She went up a short ladder, and found herself in a room full of men. It stank of sweat and smoke. Hammocks swung nearby, some with snoring occupants. One man mended canvas trousers in the corner. Three others were seated around a crate, with a game of pegs scattered across the top of it. As she entered, they all turned to stare. One, a blond man of about her age, dared to grin. His grimy striped shirt was opened halfway down his chest. She lifted her chin, and reminded herself once more of her glittering rings and blossom crown. She neither smiled nor looked away from him. Instead, she reached for her mother's disapproving stare when she encountered idle servants. "Leu-fay."

"Leufay?" a grizzled old man at the game table asked incredulously. His eyebrows leapt toward his balding pate in astonishment. The other man at the table chuckled.

Malta did not allow her face to change expression. Only her eyes became colder. "Leu-fay!" she insisted.

With a shrug and a sigh, the blond man stood. As he advanced toward her, she forced herself to stand her ground. She had to look up at him to meet his eyes. It was hard to keep her bearing. When he reached for her arm, she slapped his hand away contemptuously. Eyes blazing, she touched two fingers to her breast. "Satrap's," she told him coldly. "Leu-fay. Right now!" she snapped, not caring if they understood her words or not. The blond man glanced back at his companions and shrugged, but he did not try to touch her again. Instead, he pointed past her. A flip of her hand indicated that he should lead the way. She did not think she could stand to have anyone behind her.

He led her swiftly through the ship. A ladder took them up through a hatch onto a wind-washed deck. Her senses were dazzled by the fresh cold air and the smell of salt water and the sun sinking to its rest behind a bank of rosy clouds. Her heart leapt. South. The ship was taking them south, toward Jamaillia, not north to Chalced. Was there any chance a Bingtown ship might see them and try to stop them? She slowed her steps, hoping to catch sight of land, but the sea merged with clouds at the horizon. She could not even guess where they were. She lengthened her stride to catch up with her guide.

He took her to a tall, brawny man who was directing several crewmembers splicing lines. The sailor bobbed his head to the man, indicated Malta, and rattled off something, in which Malta caught the word "leu-fay." The man ran his eyes up and down her in a familiar way, but she returned his look with a haughty stare. "What you want?" he asked her.

It took every grain of her courage. "I will speak to your captain." She guessed that the sailor had taken her to the mate.

"Tell me what you want." His accent was heavy, but the words were clear.

Malta folded her hands on her chest. "I will speak to your captain." She spoke slowly and distinctly as if he might be merely stupid.

"Tell me, "he insisted.

It was her turn to look him up and down. "Certainly not!" she snapped. She tossed her head, turned with a motion that she and Delo had practiced since they were nine years old (it would have flounced the skirts on a proper gown), then walked away from them all, keeping her head high and trying to breathe past her hammering heart. She was trying to remember which hatch they had come up when he called out, "Wait!"

She halted. Slowly she turned her head to look back at him over her shoulder. She raised one brow questioningly.

"Come back. I take you Captain Deiari." He made small hand motions to be sure she understood.

She let him flap his hand at her several times before returning, at a dignified pace.

The captain's quarters in the stern were resplendent compared to the chamber she shared with the Satrap. There was a large bay window, a thick rug on the floor and several comfortable chairs, and the chamber smelled sweetly of tobacco smoke and other herbs. In one corner, the captain's bed boasted a fat feather mattress as well as thick coverlets and even a throw of thick white fur. Books leaned against one another on a shelf, and several glass decanters held liquors of various colors.

The captain himself was seated in one of the comfortable chairs, his legs stretched out before him and a book in his hands. He wore a shirt of soft gray wool over heavy trousers. Thick socks shielded his feet from the cold; his sturdy wet boots were by the door. Malta longed for such warm, dry, clean clothing. He looked up in annoyance as they entered. At the sight of her, he barked a rough question at the mate. Before the man could reply, Malta cut in smoothly.

"Deiari Leu-fay. At the merciful Satrap Cosgo's pleasure, I have come to offer you the chance to correct your mistakes before they become irredeemable." She met his eyes, her gaze cold, and waited.

He let her wait. A chilling certainty grew in her; she had miscalculated. He was going to have her killed and thrown overboard. She let only the coldness show on her face. Jewels on her fingers, a crown of blossoms, no, of thick gold on her brow. It was heavy; she lifted her chin to bear the weight and watched the man's pale eyes.

"The merciful Satrap Cosgo," the man finally said colorlessly. His words were clear, unaccented.

Malta gave a tiny nod of acknowledgment. "He is a more patient man than many. When first we came aboard, he excused your lack of courtesy toward him. Surely, he told me, the captain is busy with all the men he has taken aboard. He has reports to hear, and decisions to consider. The Satrap knows what it is to command, you see. He said to me, 'Contain your impatience at this insult to me. When he has had time to prepare a proper reception, then the leufay will send an envoy to this poor cabin, little better than a kennel, that he has provided for me. Then, as day after day passed, he found excuse after excuse for you. Perhaps you have been ill; perhaps you did not wish to disturb him while he was recovering his own strength. Perhaps you were ignorant as to the full honor that should be accorded him.

"As a man, he makes little of personal discomfort. What is a bare floor or poor food compared to the hardships he endured in the Rain Wilds? Yet as his loyal servant, I am offended for him. Charitably, he supposes that what you have offered him is your best." She paused, and looked about the chamber slowly. "Such a tale this will make in Jamaillia," she observed quietly, as if to herself.

The captain came to his feet. He rubbed the side of his nose nervously, then made a dismissive wave to the mate who still stood at the door. The man whisked himself out of sight immediately, and the door shut solidly behind him. Malta could smell the tang of sudden sweat, but the captain appeared outwardly calm.

"It was such a wild tale, I scarcely gave it credit. This man is truly the Satrap of all Jamaillia?"

She gambled. All pleasantness faded from her face as she lowered her voice to an accusation. "You know that he is. To profess ignorance of his rank is a poor excuse, sir."

"And I suppose you are a lady of his court, then?"

She met his sarcasm squarely. "Of course not. My accent is Bingtown, as I am sure you know. I am the humblest of his servants, honored to serve him in his hour of need. I am acutely aware of my unworthiness." She gambled again. "The demise of his Companion Kekki on board a Chalcedean galley has grieved him greatly. Not that he blames the captain of the galley. But surely if first his Companion, and then the Satrap himself dies in Chalcedean hands, it will speak poorly of your hospitality." Very softly, she added, "It may even be seen as political intent, in some circles."

"If any were to hear of it," the captain pointed out heavily. Malta wondered if she had overplayed her game. But his next question re-armed her. "What, exactly, were you doing up that river anyway?"