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The room was as Malta recalled it from her grandfather’s days as captain on Vivacia.

She looked in anguish at the familiar furnishings.

With a flourish, Etta threw open a richly-carved cedar chest. It was layered with garments in fabrics both sumptuous and colourful.

At any other time, Malta would have been seized with envy and curiosity.

Now she stood and stared sightlessly across the room as Etta dug through it.

‘Here. This will serve. It will be large on him, but if we seat him in a chair, no one will notice.’ She dragged out a heavy scarlet cloak trimmed with jet beads. ‘Kennit said it was too gaudy, but I still think he would look very fine in it.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ Malta agreed without expression. Personally, she felt it little mattered how a rapist dressed once you knew what he was.

Etta stood, the rich fabric draped over her arm. ‘The hood is lined with fur,’ she pointed out. Abruptly she asked, ‘What are you thinking?’

There was no point at flinging harsh words at this woman.

Wintrow had said that Etta knew what Kennit was.

Somehow, she had come to terms with it. Who was she to criticize Etta’s loyalty?

She must find Malta as craven for serving the Satrap.

‘I was wondering if Kennit has thought this through. I believe an alliance of Jamaillian nobles sought to have the Satrap die in Bingtown so they could blame the Traders for his murder and plunder our town. Are these nobles in this fleet of ships loyal to the Satrap and intent on his rescue? Or are they traitors hoping to finish what was begun in Bingtown? As well blame the Pirate Isles as Bingtown. Or both.’ She knit her brows, thinking.

‘They may have more interest in provoking Kennit to kill the Satrap than in saving him.’

‘I am sure Kennit has considered everything,’ Etta replied stiffly.

‘He is not a man like other men. He sees far, and in times of great danger, he manifests great powers. I know you must doubt me, but all you need do is ask your brother. He has seen Kennit calm a storm and command serpents to serve him. Wintrow himself was cured of serpent scald at Kennit’s hand, yes, and had the tattoo that his own father placed on his cheek erased by his captain.

’ Etta met Malta’s sceptical gaze unwaveringly.

‘Perhaps a man like that does not have to abide by ordinary rules,’ she went on.

‘Perhaps his own vision prompts him to do things forbidden to other men.’

Malta cocked her head at the pirate’s woman. ‘Are we still talking about negotiating to restore the Satrap to the throne?’ she asked. ‘Or do you seek to excuse what he did to my father?’ And my aunt, she added silently to herself.

‘Your father’s behaviour needs more excuses than Kennit’s,’ Etta returned coldly. ‘Ask Wintrow what it is like to wear slave-chains and a tattoo. Your father got what he deserved.’

‘Perhaps we all get what we deserve,’ Malta returned sharply. Her eyes swept up and down Etta, and she saw the woman flush with anger. She experienced a moment’s remorse when she glimpsed sudden, unmasked pain in Etta’s eyes.

‘Perhaps we do,’ the woman replied coldly. ‘Bring that chair.’

It was, Malta thought as she hefted the heavy chair, a petty revenge. She carried it awkwardly, knocking her shins against its thick rungs as she walked.

Reyn Khuprus stood well back from the foredeck where he could observe without being seen.

He watched Malta. The veil obscured his view, but he stared hungrily at her anyway.

What he saw pained him, but he could not look away.

She smiled at the Satrap as she set a chair in place for him.

She turned to the tall woman beside her and indicated with pleasure the scarlet cloak she carried.

The Satrap’s face did not lose its proud cast. He lifted his chin to her.

What came next was like a knife turning in Reyn.

Malta unfastened his wet cloak for him, smiling warmly all the while.

He could not hear the words, but her tender concern showed on her face.

She cast the wet cloak carelessly aside, and then hastened to wrap the Satrap in the grand red cloak.

She pulled the hood up well and fastened it warmly around him.

With light touches of her hand, she gently pushed the damp locks back from the Satrap’s forehead and cheeks.

When the Satrap seated himself, she fussed with the fall of the cloak, even going down on one knee to adjust the folds of it.

There was fondness in her every touch. He could not blame her.

The Satrap with his pale, patrician countenance and lordly ways was a far more fitting match for Malta Vestrit than a scaled and battered Rain Wilder.

With a pang, he recalled that the man had shared the first dance with her at her Presentation Ball.

Had her heart begun to turn to him even then?

She moved to stand behind the Satrap’s chair, and set her hands familiarly to the top of it.

The trials they had endured together would undoubtedly have bonded them.

What man could long resist Malta’s charm and beauty?

No doubt, the Satrap felt great gratitude as well; he could not have survived on his own.

Reyn felt as if his heart had vanished from his chest, leaving a gaping hole behind.

No wonder she had fled the sight of him.

He swallowed hard. She had not even had a word of greeting for him, even as a friend.

Did she fear he would hold her to her promise?

Did she fear he would humiliate her before the Satrap?

He bathed in the pain of watching them. She would never again be his.

Althea had helped her niece hoist the heavy chair up to the foredeck.

She thought it a foolish bit of show herself, but none of this made any sense to her.

They were all trapped in Kennit’s ridiculous and dangerous display of strength.

She watched Malta take the Satrap’s wet cloak from his shoulders and wrap him warmly in the fresh one.

She pulled the hood well up as if the man were Selden.

When he had seated himself in his makeshift throne, she even tucked the cloak more snugly about his feet and legs.

It pained her to watch Malta do such humble service.

It stung her worse that Kennit watched the whole performance with a snide little smile on his face.

Hatred so hot it tinged her vision red rushed through her. She actually gasped for breath as her nails bit deep into her palms. She leaned back against the ship’s rail and concentrated on letting it pass through her.

‘You want to kill him that badly,’ the ship observed quietly. The comment seemed intended for her alone, yet Althea saw Kennit turn slightly to the words. He raised one eyebrow in a slight, mocking query.

‘Yes. I do.’ She let him read the words on her lips.

Kennit gave his head a sorrowful little shake.

Then he put his attention back on a small ship that was drawing steadily closer to them.

It came sluggishly through the darkening afternoon.

Kennit wondered if it had taken damage in the serpent attack.

An array of impressively-garbed men stood on its deck staring towards them.

Most of them looked portly beneath their rich cloaks.

Sailors stood ready on deck to assist their betters to cross to Vivacia.

A smile crooked his lips. It would be amusing if it began to sink while it was alongside.

‘Perhaps I should have dressed for the occasion,’ he observed aloud to Etta.

‘Just as well that we have decked our Satrap so royally. Maybe clothing is all they can recognize.’ He folded his arms on his chest and grinned expectantly.

‘Toss some heaving lines, Jola. Let’s see what catch they bring us. ’

‘There they are,’ Malta went on in an undertone to the Satrap. ‘Sit tall and regal. Do you recognize any of them? Do you think they are loyal to you?’

He eyed his nobles sullenly. ‘I know old Lord Criath’s colours.

He was most enthusiastic about my journey north, yet declined to join me because sea travel pains his joints.

Yet, look how easily he crosses to our deck, and how tall he stands.

He scarcely needs the man who hands him across.

The fifth man, he who comes now, he wears the colours of house Ferdio, but Lord Ferdio is a small, slight man.

This must be a stouter, taller son of his.

The others…I cannot tell. They are so well hooded and hatted, their collars pulled so high, I scarce can see their faces –’

Malta suspected it, an instant before anyone else did. She glanced past the men boarding the Vivacia. On the deck of the other ship, sailors assisted their leaders to cross. Many surly, glaring sailors, all cloaked against the day’s cold. Too many?

‘’Ware treachery!’ she shouted suddenly.

Her cry forced them to act, perhaps sooner than they had planned.

Some finely-dressed men remained on the other ship, but at Malta’s cry, all flung aside their cloaks, sailors as well as counterfeit nobles.

Their weapons came into view, as did the garb of common fighting men.

With a roar, the sailors who had been ‘assisting’ their cohorts flung themselves across the gap that separated the ships.

More men appeared from belowdecks, a flood of fighters leaping across, blades in hand.