Giving Alec a poisonous smile, Ashnazai asked, "I am curious, my lord, as to what your method would have been?"

Mardus clasped his hands behind him, considering the question as coolly as if Ashnazai had asked what he thought the price of grain would be this year. "I often begin with the genitals. While the blood loss is negligible, the pain and emotional anguish are exquisite. Once that level of pain is established, the prisoner is usually quite easy to manipulate. In Alec's case, I could leave him still fit for the slave markets. Only a fool would destroy such a pretty creature unnecessarily."

Trapped at sea in such company, Alec nearly succumbed to despair. By day he was the toy of his executioners. By night the muffled cries that sometimes came up from the hold below increased his sense of helplessness. The few times he dreamed of better days with Seregil or his father only made things worse when he woke up. Lying in the darkness, he would try to recall the smell of their rooms at the Cockerel or the color of Beka's eyes.

Mostly, however, he thought of Seregil and cursed Mardus for the seeds of doubt he'd planted.

"He didn't abandon me. He didn't!" he whispered into the darkness one night when his spirits were at their lowest. He forced himself to recall his friend's grin when Alec had mastered a new skill, the delight Seregil took in tormenting Thero, the grip of Seregil's hand when he'd pulled him back from the edge of the cliff after the ambush below Cirna.

And the way he'd looked that night at the Street of Lights. Alec suddenly remembered the guilty pleasure he'd felt that evening, and later at the casual touch of Seregil's hand resting on his shoulder or the back of his neck.

His cheeks went warm now at the memory of that touch.

It was too painful to think of, now that he'd never feel it again.

"Stop it!" he hissed aloud. "He could come. He could be following right now!"

But not even Micum could track a ship across water.

Foundering in his own misery, Alec pulled the thin blanket around himself and tried to recall fragments of conversation he and Seregil had shared, just to imagine a friendly voice. He dreamed of him that night, although he couldn't recall any particulars when he awoke. But something had come back to him, nonetheless. Seated on the bunk that morning, he chewed his breakfast thoughtfully, summoning various lessons Seregil had instilled in him over the long months of their acquaintance.

Everyone on board considered him powerless, a prisoner of little consequence beyond whatever fate Mardus had in store for him. It was time to put aside fear and begin to pay attention, real attention, to what was going on around him, and then to ask questions—small, inconsequential ones at first—as he tested the water. After all, he wouldn't die any faster for at least trying.

Learn and live, Seregil's voice whispered approvingly at the back of his mind.

The soldiers' newfound wariness of him made it slightly easier to talk to them, though Alec quickly discovered that all that mattered to them was their unswerving loyalty to Mardus, a fact which made any overtures to them pointless. But he did learn that they were making for some point on the northwestern coast of Plenimar.

Later that same morning he made more of an effort at conversation with Mardus during their daily walk, allowing himself to be drawn into a discussion of archery.

The next day they spoke of wines and poisons.

Mardus seemed pleasantly surprised and began sending for him more frequently.

On the fifth day following Gossol's sacrifice, Tildus came for him at sunset.

The bearded captain said nothing, but Alec didn't like the smug, secret smile Tildus gave him as they went above.

On deck Alec saw with alarm that the ritual space had been prepared again. A line of soldiers held torches to illuminate the freshly laid square of canvas where Irtuk Beshar was already bent over the bowl and crown. Beside her, Vargul

Ashnazai stood ready with the stone ax.

Thero was there, too, standing next to Mardus as slack-jawed as ever. All eyes seemed to turn to Alec as he approached.

"O Illior," he whispered hoarsely, feeling his knees go weak. Mardus had had some change of heart, his god had sent different instructions, Alec's questioning had led him into some fatal misstep.

Tildus gripped his arm more tightly and muttered, "Easy, man child. Not your time yet!"

"Good evening, Alec!" Mardus said, smiling as he swept a hand toward the eastern horizon. "Look there, can you make out the coastline in the distance?"

"Yes," Alec replied, a fresh coil of apprehension running up his back at the sight.

"That is Plenimar, our destination. Seriamaius has been kind, guiding us so smoothly along our course. And now it is time for the second act of preparation."

As Alec watched with mounting dread, ten men and women were dragged up on deck by the black-clad marines.

This was the source of the weeping he heard in the night.

This had all been planned in advance, the sacrificial victims packed away in the hold as carefully as the wine and oil and flour.

They were not soldiers, but thin, pale, ordinary-looking souls who blinked and wept as they were herded together near the rail. Most were ragged or dressed as laborers, just innocent victims, he guessed, plucked from the darkened streets of whatever ports the ship had put into before Rhiminee.

"O Illior," Alec whispered as Mardus came to stand beside him, hardly knowing that he spoke aloud. "No, please. Not this."

Mardus slipped an arm around his shoulders and closed his hand over the back of Alec's neck. Giving him a playful shake, he purred, "Ah, but you should savor it. Don't you understand yet how great a part you played in bringing this about?"

Faint with revulsion, Alec made the mistake of looking up at Mardus. For the first time he saw the depths of naked cruelty in his eyes, and in that awful moment he knew as certainly as he'd ever known anything that Mardus had purposefully allowed him to see behind the mask, was delighting in his fear and confusion, savoring it the way another man might savor the first caress of a long-desired lover. And perhaps worse even than this was the conviction that Mardus was nonetheless sane.

Some of the prisoners were staring at Alec, mistaking him for one of their murderers.

He couldn't watch this again. Tildus had moved away when his master had come over, and the rest of the soldiers were watching the ceremony. Jerking out of Mardus' grip, Alec dashed to the rail behind him with some instinctive, half-formed notion of throwing himself overboard, swimming as far as he could toward the shore, giving up if he had to.

He'd gone no more than two paces when a deadly coldness engulfed him, locking his joints, forcing him painfully to his knees. Some unseen power forced his head around to see Vargul Ashnazai holding up a small vial of some sort that hung around his scrawny neck on a chain.

"Nicely done, Vargul Ashnazai," said Mardus. "Move him a bit closer so that he can see."

Unable to turn his head or blink, Alec had no choice but to watch as the ten victims were dragged down onto the deck at Ashnazai's feet. Ten times the blade rose and fell with deadly efficiency and each heart was taken by the dyrmagnos and drained into the reeking cup.

Thero stood just beyond her and through his own helpless tears of rage and impotence, Alec saw tears coursing slowly down Thero's cheeks. It was an eerie sight, like watching a statue weep, but it gave him a sudden thrill of hope in the midst of the nightmare being acted out before him.

The white canvas was scarlet by the time the necromancer had finished. He and the dyrmagnos were smeared to the elbows, their robes sodden, hair matted with it. Blood had soaked across the deck to where Alec knelt, staining his bare knees.