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‘ Leu-fay ,’ she repeated. She paused and looked more closely at the Satrap.

Tears of either self-pity or amazement had welled to his eyes.

She covered him, snuggling the blankets around him as if he were Selden.

A strange resolve had wakened in her. ‘Rest now, lordly one. I shall prepare myself, and then I shall see that you are treated as the Satrap of Jamaillia deserves, or die trying.’ That last, she feared, was true.

When his eyes sagged shut again, she stood and went to work.

The robe she wore was the same one she had worn since the night she had left Trehaug.

She had managed to rinse it out once on board the galley.

The hem hung in tatters, and it was stained with hard use.

She took it off, and with fingers and teeth she tore the dangling pieces away.

She shook it well, and rubbed the worst of the dirt from it before putting it back on.

It left her legs bared from the knees down, but that could not be helped.

She used the scraps from her robe to fashion a long braid of material.

She combed her hair as best she could with her fingers, and then fashioned the braided fabric into a head wrap for herself.

Covering her hair, she hoped, would make her appear older, as well as concealing most of her scar.

There was some water in the pitcher. She used a scrap of material as a washing cloth to cleanse her face and hands, and then her feet and legs.

With a bitter smile, she recalled how carefully she had prepared herself for her Presentation Ball, and how she had fretted over her made-over gown and slippers.

‘Attitude and bearing,’ Rache had counselled her then.

‘Believe you are beautiful, and so will everyone else.’ She had not been able to believe the slave woman. Now her words were Malta’s only hope.

When she had done her best, she composed herself.

Stand straight, head up. Imagine little brocade slippers on her feet, rings on her fingers, a crown of blossoms on her head.

She fixed her eyes angrily on the door and addressed it firmly.

‘ Leu-fay! ’ she demanded of it. She took a deep breath, then another.

On the third she walked to the door, lifted the latch, and went out.

She ventured down a long walkway lit only by a swaying lantern at the other end.

The shadows shifted with the light, making it difficult to keep her regal bearing.

She walked between stowed cargo. The variety of it aroused her suspicions.

Honest merchant ships did not carry such a wide spectrum of goods, nor would they stow it so haphazardly.

Pirates or raiders, she told herself, though perhaps they thought otherwise of themselves.

Was the Satrap no more to them than plunder to be sold to the highest bidder?

The thought nearly sent her back to the room.

Then she told herself that she would still demand that he be treated well.

Surely, such a trade-good would command a better price if it were in the best possible condition.

She went up a short ladder, and found herself in a room full of men.

It stank of sweat and smoke. Hammocks swung nearby, some with snoring occupants.

One man mended canvas trousers in the corner.

Three others were seated around a crate, with a game of pegs scattered across the top of it.

As she entered, they all turned to stare.

One, a blond man of about her age, dared to grin.

His grimy striped shirt was opened halfway down his chest. She lifted her chin, and reminded herself once more of her glittering rings and blossom crown.

She neither smiled nor looked away from him.

Instead she reached for her mother’s disapproving stare when she encountered idle servants. ‘ Leu-fay. ’

‘ Leufay? ’ a grizzled old man at the game table asked incredulously. His eyebrows leapt towards his balding pate in astonishment. The other man at the table chuckled.

Malta did not allow her face to change expression. Only her eyes became colder. ‘ Leufay! ’ she insisted.

With a shrug and a sigh, the blond man stood.

As he advanced towards her, she forced herself to stand her ground.

She had to look up at him to meet his eyes.

It was hard to keep her bearing. When he reached for her arm, she slapped his hand away contemptuously.

Eyes blazing, she touched two fingers to her breast. ‘Satrap’s,’ she told him coldly.

‘ Leufay . Right now!’ she snapped, not caring if they understood her words or not.

The blond man glanced back at his companions and shrugged, but he did not try to touch her again.

Instead, he pointed past her. A flip of her hand indicated that he should lead the way.

She did not think she could stand to have anyone behind her.

He led her swiftly through the ship. A ladder took them up through a hatch onto a wind-washed deck.

Her senses were dazzled by the fresh cold air and the smell of salt water and the sun sinking to its rest behind a bank of rosy clouds.

Her heart leapt. South. The ship was taking them south, towards Jamaillia, not north to Chalced.

Was there any chance a Bingtown ship might see them and try to stop them?

She slowed her steps, hoping to catch sight of land, but the sea merged with clouds at the horizon.

She could not even guess where they were.

She lengthened her stride to catch up with her guide.

He took her to a tall, brawny man who was directing several crewmembers splicing lines.

The sailor bobbed his head to the man, indicated Malta, and rattled off something, in which Malta caught the word ‘ leufay ’.

The man ran his eyes up and down her in a familiar way, but she returned his look with a haughty stare. ‘What you want?’ he asked her.

It took every grain of her courage. ‘I will speak to your captain.’ She guessed that the sailor had taken her to the mate.

‘Tell me what you want.’ His accent was heavy, but the words were clear.

Malta folded her hands on her chest. ‘I will speak to your captain.’ She spoke slowly and distinctly as if he might be merely stupid.

‘Tell me ,’ he insisted.

It was her turn to gaze him up and down.

‘Certainly not!’ she snapped. She tossed her head, turned with a motion that she and Delo had practised since they were nine years old (it would have flounced the skirts on a proper gown) then walked away from them all, keeping her head high and trying to breathe past her hammering heart.

She was trying to remember which hatch they had come up when he called out ‘Wait!’

She halted. Slowly she turned her head to look back at him over her shoulder. She raised one brow questioningly.

‘Come back. I take you Captain Deiari.’ He made small hand motions to be sure she understood.

She let him flap his hand at her several times before returning, at a dignified pace.

The captain’s quarters in the stern were resplendent compared to the chamber she shared with the Satrap.

There was a large bay window, a thick rug on the floor and several comfortable chairs and the chamber smelled sweetly of tobacco smoke and other herbs.

In one corner, the captain’s bed boasted a fat feather mattress as well as thick coverlets and even a throw of thick white fur.

Books leaned against one another on a shelf, and several glass decanters held liquors of various colours.

The captain himself was seated in one of the comfortable chairs, his legs stretched out before him and a book in his hands.

He wore a shirt of soft grey wool over heavy trousers.

Thick socks shielded his feet from the cold; his sturdy wet boots were by the door.

Malta longed for such warm, dry, clean clothing.

He looked up in annoyance as they entered.

At the sight of her, he barked a rough question at the mate.

Before the man could reply, Malta cut in smoothly.

‘Deiari Leufay. At the merciful Satrap Cosgo’s pleasure, I have come to offer you the chance to correct your mistakes before they become irredeemable.’ She met his eyes, her gaze cold, and waited.

He let her wait. A chilling certainty grew in her; she had miscalculated.

He was going to have her killed and thrown overboard.

She let only the coldness show on her face.

Jewels on her fingers, a crown of blossoms, no, of thick gold on her brow.

It was heavy; she lifted her chin to bear the weight and watched the man’s pale eyes.

‘The merciful Satrap Cosgo,’ the man finally said colourlessly. His words were clear, unaccented.