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 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 myself 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 honor 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 bum 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 practiced 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.'
'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 washcloth 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 madeover gown and slippers. 'Attitude and bearing,' Rache had counseled 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 them 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 toward 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. 'Leu-fay!' she insisted.
With a shrug and a sigh, the blond man stood. As he advanced toward 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. 'Leu-fay. 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, toward 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 'leu-fay.' 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 look him up and down. 'Certainly not!' she snapped. She tossed her head, turned with a motion that she and Delo had practiced 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
