us.' Kekki groped weakly around herself, then picked up one of the rags Malta used to dab blood away from her mouth. 'Here. Wear this… between your legs. Always. If a man touches you, say Fa-chejy kol Means 'I bleed.' He will stop… when you say it… or when he sees this.'
Kekki motioned for water and drank. She sighed, then gathered herself to speak. 'Chalced men fear a woman's blood time. They say-' Kekki took a breath and managed a pink-toothed smile. 'A woman's parts are angry then. They can slay a man's.'
Malta was amazed that anyone could believe such a thing. She looked at the blood-streaked rag she held. 'That's stupid.'
Kekki shrugged painfully. 'Be grateful they are stupid,' she advised her. 'Save the words. They know you cannot always be bleeding.' Then her face and eyes grew grave. 'If he doesn't stop… don't fight him. He will only hurt you more.' She dragged in a breath. 'They would hurt you… until you stopped fighting. To teach you a woman's place.'
That conversation had been days ago. It was the last time Kekki had spoken more than a few words to her. The woman weakened every day, and the smell from her sores grew stronger. She could not live much longer. For her sake, Malta hoped death came soon, though for her own sake, she feared Kekki's death. When Kekki died, she would lose her only ally.
Malta was weary of living in fear, but she had little choice. Every decision she made, she made in fear. Her life centered on her fear. She no longer left their chamber unless Cosgo ordered her directly. Then she went quickly, returned swiftly and tried to meet no man's eyes. The men still hooted and clicked their teeth, but they didn't bother her when she was emptying the waste bucket.
'Are you stupid or just lazy?' the Satrap demanded loudly.
Malta looked up at him with a jolt. Her thoughts had carried her far. 'I'm sorry,' she said, and tried to make her voice sincere.
'I said, I'm bored. Not even the food is interesting. No wine. No smoke, save at table with the captain. Can you read?' At her puzzled nod, he directed her, 'Go and see if the captain has any books. You could read to me.'
Her mouth went dry. 'I don't read Chalcedean.'
'You are too ignorant for words. I do. Go borrow a book for me.'
She tried to keep fear from her voice. 'But I don't speak Chalcedean. How will I ask for one?'
He snorted in disgust. 'How can parents let their children grow up in such ignorance! Does not Bingtown border on Chalced? One would think you would at least learn your neighbors' tongue. So damnably provincial. No wonder Bingtown cannot get along with them.' He sighed heavily, a man wronged. 'Well, I cannot fetch it myself, with my skin peeling like this. Can you remember a few words? Knock on his door, kneel down and abase yourself, then say, La-nee-ra-ke-je-loi-en.'
He rattled the syllables off in a breath. Malta could not even tell where one word began and another left off. 'La-nee-ra-ke-en' she tried.
'No, stupid. La-nee-ra-ke-je-loi-en. Oh, and add, re-kal at the end, so he doesn't think you are rude. Hurry now, before you forget it.'
She looked at him. If she pleaded not to go, he would know she was afraid and demand to know why. She would not give him that weapon to bludgeon her with. She picked up her courage. Perhaps the sailors wouldn't bother her if she was obviously bound for the captain's cabin. On the way back, she'd be carrying a book. It might keep her safe from them; they wouldn't want to damage their captain's property. She muttered the syllables to herself as she left the chamber, making a chant of them.
She had to walk the length of the galley between and above the rowers' benches. The hooting and clicking of teeth terrified her; she knew her fearful expression only encouraged them. She forced herself to keep repeating her syllables. She reached the captain's door without a man laying a hand on her, knocked, and hoped desperately that she had not knocked too loudly.
A man's voice replied, sounded annoyed. Praying that he had bid her come in, she opened the door and peered in timidly. The captain was stretched out on his bunk. He leaned up on one elbow to stare at her angrily.
'La-nee-ra-ke-je-loi-en!' she blurted. Then, abruptly recalling the Satrap's other instructions, she dropped to her knees and bent her head low. 'Re-kal,' she added belatedly.
He said something to her. She dared lift her eyes to him. He had not moved. He stared at her, then repeated the same words more loudly. She looked at the floor and shook her head, praying he would know she did not understand. He got to his feet and she braced herself. She darted a glance up at him. He pointed at the door. She scrabbled toward it, backed out of it, came to her feet, bowed low again and shut it.
The moment she was outside the cabin, the catcalls and teeth-clicking resumed. The other end of the boat seemed impossibly far away. She would never get there safely. Hugging her arms tightly around herself, Malta ran. She was nearly at the end of the rowing benches when someone reached up and snatched hold of her ankle. She fell heavily, striking her forehead, elbows and knees on the rough planking. For an instant, she was stunned. Dazed, she rolled to her back and looked up at a laughing young man standing over her. He was handsome, tall and blond like her father, with honest blue eyes and a ready grin. He cocked his head and said something to her. A query? 'I'm all right,' she replied. He smiled at her. Her relief was so great, she almost smiled back at him. Then he reached down and flung up the front of her skirts. He went down on one knee, his hands busy at his belt.
'No!' she cried wildly. She tried to scrabble away, but he seized her ankle and casually jerked her back. Other men were standing up to get a better view. As he exposed himself to Malta, Kekki's words rushed back to her. 'Fa-chejy kol!' she blurted. 'Fa-chejy kol!' He looked startled. She pushed her hair back from her face. He recoiled suddenly in horror, uttering an exclamation of disgust. She did not care. It had worked. She jerked away from him, managed to stand, raced the last few strides to shelter, flung herself through the door flap and collapsed on the floor. Her breath sobbed in and out of her. Her elbows stung. She blinked something wet from her eye, then wiped at it. Blood. The fall had opened her scar again.
The Satrap did not even lift his head from his pillow. 'Where is my book?' he demanded.
Malta gasped a breath. 'I don't think he has any,' she managed to say.
Calm words. Steady voice. Do not let him know how scared you are. 'I said the words you told me. He just pointed at the door.'
'How annoying. I fear I shall die of boredom on this boat. Come and rub my feet. Perhaps I will doze off. There is certainly nothing else to do.'
No choice, Malta told herself. Her heart was still thundering in her chest, her mouth so dry she could scarcely breathe through it. No choice, except painful death. Her elbows and knees stung; they were skinned raw. She pulled a splinter from her palm, then crossed the tiny room to sit on the floor by his feet. He glanced at her, then jerked his feet away from her touch. 'What is the matter with you? What is that?' He stared at her brow.
'I fell. I opened the cut again,' she said simply. She lifted her hand to touch it gingerly. Her fingers came away sticky with blood and a thick white pus. Malta stared at it in horror. She picked up one of Kekki's rags and dabbed at her brow. It did not hurt much, but more of the stuff soaked the rag. Malta began to shake as she looked at it. What was it, what did it mean?
There was no mirror to consult. She had avoided touching the scar on her forehead. She had not wanted to remind herself it was there. Now she let her fingers walk over it. It hurt, but not as much as it seemed it should for all the blood and discharge. She forced herself to explore it. It was as long as her forefinger and stood up in a thick ridge as wide as two of her fingers. The scar felt knobby, ridged and gristly like the end of a chicken bone. A shudder ran over her. She wanted to vomit. She lifted her face to the Satrap. 'What does it look like?' she demanded quietly.
He did not seem to hear her. 'Don't touch me. Go clean yourself, and bind something across that. Feh! I cannot look at that. Get away.'
She turned away from him, refolded the rag and held it against her brow. It grew heavy and wet. Pink fluid trickled down her wrist to her elbow. It wasn't stopping. She scooted over to sit by Kekki, seeking any kind of companionship. She was now too frightened even to cry. 'What if I'm dying from this?' she whimpered. Kekki did not respond. Malta looked at her, and then stared.
The Companion was dead.
Out on the deck, a sailor shouted something excitedly. Others took up the cry. The Satrap sat up suddenly
