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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 endeavoured 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 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 afterwards.

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 chamberpot 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 doorframe 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, towards Chalced.

The Chalcedean ship that had picked them up had been travelling 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.