His hand remembered the smallness of her fingers in his. Her head came only to his chin. He pushed away savagely the thought of Malta on a Chalcedean galley. The ways of Chalcedean men and unprotected women were well known. Terrible fear and seething anger rocketed through him. In their wake, he felt weak and negligent. It was all his fault, that she had been so endangered. She could not forgive him. He would not even dare ask it. Even if he rescued her and took her safely home, he doubted that she would ever endure his presence again. Despair roiled in him.

"Such a storm of emotions as humans can evoke, all on the basis of imagination," the dragon observed condescendingly. In a more reflective voice she asked, "Do you do this because you live such short lives? Tell yourselves wild tales of what might happen tomorrow, and feel all the feelings of events that will never happen? Perhaps to make up for the pasts you cannot recall, you invent futures that will not exist."

"Perhaps," Reyn agreed grudgingly. Her amusement stung him. "I suppose dragons never need imagine futures, being so rich with pasts to recall."

She made an odd sound in her throat. He was not sure if she was amused or annoyed at his jab. "I do not need to imagine a future. I know the future that will be. Dragons will be restored to their rightful place as Lords of the Three Realms. We will once more rule the sky, the sea and the land." She closed her eyes.

Reyn mulled over what she had said. "And where is this Land of the Dragons? Upriver from Trehaug, past the Rain Wilds?"

One eye opened halfway. This time he was sure he saw amusement in the silver glints. "Land of the Dragons? As if there were only one, a space defined by boundaries? Now there is a future only a human could imagine. We rule the sky. We rule the sea. And we rule the land. All land, everywhere." The eye started to close again.

"But what about us? What about our cities, our farms, our fields and vineyards?"

The eye slid open again. "What about them? Humans will continue to squabble with other humans about who can harvest plants where, and what cow belongs to whom. That is the way of humanity. Dragons know better. What there is on the earth belongs to the one who eats it first. My kill is my food. Your kill is your food. It is all very simple."

Earlier in the day, he had almost felt love for her. He had marveled at her blue sparkle as she glinted across the sky. She had come to his rescue when the sea bullocks would have killed him and freed her from her promise. Even now, he rested in the shelter she made with her body and the fire. But whenever they approached true companionship, she would say something so arrogant and alien that all he could feel for her was wariness. He closed his eyes but could not sleep for pondering what he had turned loose on the world. If she kept her word and rescued Malta, then he must keep his. He imagined serpents hatching into dragons, and other dragons emerging from the buried city. Was he selling humanity into slavery for the sake of one woman? Try as he would, he could not make it seem too high a price.

MALTA TAPPED ON THE DOOR, THEN HURRIED IN WITHOUT WAITING FOR A reply. She exclaimed in annoyance at the darkness. Two strides carried her across the room. She tugged open the window curtain. "You shouldn't lie about in the dark and pity yourself," she told Cosgo sternly.

He looked up at her from his pallet. His eyes were squinted nearly shut. "I'm dying," he complained hoarsely. "And no one cares. He deliberately makes the ship pitch, I know he does. Just so he can mock me before the crew."

"No, he does not. The Motley just moves like that. He showed me, last night at dinner. It has to do with her hull design. If you would come up on deck, breathe some cool air and look at the water, the motion would not bother you so much."

"You only say that. I know what would help me. Smoke. It is a sure cure for seasickness."

"It's true. I was sick my first two days aboard. Captain Red told me to try that, and I was so desperate that I did. It works. He said it is something about seeing the ship move in relation to the water. When you sit in here and watch the walls, or huddle in the dark, your belly can't make sense of what your head feels."

"Perhaps my belly can't make sense of what my head knows," Cosgo retorted. "I am the Magnadon Satrap of all Jamaillia. Yet a ragtag gang of pirates holds me prisoner in appalling conditions. I hold the Pearl Throne: I am Beloved of Sa. I am descended of a thousand wise rulers dating back to the beginning of the world. Yet you speak to me as if I were a child, and do not even grant me the courtesy of formal address." He turned his face to the wall. "Death is better. Let me die and then the world will rise up in wrath and punish all of you for what you have done."

Every shred of sympathy that Malta had for him vanished beneath his wave of self-pity. Appalling conditions indeed. He meant that his room was small and that no one but herself would wait on him. It irked him most that she had been given her own chamber. The Motley was not a capacious ship, but these particular pirates assigned a high priority to comfort. She had intended to coax him to the captain's table. She abandoned the idea but made a final effort. "You would do better to show a bit of spirit rather than sulking like a child and imagining some future revenge on behalf of your dead body. Right now, the name you carry is the only thing that makes you valuable to them. Stand up and show them there is a man behind that title. Then they may respect you."

"The respect of pirates, murderers and thieves! Now there is a lofty goal for me." He rolled to face her. His face was pale and thin. His eyes roved up and down her disgustedly. "And do they respect you for how quickly you have turned on me? Do they respect how swiftly you whored yourself to them for the sake of your life?"

The old Malta would have slapped his insolent staring face. But the new Malta could ignore insults, swallow affront and adapt to any situation. This Malta would survive. She shook out the bright skirts she wore, red layered upon yellow over blue. Her stockings were red and white stripes, very warm. Her shirt was white, but the vest that buttoned snugly over it was both yellow and red. She had pieced it together herself last night. The scraps of the garments she had cannibalized to make it now formed her new headwear.

"I will be late," she told him coolly. "I will bring you something to eat later."

"I shall have small appetite for your scraps and leavings," he told her sourly. As she reached the door he added, "Your 'hat' doesn't fit well. It doesn't cover your scar."

"It wasn't intended to." She did not look back at him.

"Bring me some smoking herbs instead!" he suddenly yelled. "I know that they have some on board. They must! You lie when you say that they have none. They are the only thing that can settle my belly, and you deliberately keep them from me. You witless whore! You stupid female!"

Outside, the door shut firmly behind her, she leaned against the wall and took a long breath. Then, she lifted her skirts and ran. Captain Red disliked folk coming late to his table.

At the door, she paused to catch her breath. In a habit from another world, she pinched up her cheeks to rosy them and patted her hair into place. She hastily smoothed her skirts, and then entered. They were all seated at table already. Captain Red fixed her with a grave stare. She dropped a low curtsey. "Your pardon, sirs. I was detained."

"Indeed." The captain's single word was his only reply. She hastened to take her place at his left hand. The first mate, a man intricately tattooed from brow to throat, sat to his right. Captain Red's own small tattoo was subtler, done in yellow ink that scarcely showed unless one knew to look for it. While slave actors and musicians were prized as possessions, their owners usually refrained from obvious ownership tattoos that might detract from their performances. The Motley's crew was largely composed of an acting troupe that had been freed by Captain Kennit.