Malta Vestrit stared round the room. Kennit could not resist. “No doubt this chamber has changed since last you saw it, Companion. But, please, be as at ease as if your father still occupied it.”

That provoked an unforeseen response. “Malta Vestrit is not my Companion. You may address her as Advisor,” the Satrap informed him haughtily.

But even more interesting was how pale Malta went. She fought a look of anguish from her face.

Weakness was made to be exploited. Captain Red had warned him she was a wily negotiator. A bit of rattling might take the edge off her wits. Kennit cocked his head at her and gave a small shrug. “A pity Captain Haven became involved in the slave trade. If he had not made that choice, this ship might still be his. I am sure you are aware of my promise to my people. I will rid the Pirate Isles of slavers. Taking Vivacia was one of my first steps.” He smiled at her.

Her mouth moved slightly, but her agonized questions went unvoiced.

“We are here to negotiate my restoration to Jamaillia City,” the Satrap observed tightly. He had already seated himself at the negotiation table. The others had chosen seats but remained standing, waiting for Kennit. This assumption of protocol did not escape the pirate.

“Of course we are.” Kennit smiled widely. He limped to the head of the table. “Wintrow,” he said, and he obediently drew the chair out and accepted Kennit’s crutch after he was seated. “Please. Be comfortable,” Kennit invited them, and the others took their places. Sorcor was to his right, and Captain Red beyond him. Wintrow claimed the seat to his left. The Satrap and Malta were opposite Kennit. She had regained her composure. She steepled her hands on the table before her and waited.

Kennit settled himself comfortably in his chair. “Of course, your father is still alive and in my custody. Oh, not on this ship, of course. Kyle Haven generated far too much ill-will among the crew for that. But he is quite secure where he is. If we reach a satisfactory finish today, perhaps I shall throw him in as a token to Advisor Malta Vestrit, in humble gratitude for helping us negotiate.”

The Satrap’s boyish face flushed with rage. There. That had divided them. Malta had instantly suppressed it, but hope had flared bright in her eyes. She now had an interest in pleasing Kennit rather than protecting the Satrap.

She drew a sharp breath. Her voice was almost steady. “That is most kind of you, Captain Kennit. But my interests are not those of my family today.” She tried to make eye contact with the Satrap, but he stared stonily at Kennit. “I am here as the Satrap’s most loyal subject,” she finished. She tried to put the ring of truth in her words, but Kennit heard her doubts.

“Of course, my dear. Of course,” he purred.

Now, he was ready to begin.

BRASHEN WAS CATNAPPING ON HIS BUNK. DIVVYTOWN WAS LITTLE MORE THAN a day and a night away. He shifted in his bedding, trying to burrow his way to sleep. He had wrapped himself in Althea’s blanket. It still smelled of her. Instead of soothing him, it made him ache with longing. He feared for her. What if their plans failed? All had gone well the last few days, he reminded himself. The crew’s morale had vastly improved. A day ashore, fresh meat and vegetables, and the triumph of “stealing” Kennit’s mother had restored their faith in themselves. Mother herself seemed to have a cheering effect on them. When weather drove her from the foredeck, she went to the ship’s galley, where she revealed a gift for turning hardtack into a sort of doughy pudding much favored by the crew. Most encouraging to Brashen was that Clef had assured him that the men were putting their hearts into recovering Althea. Some felt loyalty to her; others yearned to regain pride lost at the drubbing they had received from the pirate.

A deep, recurrent sound penetrated Brashen’s mind. Sleep fled. He rolled from his bunk, rubbed his sandy eyes, and thrust his feet into his shoes. He emerged onto the deck into thin winter sunlight and a fresh breeze. Paragon knifed effortlessly through the waves. The crew took up a sudden chorus, and he looked up to see still more canvas blooming on the masts. He suddenly realized what had wakened him. Paragon’s deep voice vibrated the deck with a chantey, marking time for the crew as they hoisted canvas. A shiver went up Brashen’s spine, followed by a lurching lift of his heart. Familiar as he was with how a liveship’s disposition could affect its crew, he was still unprepared for this. The crew aloft was working with good-hearted energy. He hurried forward and encountered Semoy. “Too fine a wind to waste, sir!” the acting mate greeted his captain with a gap-toothed grin. “I think we could see Divvytown before noon tomorrow if we can keep our canvas full!” Squinting with determination, he added, “We’ll get our Althea back, sir. You’ll see.”