A sudden shock sent her crashing against the bed. She caught her breath and then held it, listening. The sounds on the deck above had changed. The tread of feet and angry shouts and wild cries. Had they been rammed? Were they being boarded even now? She snatched a breath. "Lordly one, I think we were wise to hurry."

"Very well." With a martyred sigh, he pushed his blankets aside. He held his arms out from his sides. "You may garb me."

TINTAGLIA SHOOK HIM. REYN OPENED HIS EYES, AND SAW THE WRINKLED shimmer of dark water far below him. He cried out in terror and clutched wildly at the claws that held him.

"That's better," the dragon proclaimed mercilessly. "I thought you were dead. I had forgotten that humans are not so well attached to their bodies as dragons are. When you venture too far from them, you can lose your way back."

Reyn clung sickly to her claws. He felt dizzy, cold and small, but he did not think it was the effect of the flight. He suspected he had been unconscious. He tried to reach back to the last thing he could remember. It eluded him. He stared down, and suddenly made sense of what he was seeing. "Are those galleys down there Chalcedean? What are they doing, where are they bound?" There were seven of them, moving southward in formation like a V of geese.

"How can you expect me to know such things? Or care?" She glanced down almost idly. "I have seen many such ships moving southward through these waters. I chased them away from Bingtown, as I agreed to do. But there are far too many for one dragon to disperse them all." She seemed offended that he had forced her to admit this. She diverted the topic. "I thought all your concerns were for Malta?"

"They are," he said faintly. "But those ships…" He let his words trail away. He grasped what he should have seen all along. Chalced's move was not just against the Rain Wilds and Bingtown. Chalced had been heavily involved with the New Traders against the Satrap. That they had turned on the New Traders meant only that Chalced was treating allies as it always did. Now Chalced was moving against Jamaillia, in force. Bingtown was but a stop along the way, a place to cripple and occupy so that Chalced would not have an enemy at its back while it went after bigger prey. He stared down at the ships. Many like those, Tintaglia had said. Jamaillia's sea power had been declining for almost a decade. He did not know if Jamaillia could wage war against Chalced, let alone win such a struggle. Could Bingtown survive the disruption to trade that such a war would wreak? His mind spun with the implications of all he saw.

Tintaglia was annoyed. "Well. Did you find your mate? Could you tell where she was?"

He swallowed. "Somewhat." He sensed her impatience with his answer. "A moment," he begged her. He took deep breaths of the cold air, hoping it would restore him while he tried to make sense of the fragmented dream-memory. "She was on a ship," he told the dragon. "A deep-hulled ship, from the motion, not a galley. Yet she said it was Chalcedean." He knit his brows. "Did not you sense that also?"

"I was not that attentive," she replied carelessly. "So. A Chalcedean ship. A large one. There are many like that. Where?"

"Bound for Jamaillia."

"Oh, that's helpful."

"South. Fly south over the Inside Passage."

"And when we fly over the ship she is in, you will simply know it," the dragon continued skeptically. "And what then?"

He stared down at the water below his toes. "Then, somehow, you will help me rescue her. And take her home with us."

The dragon made a rumble of displeasure. "A foolish and impossible errand. We waste time, Reyn. We should go back now."

"No. Not without Malta," he replied adamantly. To her silently simmering anger, he retorted, "What you ask of me is just as foolish and impossible. You demand that I slog through the Rain Wild swamps and somehow locate a city engulfed Sa alone knows how many years ago, and that I then somehow rescue any cocooned dragons buried deep within it."

"Are you saying now that you can't do that?" The dragon was outraged.

He gave a snort of laughter. "One impossible quest at a time. You first."

"I will keep my word," she promised sulkily.

He regretted having offended her. That was not the way to win her best effort. "I know you will keep your word," he assured her. He took a breath. "I have touched souls with you, Tintaglia. You are too great-hearted to go back on your promise."

She did not reply, but he sensed her mollification. Why she found such gratification in praise, he had no idea, but it was a small price to pay. She bore him on, her wide wings beating steadily. He became aware of the working of a mighty heart inside her chest. Where she clasped him against her, he was warm. He felt a surge of confidence in both of them. They would find Malta, and they would bring her safely home. He gripped her claws in his hands, and ignored the ache of his swinging legs.

MALTA'S HANDS SHOOK AS SHE TWITCHED HIS JACKET STRAIGHT. A DEEP-VOICED cry of agony resounded through the deck. She clenched her teeth against it and tried to believe the Chalcedeans were winning. She had suddenly discovered that she preferred the known danger to the unknown. Gently, she tugged the Satrap's collar straight. There. The Satrap of all Jamaillia, Heir to the Pearl Throne, Magnadon Satrap Cosgo was now presentable. The Satrap regarded himself in the small mirror she lifted. Unruffled by the smothered sounds of fighting, he smoothed the thin line of his moustache. Something fell heavily to the deck above them. "I will go up now," he announced.

"I don't think that's wise. It's battle up there, can't you hear it?" She had spoken too hastily. He set his jaw stubbornly.

"I am not a coward!" he declared.

No. Only an idiot. "Lordly one, you must not risk yourself!" she begged him. "I know you do not fear for yourself, but consider Jamaillia, bereft and lost as a rudderless ship if aught should befall you."

"You are a fool," the Satrap told her tolerantly. "What man would dare to physically assault the Satrap of Jamaillia? Those pirate dogs may dispute my rule, but only from a safe distance. When they look me in the face, they will cower in shame."

He actually believed it. Malta gawked in stunned silence as he walked to the door. He paused, waiting for her to open it for him. Perhaps that was the solution. Maybe if she didn't open the door for him, he would simply stay in the room. But after a long frozen moment, he scowled at her and announced, "I suppose I must do everything for myself," and opened it. She trailed after him in sick fascination.

As she stood at the foot of the ladder that led to the deck, she reflected that the hatch cover might save him. It was always hard to lift and slide; perhaps it would defeat him. But when he was halfway up the ladder, the hatch opened, and a square of sunlight fell down onto them. A bare-chested man glared down at them. The spread-winged raven tattooed on his chest was spattered with fresh blood, seemingly not his own. Slave tattoos sprawled across his face and down one side of his neck. The knife he held dripped red. Then his wide-eyed stare changed to a whoop of delight.

"Hey, Cap! Come see what pretty birds I've found caged below!" To the Satrap and Malta, he barked, "Come on up here and don't be slow!"

As the Satrap emerged from the hatch, the pirate seized him by the arm and hauled him onto the deck. The Satrap cursed and struck out at the man, who sent him sprawling with a careless shove. As he grabbed Malta, she set her teeth and refused to cry out. She glared at him as he lifted her by one arm and swung her onto the deck. She landed on her feet beside the Satrap. Without taking her eyes from the gloating pirate, she stooped down, seized the Satrap by his upper arm and helped him to his feet.