She shook out her wings and crouched on her powerful hind legs. Once, twice, she flapped her wings in a measuring way. He tried to call a farewell, but could not summon enough breath. She sprang upward with a suddenness that snapped his head back. The shouted farewells were lost in the steady thunder of her wings. He closed his eyes against the cold wind. When he forced them open again, he looked down on a glittering carpet of blue and gray, a pattern rippling slowly across it. The sea, he realized, was very, very far below him. Nothing was below him except deep, cold water. He swallowed against a rising fear.
'Well. Where did you want to go?'
'Where do I want to go? To wherever Malta is, of course.'
'I told you before, I can sense she is alive. That doesn't mean I know where she is.'
Desolation swallowed Reyn. The dragon took sudden pity on him. 'See what you can do,' she suggested. Through her, he again shared her awareness of Malta. He closed his eyes and slipped into that sensing that was not hearing nor sight nor scent, but an eerie shadow of all three. He found himself opening his mouth and breathing deep as if he could taste her scent on the cold air. Something of himself, he was sure, flowed out to meet her.
They merged in a warm sleepy lassitude. As they had when they shared the dream-box, he experienced her perceptions of her world. Warm. A slow, rocking motion. He breathed deep with her, and tasted the unmistakable smell of a ship. He loosened his awareness of his own body and reached more boldly for her. He felt warm bedding around her. He caught the deep rhythm of her breathing and then shared it. She slept with her cheek on her hand. He became that hand, cradling the warm softness of her cheek. He caressed it. She smiled in her sleep. 'Reyn,' she acknowledged him, without recognizing his true presence.
'Malta, my love,' he returned her gently. 'Where are you?'
'In bed,' she sighed. There was warm interest in her voice.
'Where?' he persisted, regretfully ignoring that invitation.
'On a ship. Chalcedean ship.'
'Where are you bound?' he asked her desperately. He could feel his contact with her fading as his irritating questions clashed with her dream. He clung to her, but her mind pulled away from sleep, disturbed by his insistence that she answer. 'Where?' he demanded. 'WHERE?'
'JAMAILLIA BOUND!' MALTA FOUND HERSELF SITTING BOLT UPRIGHT IN HER bedding. 'Jamaillia bound,' she repeated, but could not recall what prompted the words. She had the tantalizing feeling that she had just left a very interesting dream, but now could not remember even a scrap of it. It was almost a relief, really. By day, she could control her thoughts. Nights were when her treacherous mind brought her dreams of Reyn, achingly sweet with loss. Better to awake and remember nothing than to awake with tears on her face. She lifted her hands to her face and touched her cheeks. One tingled strangely. She stretched, then conceded she was irrevocably awake. She threw back the coverlet and stood up, yawning.
She was almost accustomed to the opulence of the chamber now. That had not dulled her pleasure in it. The captain had allotted her two deckhands and permission to search the hold for whatever might make the Satrap more comfortable. She had cast aside all moderation. A thick rug of soft wool on the floor and brightly figured hangings warmed the room. Candelabra had replaced the smoky lantern. Stacked blankets and furs made up her pallet. The Satrap's bed was lined with thick bearskins and sheepskins. An elaborate hookah squatted next to it, and a damask drapery around it curtained him from drafts.
From behind the drapery came his fitful snore. Good. She had time to dress herself before he woke. Moving quietly, she crossed the room to a large trunk, opened it and dug through the layers of garments within. Fabrics of every hue and texture met her questing hands. She selected something warm, soft and blue and pulled it out. She held the robe against her. It was too large, but she would make it do. She glanced uncomfortably at the Satrap's bed hangings, then pulled the blue robe over her head. Beneath it, she let her nightgown fall, then thrust her arms through the long blue sleeves. A faint perfume clung to it, the scent last worn by its owner. She would not wonder how the trunk of lovely clothing had come to the Chalcedeans. Going in rags herself would not restore life to the rightful owner. It would only make her own survival more precarious.
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 in 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 Jamaillian, 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 fact, he'd gone on loftily, one of his favorite 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
