A few nights ago, the dream had been different. It had been so real, almost like the shared visions of the dream-box. He had outstretched his hands to grasp hers. "Malta, reach for me!" he had begged. "Help me come to you." But, even in the dream, she had known it was useless. She had clasped her hands behind her, and hidden her shame from him. Better never to touch him again than to see pity or revulsion on his face. She had awakened sobbing, stabbed by the sweetness of his voice. That dream had been worst of all.
When she thought of Reyn, her heart ached. She touched her lips, remembering a stolen kiss, the fabric of his veil a soft barrier between their mouths. But every sweet memory was edged with a hundred sharp regrets. Too late, she told herself. Forever too late.
With a sigh, she lifted her head and opened her eyes. So. Here she was, on a ship, bound Sa knows where, dressed in rags, scar-faced, stripped of her rights and rank as a Trader's daughter, and in the company of an insufferable prig of a boy. She certainly couldn't depend on him to do anything to better their circumstances. All he did was lie on the bunk and whimper that this was no way to treat the Satrap of all Jamaillia. Clearly, he had not yet grasped that they were the prisoners of the Chalcedeans.
She looked at Cosgo and tried to see him impartially. He had grown pale and bony. Now that she thought of it, he had not even complained much the last day or so. He no longer tried to groom himself. When they had first come aboard, he had tried to keep up his appearance. With no combs or brushes, he had directed Malta to groom his unbound hair with her fingers. She had done so, but had scarcely managed to conceal her distaste. He had enjoyed her touch too obviously, leaning his body back against her as she sat on the edge of his bed. In grotesque flirtation, he had mocked her, foretelling that someday she would brag to others of how she had attended the Satrap in his hardship. But he would tell all how miserably she had failed as both a dutiful subject and a woman. Unless… And then he had seized her wrist and tried to guide it where she would not let it go. She had jerked free of him and retreated.
But all of that had been before the seasickness mastered him. Since he had become sick, he had grown quieter every day. A sudden worry shook her. If he died, what would become of her? Dimly, she recalled something Kekki had said, back on the galley… She knit her brow, and the words came back to her. "His status will protect us, if we protect it." Abruptly she sat up straight and stared at him. She did not need to be a Bingtown Trader here; to survive on this ship, she must think like a woman of Chalced.
Malta went to the bunk and stood over the Satrap. His closed eyelids were dark; he clutched feebly at the blanket with thin hands. As much as she disliked him, she found she pitied him. What had she been thinking, to imagine that he could do anything for them? If anyone was to better their situation, it would have to be her. It was what the Satrap expected, that his Companions would care for his needs. More, she realized, it was what the Chalcedeans had expected. She had cowered in their room while she should have angrily demanded good treatment for her man. Chalcedeans would not respect a man whose own woman doubted his power. The Satrap had been right. She, not he, had condemned them to this miserable treatment. She only hoped it was not too late to salvage his status.
She dragged the blanket away from him despite his mumbled protest. As she had seen her mother do when Selden was sick, she set her hand to the Satrap's brow, and then felt under his arms, but found no fever or swellings. Very gently, she tapped his cheek until his eyes cracked open. The whites were yellowish, and when he spoke, his breath was foul. "Leave me alone," he moaned, groping for the blankets.
"If I do, I fear you will die, illustrious one." She tried for the tone that Kekki had always used with him. "It grieves me beyond words to see you misused this way. I shall risk myself and go to the captain myself to protest this." The thought of venturing out alone terrified her, yet she knew it was their only chance. She rehearsed the words that she hoped she'd be brave enough to say to the man's face. "He is a fool, to treat the Satrap of all Jamaillia so shamefully. He deserves to die, and his honor and name with him."
The Satrap's eyes opened wider and he stared at her in dull surprise. He blinked and sparks of righteous anger began to bum in his eyes. Good. If she played her role well enough, he would have to live up to it with disdain of his own. She took a breath.
"Even on this tub of a ship, they should be able to provide better for you! Does the captain reside in a bare room, with no comfort or beauty? I doubt it. Does he eat coarse food; does he smoke stable straw? Whatever balm for the soul he enjoys should have been offered you when you boarded. Day after cruel day, you have waited with patience for them to treat you as you deserve. If the wrath of all Jamaillia falls upon them now, they have only themselves to blame. You have practiced the very patience of Sa himself. Now I shall demand that they right this disgrace." She crossed her arms on her chest. "What is the Chalcedean word for 'captain'?"
Consternation touched his face. He took a breath. "Leu-fay."
"Leu-fay," she repeated. She paused and looked more closely at the Satrap. Tears of either self-pity or amazement had welled to his eyes. She covered him, snuggling the blankets around him as if he were Selden. A strange resolve had wakened in her. "Rest now, lordly one. I shall prepare myself, and then I shall see that you are treated as the Satrap of Jamaillia deserves, or die trying." That last, she feared, was true.
When his eyes sagged shut again, she stood and went to work. The robe she wore was the same one she had worn since the night she had left Trehaug. She had managed to rinse it out once on board the galley. The hem hung in tatters, and it was stained with hard use. She took it off, and with fingers and teeth she tore the dangling pieces away. She shook it well, and rubbed the worst of the dirt from it before putting it back on. It left her legs bared from the knees down, but that could not be helped. She used the scraps from her robe to fashion a long braid of material. She combed her hair as best she could with her fingers, and then fashioned the braided fabric into a head wrap for herself. Covering her hair, she hoped, would make her appear older, as well as concealing most of her scar. There was some water in the pitcher. She used a scrap of material as a washcloth to cleanse her face and hands, and then her feet and legs.
With a bitter smile, she recalled how carefully she had prepared herself for her Presentation Ball, and how she had fretted over her madeover gown and slippers. "Attitude and bearing," Rache had counseled her then. "Believe you are beautiful, and so will everyone else." She had not been able to believe the slave woman. Now her words were Malta's only hope.
When she had done her best, she composed herself. Stand straight, head up. Imagine little brocade slippers on her feet, rings on her fingers, a crown of blossoms on her head. She fixed her eyes angrily on the door and addressed it firmly. "Leu-fay!" she demanded of it. She took a deep breath, then another. On the third she walked to the door, lifted the latch and went out.
She ventured down a long walkway lit only by a swaying lantern at the other end. The shadows shifted with the light, making it difficult to keep her regal bearing. She walked between stowed cargo. The variety of it aroused her suspicions. Honest merchant ships did not carry such a wide spectrum of goods, nor would they stow them so haphazardly. Pirates or raiders, she told herself, though perhaps they thought otherwise of themselves. Was the Satrap no more to them than plunder to be sold to the highest bidder? The thought nearly sent her back to the room. Then she told herself that she would still demand that he be treated well. Surely, such a trade good would command a better price if it were in the best possible condition.