some of your time.’ A superior smile curled the corners of his mouth. His voice was unctuous with false kindness. ‘Remember, Malta. On this ship, you might as well be in Chalced. On this boat, if you are not mine, then you are no man’s woman. And in Chalced, no man’s woman is every man’s woman.’
Malta had heard the saying before, but never fully grasped what it meant. She clenched her jaws together. Kekki’s rusty voice turned Malta’s eyes back to her. ‘The Magnadon Satrap Cosgo speaks truth, girl. Stand up. If you would save yourself, be a servant.’ She sighed in a breath and added cryptically, ‘Remember my promise to you, and heed me. We all need to live, if any of us are to survive. His status will protect us, if we protect it.’
The Satrap kicked the last of his garments aside. His pale body was shocking to Malta. She had seen the bare chests of dockworkers and farmhands before, but never had she seen a man completely naked. Against her will, her eyes were drawn down to his loins. She had heard it called a manhood; she had expected more of it than a bobbing pink stalk in a nest of curly hair. The dangling member looked wormy and unhealthy to her; were all men made so? It appalled her. What woman could bear to have a repulsive thing like that touch her body? She snatched her gaze away. He did not seem to notice her distaste. Instead, he complained, ‘Where is that bath water? Malta, go and ask what the delay is.’
There was a knock at the doorframe before Malta had time to refuse. She stood hastily, despising herself for her capitulation. The door flap was pushed open and the ship’s boy entered, kicking a wooden tub across the deck before him while toting two buckets of water. He set down his burdens and stared at the Satrap as if he, too, had never seen a naked man. Malta privately wondered if it were the Satrap’s paleness or the slack slenderness of his body. Even Selden had more muscle to his chest than the Satrap did. Behind the boy came another sailor bearing a tray of food. He glanced about, then handed it to Malta, but a flip of his hand indicated that it was intended for Kekki. Boy and sailor exited.
‘Give her the food,’ the Satrap snapped as Malta stared at the water, ship’s biscuit and thin broth on the tray. ‘Then get over here and pour my bath water.’ As he spoke, he stepped into the shallow tub and crouched down. He hunkered there, waiting. Malta glared at him. She was trapped and she knew it.
She crossed the room and clacked the tray onto the floor beside Kekki. The woman reached out and took up a piece of hard ship’s biscuit. Then she set it down, pillowed her head on her arms, and closed her eyes. ‘I am so tired,’ she whispered hoarsely. For the first time, Malta noticed the glistening of fresh blood at the corner of Kekki’s mouth. She knelt beside the Companion.
‘How much river water did you drink?’ she asked her. But Kekki only sighed deeply and was still. Timidly, Malta touched her hand. Kekki made no response.
‘Never mind her. Get over here and pour my water.’
Malta looked longingly at the food. Without turning, she lifted the bowl of broth and drank half of it greedily. Moisture and warmth in one. It was wonderful. She broke off a chunk of ship’s bread and put it to her mouth. It was hard and dry and coarse, but it was food. She gnawed at it.
‘Obey me now. Or I shall call the sailor who wants you.’
Malta remained where she was. She swallowed the bite of ship’s biscuit. She took up the flagon of water and drank half of it. She would be honourable. She would leave half for Kekki. She glanced at the Satrap. He crouched, naked, in the shallow tub. His tousled hair and windburned face made it look as if his head did not belong with his pale body. ‘Do you know,’ she asked conversationally, ‘how much you look like a plucked chicken in a roasting pan?’
The Satrap’s chapped face suddenly mottled red with fury. ‘How dare you mock me?’ he demanded angrily. ‘I am the Satrap of all Jamaillia and I –’
‘And I am the daughter of a Bingtown Trader, and will one day be a Bingtown Trader.’ She shook her head at him. ‘I do believe my Aunt Althea was right after all. We owe Jamaillia no allegiance. I certainly feel no obligation to a skinny youth who cannot even wash himself.’
‘You? You think you are a Bingtown Trader, little girl. But in reality, do you know what you are? Dead. Dead to everyone who ever knew you. Will they even look for you down this river? No. They’ll mourn you for a week or so and then forget you. It will be as if you never existed. They’ll never know what became of you. I’ve spoken to the captain. He is turning the boat downriver. They were exploring upriver, but now that they have rescued me, of course their plans have changed. We’ll rejoin his fellows at the river mouth, and make straight for Jamaillia. You’ll never see Bingtown again. So. This is your life now, and the best you’ll get. So choose now, Malta Vestrit, once of Bingtown. Live as a servant. Or die as a used-up slattern, thrown off a war galley.’
The biscuit suddenly stuck in Malta’s throat. In his cold smile, she saw the truth of what he said. Her past had been torn away from her. This was her life now. She rose slowly, and walked across the room. She looked down at the man who would rule her, crouched incongruously at her feet. He gestured disdainfully at the buckets. She looked at them, wondering what she would do. It suddenly seemed all so distant. She was so weary and so hopeless. She didn’t want to be a servant, nor did she want to be used and discarded by a boatload of filthy Chalcedean sailors. She wanted to live. She would do what she must to survive.
She picked up the steaming bucket. She stepped up to the Satrap’s tub and poured a slow stream of water over him till he sighed in pleasure at the running warmth. A sudden waft of the steam made Malta smile. The idiots had heated river water for his bath. She should have guessed. A ship this size would not carry a vast supply of fresh water. They would conserve what they had. The Chalcedeans evidently knew they could not drink river water, but did not realize they should not bathe in it, for they probably did not bathe at all. They would not know what it would do to him. Tomorrow, blisters would cover him.
She smiled sweetly as she asked, ‘Shall I pour the second bucket over you as well?’
ALTHEA GLANCED ABOUT the deck; all was running smoothly. The wind was steady, and Haff was on the wheel. The sky overhead was a clear deep blue. Amidships, six sailors were methodically moving through a rote series of attacks and parries with sticks. Although they weren’t putting much spirit into it, Brashen seemed satisfied with the form and accuracy they achieved. Lavoy moved among them, chastising and correcting loudly. She shook her head to herself. She did not claim to know anything of fighting, but this set routine baffled her. No battle could be as orderly as the give and take of blows the sailors practised, nor as calm and unhurried as the archery practice that had preceded it. How could it be useful? Nevertheless, she kept her mouth shut, and when it was her turn, she drilled with the rest of them, and tried to put her heart into it. She was becoming a fair shot with the light bow allotted to her. Still, it was hard to believe that any of it would be useful in a real fight.
She hadn’t taken her doubts to Brashen. Lately her feelings for him had been running warmer. She would not tempt herself with private conferences with him. If he could control himself, then so could she. It was merely a matter of respect. She listened to the rhythmic clacking of the mock swords as Clef paced them with a chantey. If nothing else, she told herself, it kept the crew out of mischief. The Paragon carried more than a working crew, for Brashen had hired enough men to fight as well as run the ship, and extras to allow for losses. The stow-away slaves had swelled their population even more. The cramped quarters bred idle quarrelling when the men were not kept busy.
Satisfied that nothing required her immediate attention, she sprang to the mast. She pushed herself
