The directness of her question jolted the man. “I… of course not, not captives.” His chin came up. “If he were a captive, would I be bearing him with all haste to Jamaillia?”

“Where he will be sold to the highest bidder?” Malta asked dryly. The captain took a sudden angry breath, but she went on before he could speak. “There must, of course, be that temptation. Only a fool would not see that possibility, in the midst of the current unrest. Yet, a wise man would know of the legendary generosity of the Satrap to his friends. Whereas the largesse of a man who pays you blood money brings his disdain and shame with it.” She cocked her head slightly. “Will you be instrumental in cementing the friendship of Chalced and Jamaillia? Or will you forever tarnish the reputation of Chalcedeans, as turncoats who sell their allies?”

A long silence followed her words. “You speak like a Bingtown Trader. Yet the Traders have never been fond of Chalced. What is your interest in this?”

My life, you idiot. Malta feigned scandalized surprise. “You wish to know the interest of a woman, sir? Then I tell you: my father is of Chalced, sir. But my interest, of course, does not factor into this. The only interest I consider is the Satrap’s.” She bowed her head reverently.

Those last words lay like ashes on her tongue. In the silence that followed them, she watched the careful working of the man’s mind. He had nothing to lose by treating the Satrap well. A healthy, living hostage would undoubtedly bring more than one on the point of death. And the gratitude of the Satrap might be worth more than what could be wrung out of his nobles for his return.

“You may go,” the man dismissed her abruptly.

“As you wish, I am sure,” Malta murmured, her submission tinged with sarcasm. It would not do for the Satrap’s woman to be too humble. Kekki had shown her that. She inclined her head gravely, but then turned her back on him rather than reversing from the room. Let him make what he would of that.

When she stepped out into the chill evening wind, a wave of vertigo spun her, yet she forced herself to remain upright. She was exhausted. She once more lifted her head beneath the weight of her imaginary crown. She did not hasten. She found the right hatch, and descended into the noisome depths of the ship. As she passed through the crew quarters, she pretended not to notice any of the men; for their part, they ceased all conversation and stared after her.

She regained the cabin, shut the door behind her, crossed to the bed and sank shakily to her knees before it. It was as well that this collapse fit with the role she must continue to play. “Exalted one, I have returned,” she said quietly. “Are you well?”

“Well? I am half-starved and nattered at by a woman,” the Satrap retorted.

“Ah. I see. Well, lordly one, I have hopes that I have bettered our situation.”

“You? I doubt it.”

Malta bowed her forehead to her knees and sat trembling for a time. Just as she decided she had failed, there was a knock at the door. That would be the ship’s boy with their dinner. She forced herself to stand and open the door rather than simply bid him enter.

Three brawny sailors stood behind the mate. The mate bowed stiffly. “You come to leu-fay’s table tonight. You, for you, wash, dress.” This message seemed to strain his vocabulary, but a gesture indicated the men bearing buckets of steaming water and armloads of clothing. Some, she noted, was woman’s garb. She had convinced him of her own status as well. She fought to keep delight and triumph from her face.

“If it pleases the Satrap,” she replied coolly, and with a gesture bade them bring it all inside.

“WHAT WILL YOU DO?” WINTROW DARED TO ASK THE SHIP. THE CHILL NIGHT wind blew past them. He stood on the foredeck, arms wrapped around himself against the cold. They were making good time back to Divvytown. If Wintrow could have done so, he would have stilled the wind, slowed the ship, anything to gain time to think.

The sea was not dark. The tips of the waves caught the moonlight and carried it with them. Starlight snagged and rippled on the backs of the serpents that hummocked through the water beside them. Their eyes shone in lambent colors, copper, silver and warm gold, eerie pink and blue, like night-blooming sea flowers. Wintrow felt they were always watching him whenever he came to the foredeck. Perhaps they were. Coinciding with the thought, a head lifted from the water. He could not be sure in the gloom, but he thought that it was the green-gold serpent from the Others’ beach. For the space of three breaths, she held her place beside the ship, watching him. Two-legs, I know you, whispered through his mind, but he could not decide if she spoke to him or if he only recalled her voice from the beach.