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Her hands paused. ‘How did you know?’

‘It is one of the cornerstones of Sa’s teachings. That destiny is not reserved for a few chosen ones. Each man has a destiny. Recognizing it and fulfilling it are the purpose of a man’s life.’

‘It seems a burdensome teaching to me.’

Kennit shook his head against the pillow. ‘If a man can believe it, then he can know he is as important as any other man. He can also know that he is no more important than any other is. It creates a vast equality of purpose.’

‘But what of the man he killed today?’ Etta asked.

Kennit snorted softly. ‘That is Wintrow’s hurdle, isn’t it? To accept that someone is destined to die at his hand, and that he is destined to wield the knife. In time Wintrow will see that it was not his doing that slew the man at all. Sa brought them both together, to fulfil their destinies.’

Etta spoke hesitantly. ‘Then you, too, believe in Sa and his teaching?’

‘When it fits my destiny to do so,’ Kennit told her loftily, and then laughed.

He suddenly felt inexplicably good. ‘This is what we shall do for the lad. We’ll get the Divvytown construction under way, and then we’ll take Wintrow to the Others’ Island.

I’ll let him walk the beach, and have an Other tell his fortune from what he finds.

’ He grinned in the darkness. ‘Then I’ll tell him what it means. ’

He rolled over into her reaching arms.

At least one barrel of their salt pork had gone bad.

The casks that held fatty pieces of the meat floating in brine should have been tight.

The smell meant that the cask had been broached, either in loading or by other cargo shifting against it.

The leaking brine and rotting meat not only stank; it would contaminate any other food it contacted.

The stench was coming from a forward hold, one with little headspace.

Food supplies in kegs, boxes and barrels filled it snugly.

The cargo would have to be shifted, the offending cask disposed of, and anything it had leaked onto would have to be cleaned up or discarded.

Brashen had discovered the stench on one of his prowls of the ship.

He’d given the task to Lavoy, who had passed it on to her.

She had put two men onto it at the beginning of her watch.

Now, as dawn reached over the face of the water, she had come down to see how they had progressed.

The sight that met her eyes infuriated her.

Only about half the cargo had been shifted.

The stench was as strong as ever; there was no sign that the cask had been discovered, or any cleaning done.

The hand hooks they should have been using to move the kegs and crates were both sunk into an overhead beam.

Lop sat on a cask hunching his tall, skinny frame over the crate before him, his pale blue eyes intent on three walnut shells.

Opposite him was Artu, his dirty fingers flickering and dancing over the shells.

‘Which one, which one,’ he was humming in the old trickster’s chant as he deftly shifted the shells.

The slick scar of the old brand on his cheek caught the lantern’s fading light.

This was Brashen’s rapist. Lop was merely stupid, and prone to idleness, but Althea hated Artu.

She never worked near him if she could help it.

The man had glittery little eyes, dark as a rat hole, and a puckered mouth that was constantly wet.

So engrossed was he in cheating Lop out of his money that Artu was completely unaware of her.

He stopped the shells with a flourish, and his darting tongue wet his lips again.

‘And which one has the bean?’ he demanded, wiggling his eyebrows at Lop.

Althea strode up and kicked the crate, making all the shells jump. ‘Which cask has the rotten meat?’ she roared at them.

Lop turned amazed eyes up at her. Then he pointed at the overturned shells. ‘There’s no bean!’ he exclaimed.

She seized him by the back of his shirt collar and shook him. ‘There never is!’ she told him, and then shoved him to one side. He gaped at her.

She turned on Artu. ‘Why haven’t you found that cask and cleaned it up?’

He came to his feet, licking his lips nervously. He was a small, bandy-legged man, more quick than strong. “Cause there ain’t one to find. Me and Lop, we shifted all the cargo in this hold, looked at it all, and found nothing. Right, Lop?’

Lop goggled at her, his large pale eyes wide. ‘We didn’t find it, Ma’am.’

‘You didn’t move all the cargo. I can smell it! Can’t you?’

‘Just ship stink, that’s all. All ships smell like that.’ Artu shrugged elaborately. ‘When you been on as many ships as I have,’ he began condescendingly but Althea cut him off.

‘This ship doesn’t stink like that. And it never will as long as I’m a mate on it. Now get that cargo shifted, find that rotten meat and clean it up.’

Artu scratched at a boil on the side of his neck. ‘Our watch is almost up, Ma’am. Maybe the next watch’ll find it.’ He nodded to himself in satisfaction and gave Lop a conspiratorial nudge. The lanky sailor echoed Artu’s grin.

‘Tidings for you, Artu. You and Lop are on watch down here until you find it and clean it up. Clear? Now get on your feet and start shifting this cargo.’

‘That ain’t fair!’ Artu cried out as he came to his feet. ‘We worked our watch! Hey, come back here! That ain’t fair!’

His grubby fingers caught at her sleeve. Althea tried to jerk free, but his grip was amazingly strong. She froze. She wouldn’t risk a struggle she might not win, nor a torn shirt with this man. She met his gaze with narrowed eyes. ‘Let go,’ she said flatly.

Lop stared, wide-eyed as a boy. He’d caught his lower lip between his teeth. ‘Artu, she’s second mate,’ he whispered nervously. ‘You’re gonna get in big trouble.’

‘Mate,’ Artu snorted in disgust. Quick as a flea’s hop, he shifted his grip from her sleeve to her forearm inside it. His dirty fingers bit down hard on her flesh. ‘She ain’t no mate, she’s a woman. And she wants it, Lop. She wants it bad.’

‘She wants it?’ Lop asked dimly. He looked at Althea in consternation.

‘She ain’t screaming,’ Artu pointed out. ‘She’s just standing here, waiting for it. I think she’s tired of getting it from the captain.’

‘She’ll tell,’ Lop complained in confusion. It took so little to confuse the man.

‘Naw. She’ll scream and wiggle a bit, but we’ll leave her smiling. You’ll see.’ Artu leered at her. He wet his pursed little mouth. ‘Right, matey?’ he taunted her. He grinned, showing brown-edged teeth.

Althea met his gaze squarely. She could not show fear.

Her mind was racing. Even if she screamed, no one would hear her down here.

The ship might be aware of her, but she couldn’t count on Paragon.

He had been so weird lately, imagining serpents and floating logs and yelling out sudden warnings that most likely no one would pay attention to him.

She would not scream. Artu was looking at her, his little eyes shining.

He’d like her to scream, she realized. He and she both knew that when he was finished with her, he’d have to kill her.

He’d try to make it look like an accident, falling cargo or whatever.

Lop would say whatever Artu told him to say, but Brashen would not be fooled.

Brashen would likely kill them both, but she wouldn’t be around to watch him do it.

The cascade of thoughts tumbled through her mind in less than a breath. She was on her own here. She’d sworn to Brashen she could handle this crew. Could she?

‘Let go, Artu. Last chance,’ she told him evenly. She managed to keep the tremor out of her voice.

He backhanded her with his free hand, the blow so swift she never saw it coming. Her head snapped back on her neck. She was stunned for an instant, dimly aware of Lop’s distressed, ‘Don’t hit her,’ and Artu’s, ‘Naw, that’s how she wants it. Rough.’

His hands scrabbled over her body, pulling her shirt loose from her trousers.

Her revulsion at his touch was what brought her back.

She struck out at him with all her strength, body punches that he didn’t seem to feel – his body was as hard as wood.

He laughed at her efforts and she knew an instant of despair.

She couldn’t hurt him. She would have fled then, but his grip on her arms was tighter than a vice, and the disarray of cargo made a quick escape impossible.

He forced her up against a crate. He released one of her arms to grip the front collar of her shirt.

He tried to tear it, but the stout cotton held.

With her one free hand, she punched hard in and up at the base of his ribs.

She thought he flinched. This time she saw his blow coming.

She threw her head to one side and he punched the crate behind her instead of her face.

She heard the wood splinter with the force of his blow and heard him shout hoarsely.

She hoped he had broken his hand. She tried to gouge his eyes, but he snapped at her, biting her wrist hard and drawing blood.

They overbalanced, and went down. She twisted desperately, trying not to land beneath him.

They fell on their sides amongst the crates and boxes.

It made for close quarters. She drew her arm back and delivered two short, hard jabs to Artu’s belly.

She had a glimpse of Lop towering over them.

The great dolt was hitting himself in the chest in his distress.

His mouth hung open, wailing. No time to think.