Traveling in disguise always posed complications, but Seregil was finding his current role more restrictive than usual. Rhal's inopportune attentions were more than he felt up to dealing with in his present state. The captain found frequent opportunities to make himself available to Lady Gwethelyn, noting points of interest along the shore, inquiring after her comfort, suggesting innumerable diversions for her young squire. He accepted her apologies graciously enough, but was firm in his intention to entertain them at supper that evening.

Soon after the midday meal, Seregil excused himself and spent the remainder of the afternoon dozing in the cabin.

By the time Alec roused him to prepare for dinner he was feeling considerably better.

"Sorry to leave you on your own up there," he apologized as Alec worked at a knotted lacing on his gown. "Tomorrow we'll find a way to get in some training. Lady Gwethelyn can keep to her cabin with her squire in attendance. Swordplay would be rather awkward down here, but I'm sure we can come up with something. More signing and palming tricks, maybe. That's something you have to keep at or you'll lose it."

Wriggling out of the wrinkled garment, he lifted a fresh gown from the trunk and dropped it over his head.

When Alec had pulled the lacings snug, he carefully draped a gauzy wimple over his hair, binding it with a silk cord and arranging the folds to spread gracefully over his shoulders. In addition to the garnet ring, he added a heavy chain of twisted gold and large pearl earrings.

"Illior's Fingers, I'm famished," he said as he finished. "I hope I can manage to eat in a ladylike fashion. What's for supper? Alec?"

The boy was regarding him with a perplexed expression.

Blushing a bit, he blinked and replied, "We're having stewed fowl. I dressed out the birds for the cook while you were asleep." He paused, then added with a grin, "And from what I heard from the sailors today, this disguise of yours is working."

"Oh? What did they have to say?"

"The cook claims he's never seen the captain so taken with a woman. Some of the others are taking bets on whether he'll have his way with you before we reach Nanta."

"Highly unlikely. I trust you to see to your duty, Squire Ciris, until we're safely ashore."

Rhal opened the door at their knock.

He'd donned a fusty velvet coat for the occasion and had given his beard a proper trimming as well.

With an inward groan, Seregil presented his hand and allowed himself to be escorted in.

"Welcome, dear lady!" Rhal exclaimed, pointedly ignoring Alec as he drew Seregil's arm through his own. "I hope you'll find everything to your liking."

A small table stood neatly set for three, the wine already poured, fine wax candles alight in place of the malodorous oil lanterns.

"Why, you look fresh as a spring rose at dawn," he went on, seating Seregil with practiced courtesy. "It pained me to see you looking so peaked this afternoon."

"I'm much better, thank you," Seregil murmured. Alec gave him a quick wink behind Rhal's back.

Both fowl and wine proved to be excellent.

Conversation during the meal was somewhat strained, however.

Rhal made little effort to include Alec, and replied somewhat stiffly when the boy made several pointed allusions to Lady Gwethelyn's fictitious husband. Having grown accustomed to his part, Alec was clearly beginning to revel in it.

"You must give us news from the south, Captain,"

Seregil interjected when a particularly grim pause threatened.

"Well, I suppose you've heard about the Plenimarans?" Rhal took a large, blackened pipe from a nearby rack. "With your permission, my lady? Thank you. Before we sailed from Nanta the week before last, news came through that the old Overlord, Petasarian, was ailing again and not expected to last long. That bodes ill for the rest of us, if you ask me. Being Skalan born, I don't care much for the Plenimarans, but Petasarian has held to the treaties these last five years. That heir of his, young Klystis, is another matter. They say he's been ruling in all but name this last year, and it looks to most like he's sharpening up the swords again. Rumor has it that he may even have a hand in the old man's illness, if you take my meaning. What I pick up along the coast is that there's a good many in Plenimar who think the Twelfth Treaty of Kouros should never have been signed, and that those who say so are anxious to get Petasarian out of the way so his son can set things to rights."

"Do you think there could be a war?" Seregil effortlessly counterfeited feminine alarm.

Rhal puffed sagely at his pipe. "Skala and Plenimar hardly know what to do with themselves when they're not killing each other off, though I hold the Plenimarans are generally the ones to kick the beehive. Yes, I think they're getting ready to go at it again, and mark my words, this time it'll be a bad one. Those that have business over that way say that there's an uncommon amount of ship building going on in Plenimaran ports. The press gangs are out in force, too. Sailors are getting shy of taking shore leave there."

This was fresh news to Seregil, but before he could pursue it further they were interrupted by the cabin boy who'd been sent in to clear the table. While the cloth was being changed, Rhal unlocked a small cabinet over his bunk and brought out a dusty decanter and three small pewter cups.

"Aged Zengati brandy. Quite rare," he confided as he poured. "My trade connections in Nanta give me access to a good many luxuries of this sort. Come, Squire Ciris, let's drink the health of our most excellent lady. May she continue to delight the eye and gladden the heart of those privileged to look upon her."

Though he spoke to Alec, his gaze never left Seregil's face as he raised his cup to his lips.

Seregil lowered his eyes modestly, sipping at the fiery spirit.

Alec lifted his cup again, adding with apparently ingenuous gallantry, "And to the fair child she carries, my next cousin!"

Rhal choked on his brandy, going into a brief coughing fit. Seregil looked up in startled amusement, but managed to compose himself by the time Rhal recovered.

"I would not have spoken of it had not my dear cousin, in his youthful enthusiasm, broached the indelicate subject," Seregil murmured, setting his cup aside. Mycenian ladies of quality were noted for their modesty and discretion.

But Rhal was clearly less put off than Alec had intended. Seregil could guess at the new train of thought behind those dark eyes.

After all, if a woman's already plowed and planted and still has a pleasing shape, what harm can be done?

"My lady, I had no idea!" he said, patting her hand with renewed warmth.

The cook entered with a tray of covered bowls and Rhal set one in front of him. "No wonder you've been off your feet. Perhaps the dessert will be more to your liking."

"Indeed?" Seregil lifted the lid from his dish with a small expectant smile, then froze, the color draining from his face. Inside maggots writhed over severed ears, eyes, and tongues. A hot wave of nausea and panic rolled over him. Dropping the lid with a clatter, he rushed from the room.

"Don't be alarmed, boy!" he heard Rhal say behind him. "It's quite common in her condition—" Reaching the rail, he sagged over it and vomited up his supper, dimly aware that Alec was at his side.

"What's wrong?" the boy demanded in an urgent whisper when he'd finished.

"Get me below," groaned Seregil. "Get me below now!"

Alec half carried him down the companionway to their cabin, where Seregil collapsed on the bunk and buried his face in his hands.

"What happened?" Alec pleaded, hovering anxiously over him. "Should I go for the captain, or fetch some brandy?"

Seregil shook his head violently, then raised his head to look up at the boy. "What did you see?"