT left the captain’s cabin since she had been dragged there.

She ran her hands through her bedraggled hair and tried to decide how long that had been.

She forced herself to review the events in her mind, but her memories would not stay in proper order.

They jumped and jiggled about, the moments of terror and pain leaping up to demand her attention even as she refused to think about them.

She had fought the sailor sent to bring her.

Serilla had wanted to go with dignity, but found she could not.

She had held back until he dragged her. When she struck him, he had simply picked her up and slung her over one wide shoulder.

He stank. Her efforts to strike and kick him had amused not only him, but also the other members of the crew who had observed her humiliation.

Her screams for help had been ignored. Those of the Satrap’s party who had witnessed her abduction did nothing.

Those who had chanced to see her kept their faces carefully expressionless, turning away from her plight or closing the doors they had peeped out.

But Serilla could not forget the expressions on Cosgo and Kekki as they watched her hauled away.

Cosgo smiled in smug triumph whilst Kekki roused from her drugged stupor to watch in fascinated titillation, her hand lingering on Cosgo’s thigh.

Her captor had borne her into an unfamiliar part of the ship.

He shoved her into the captain’s darkened cabin, then latched the door behind her.

Serilla did not know how long she had waited there.

It seemed hours, but how could one measure time in such circumstances?

She had cycled from rage to despair to terror.

Fear had been with her constantly. By the time the man actually arrived, Serilla was already exhausted from shouting, weeping and pounding on the door.

At his first touch, she physically collapsed, near fainting.

Nothing in her scholarly upbringing or days at court had ever prepared her for anything like this.

He easily overcame her efforts to push him away.

She was like a spitting kitten in his hand.

He raped her, not savagely, but matter of factly.

The discovery of her virginity made him exclaim in surprise, and curse in his own language. Then he went on with his own pleasure.

How many days ago had that been? She did not know.

She had not left the cabin since then. Time was broken up into when the man was there and when he was not.

Sometimes he used her. Other times he ignored her.

He was impersonal in his cruelty. He did not notice her in any other way; he made no attempt to win her affection.

He showed her the same courtesy he gave to the chamber pot or spittoon.

He never spoke to her. She was there to use, when he felt the need.

If she made it difficult, with resistance or pleading, he would hit her.

He delivered the open-handed blows casually, with a lack of effort that convinced her his intent strength would be far greater.

One slap loosened two of her teeth and left her ear ringing for hours.

The lack of malice with which he struck her was more frightening than the blows. Hurting her was of no concern to him.

At some early point in her captivity, she had contemplated revenge.

She had rummaged about in the room, looking for anything that might serve as a weapon.

The man was not a trusting soul. His chests and cupboards were locked, and did not give way to her prying.

But she did find on his desk documents that indicated her suspicions were well-founded.

She recognized a chart of Bingtown Harbour, and a map of the area around the mouth of the Rain Wild River.

Like all such maps she had ever seen, there were great blank spaces.

There were letters there as well, but she did not read the Chalcedean language.

The documents contained mention of money, and the names of two high Jamaillian nobles.

It might have been information about bribes; but it might also have been a bill of lading.

She put everything back exactly as she had found it.

Either she had not done a good job, or the beating he gave her that night was for a different offence.

It quenched her last thoughts of resistance or revenge.

She no longer even thought of survival. Her mind retreated, leaving her body to function on its own.

After a time, she had learned to eat the leftovers from his meals.

He did not eat often in his cabin, but provided her no other food or drink.

She had no clothing left intact, so she spent most of her time huddled in the corner of his bed.

She no longer thought. When she tried to fumble her way out of her confusion, she found only ugly alternatives.

All thought was fear. Today, he might kill her.

He might give her to his crew. He might keep her forever, all the rest of her life, in this cabin.

Worst of all, he might return her to the Satrap, a broken toy that no longer amused him.

Eventually, he would get her pregnant. Then what?

This present that she endured had irreparably destroyed all her futures that might be. She would not think.

Sometimes she stared out the window. There was little to see.

Water. Islands. Birds flying. The smaller ships that accompanied them.

Sometimes the smaller ships disappeared, to rejoin them a day later.

Sometimes they showed sign of battle, scorched wood or tattered sails or chained men on the deck.

They raided the small outlaw settlements of the Inside Passage as they discovered them, taking loot and captives as slaves. They seemed to be doing well at it.

Someday, they would get to Bingtown. When that thought came to Serilla, it was like a tiny crack through which light shone.

If she could somehow escape in Bingtown, if she could get ashore, she could conceal who she had been and what had happened to her.

That was very important to her. Her mind recoiled from continuing this life.

She could no longer be Serilla. Serilla was a soft and pampered academic, a gently reared scholar, and a court woman of words and thoughts.

She despised Serilla. Serilla was too weak to fight off this man.

Serilla had been too foolishly proud to accept the Satrap’s offer to bed him instead of the Chalcedean.

Serilla was too cowardly to plot how to kill the captain, or even how to kill herself.

Even knowing that Bingtown was her last hope in the world, she could not focus her mind enough to form an escape plan.

Some vital part of herself had been, if not destroyed, suspended.

She detached herself from Serilla, and shared the world’s contempt for her.

The end of her ordeal came as abruptly as it had begun. A sailor unlocked the cabin one day and gestured for her to follow.

She clutched the blanket to herself as she cowered on the captain’s bed. Steeling herself for a blow, she dared to ask, ‘Where are you taking me?’

‘Satrap.’ The one word was his reply. Either he spoke no more of her language than that, or he considered it ample. He jerked his head towards the door again.

She knew she had to obey. When she stood and wrapped the blanket about herself, the sailor did not try to take it from her.

The gratitude she felt for this brought tears to her eyes.

When he was sure she was following, he led the way.

She followed him cautiously, as if she were venturing into a new world.

Blanket clutched tightly around her, she emerged from the cabin.

She kept her eyes cast down and hurried along.

She tried to go to her old cabin, but a shout from her guide made her cringe.

She fell in behind him once more, and he took her to the Satrap’s quarters.

She expected he would knock at the door. She had hoped to have at least that much time to prepare herself. He didn’t. He flung the door of the cabin open and gestured impatiently for her to enter.

She stepped forward into a noisome flow of overly warm air.

In this warm weather, the smells of the ship itself had ripened with that of sickness and sweat.

Serilla recoiled but the sailor was merciless.

He seized her shoulder and pushed her into the room.

‘Satrap,’ he said, and then shut the door firmly.

She ventured into the stifling room. It was still and dim.

It had been tidied, in a careless sort of way.

Discarded garments hung on backs of chairs rather than littering the floor.

The censers for the Satrap’s smoke herbs had been emptied but not cleaned.

The smell of stale smoke choked the room.

Plates and glasses had been cleared from his table, but the sticky circles from the bottoms of the bottles remained.

From behind the heavy curtains on the great window came the sound of a single determined fly battering its head against the glass.