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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 them, 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 counselling, 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 fingerlength.

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 to 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 even 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 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 honour 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 practised 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 .’