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There was a mirror in the lid of the trunk, but Malta avoided looking in it.

The first time she had gleefully opened the trunk, her own reflection had been the first thing she saw.

The scar was far worse than she had imagined.

It stood up, a double ridge of pale, rippling flesh that reached almost to her nose and disappeared in her hair.

She had touched the lumpy cicatrix in disbelief, and then scrabbled back from the trunk in horror.

The Satrap had laughed.

‘You see,’ he mocked her. ‘I told you so. Your brief moment of beauty is gone, Malta. You would be wise to learn to be useful and accommodating. That is all that is left to you now. Any pride you retain is self-delusion.’

She could not respond to his hateful words. Her voice was stilled, her gaze trapped in her own image. For a time she had stared in silence, unable to move, unable to think.

The Satrap had broken the spell by nudging her with his foot.

‘Get up and busy yourself. I am to dine with the captain tonight, and you have not yet set out my clothes. And Sa’s name, cover that split in your head.

It is humiliating enough to me that the whole crew knows you are disfigured without your flaunting it. ’

In numbed silence, she had obeyed him. That night, she had sat on the floor beside his chair like a dog.

She had reminded herself of Kekki, subservient but alert.

But for a few words of Chalcedean, the table conversation was out of her reach.

From time to time, he passed food down to her.

After a time, she realized it was when he had sampled a dish and disliked it.

She kept silent behind a stiff little smile, even when he had casually wiped his fingers on her gown.

Once the men at the table spoke of her. The Satrap said something, the captain replied, and then there was general laughter.

The Satrap had given her a disparaging nudge with his foot, as if she sat distastefully close to him.

She was astonished at how hurt she felt at that.

She had fixed the small smile on her face as she stared at nothing.

They feasted on rich foods and valuable wines pirated from other ships.

After dining, they shared rare pleasure herbs from Captain Deiari’s own lacquer-boxed cache.

Later, the Satrap would disdainfully tell her this ship was not a pirate vessel, but one of his patrol ships, and that all the loot was cargo confiscated from smugglers and real pirates.

In point of fact, he’d gone on loftily, one of his favourite nobles in Jamaillia had contributed heavily in commissioning this ship, and had an interest in her spoils.

She had managed to keep her mask in place all evening.

Even when she had dutifully followed the Satrap back to their cabin and assisted him in disrobing for bed and resisted his lackadaisical advances, she had kept her aplomb.

Only after she was sure he was asleep had the tears come.

Accommodating and useful. Was that truly all that was left to her life?

With creeping dismay, she realized it sounded like her mother.

Accommodating and useful to her Chalcedean father.

What would he think if he could see her now?

Would he be horrified, or would he think that she had finally learned to be graciously female?

It hurt to wonder such things about someone she loved.

She had always believed that he loved her best of all his children.

But how did he love her? As an independent young woman, a Trader’s daughter?

Would he more approve the role she played now?

The same thought haunted her as she tightened the bodice laces on the blue robe and belted it securely so she would not tread on the hem.

She coiled her hair and pinned it at the back of her neck.

She concealed her scar with a scarf. When she was finished, she considered her face in the mirror.

Shipboard life did not agree with her skin.

She was far too pale, save for her eyes and lips, which were wind chafed.

‘I look coarse,’ she said quietly to herself. ‘Like a hard-used servant.’

Resolutely, she shut the lid of the trunk.

Attitude, not appearance, had won her the captain and crew’s deference.

If she lost that now, she would lose her ability to deal with them.

She had small faith that Cosgo could continue this farce without her.

Only her continued obsequiousness to him enabled him to act like a Satrap at all.

It was disgusting that she spent so much of her strength bolstering his belief in his superiority.

Worse: the more she flattered him, the more attractive he found her, but she was stronger than he was.

His few efforts at physical advances she had easily defeated, setting his pawing hands aside and reminding him that she was not worthy of his attentions.

Soft leather slippers covered her feet, and then she was ready.

She crossed to the Satrap’s bed, cleared her throat loudly, and drew back his curtain.

She did not wish to surprise him in any sort of nastiness.

‘Lordly one, I hesitate to disturb your rest, but I ask your permission to fetch your breakfast.’

He opened one eye. ‘You may. See that it comes hot to me, not lukewarm like yesterday.’

‘I shall, my lord,’ she promised humbly. She could not remind him that he had lain abed smoking long after she had brought his tray yesterday. Nothing was ever his fault. She settled a cloak about her shoulders, and left quietly.

This was her stolen time. Out of the Satrap’s sight, moving purposefully, she could enjoy a measure of freedom, unchallenged by anyone. When she encountered any of the sailors, they stared at her bound brow, and made comments behind her back, but they gave way.

The cook-stove was in a deckhouse located amidships.

When she reached it, the sliding door stood open.

The cook, a pale, mournful man, nodded a greeting to her.

He set out a tray and two bowls and some utensils, then took up a ladle and stirred the thick porridge that was morning ration for everyone.

Some things not even the complaints of a Satrap could change.

A sudden outcry from the lookout sent the cook hastening to the door.

An instant later, a wild clamour of voices broke out on deck.

The relative peace of the swiftly-moving ship was broken by thundering feet and shouted orders.

She did not need her limited Chalcedean to know that a great number of curses were mixed with the shouted words.

At the door, the cook added a few choice phrases of his own, flung his ladle aside, and sternly ordered Malta to do something.

Then he left, slamming the door behind him.

Malta immediately opened it a crack to peer out.

The deck swarmed with purposeful activity. Was a storm coming? She watched in awe as ropes were loosened, sails unfurled and ropes fastened off again. As she watched, more canvas blossomed on masts already white with sail. She felt the deck tilt under her feet as the ship’s speed increased.

Lookouts at the tops of the masts shouted reports down. Malta ventured two steps outside the deckhouse and craned her neck. She caught a glimpse of an outstretched hand and her eyes followed the pointing finger.

Sails. Another ship coming up fast. A second shout from above made her duck back into the deckhouse and peer out the opposite window.

Still another ship, sails full of wind, was likewise swiftly gaining on them.

Both ships flew odd patchwork flags showing a spread-winged raven.

Her mind worked frantically. The Chalcedean ship fled from those two others.

Did that mean they were from Bingtown? Or were they pirates?

Did pirates prey on other pirates? She did not know whether to hope the Chalcedean ship outran them or was captured.

If they were captured, and the other ships were pirates, what would become of her and the Satrap? A hasty plan formed in her mind.

She waited for an opportune moment, then dashed from the deckhouse to dart down the hatch like a mouse down a hole.

The hatch cover dropped down behind her, plunging her into darkness.

She scurried through the ship and found the crew’s quarters deserted.

By the fading light of a lantern, she helped herself to an assortment of garments before hastening to the Satrap’s cabin.

When she burst into it, he opened one lazy eye and regarded her irritably.

‘Your behaviour is unseemly,’ he told her. ‘Where is my breakfast?’

Even in this crisis, she must play her role.

‘Your forgiveness, lordly one, I pray you. Our ship flees from two others. If they catch us, there will be battle. If there is battle, I fear we will be overwhelmed. I fear they are pirates from the Pirate Isles with little love or respect for the Satrap of Jamaillia. So I have borrowed clothing for you to disguise yourself. As a simple sailor, you may escape their notice. And I, also.’

As she spoke, she began to sort the clothing hastily.

She chose a rough shirt and trousers for herself, and a sailor’s cap to conceal her brow.

A heavy sweater, far too large for her, might help her pass herself off as a boy.

For the Satrap, she had chosen the cleaner garments.

With these over her hands, she advanced to the bed.

He scowled at her and clutched the edge of his blanket tighter.

‘Rise, glorious one, and I will help you dress first,’ she offered. She wanted to bark it like a command to a recalcitrant child, but knew that would only make him more stubborn.