Then she saw Wintrow standing at the railing. Unbelieving, she came halfway to her feet. "Wintrow!" she called wildly to her brother. He stared at her stupidly. A glimpse of gold hair on a tall figure made her heart leap with hope, but it was not her father who looked down on her, but a woman. The Satrap scowled at her for her lack of decorum, but she ignored him. Anxiously she scanned the waiting folk, hoping against hope that Kyle Haven would step forward and call her name. Instead, the hand that lifted suddenly and pointed at her belonged unmistakably to her Aunt Althea.

ALTHEA LEANED FORWARD PRECARIOUSLY ON THE RAILING. SHE GRIPPED JEK'S forearm and pointed emphatically at the girl in the boat. "Sa's Breath! It's Malta!" she exclaimed.

"It can't be!" Wintrow joined his aunt at the railing and peered down at the girl. "She does look very like Malta," he faltered.

"Who is this Malta?" Kennit asked despite himself.

"My little sister," Wintrow observed faintly as every stroke of the oars brought her closer. "She looks very like her. But it cannot be."

"Well, it would be an extraordinary coincidence. But we shall soon see," Kennit replied blithely. The wind seemed to echo his words in a whisper. His stomach tightened and he lifted his hand, pretending to smooth his hair. The charm spoke close to his ear.

"There is no such thing as extraordinary coincidence. There is only destiny. So say the followers of Sa." Soft as a breath, it added, "This is not good fortune for you, but the delivery of your death. Sa will punish you for abandoning Etta."

Kennit snorted, and put his hands casually behind his back. He had not abandoned the whore; he had simply put her aside for later. Sa would not punish him for that. No one would. Nor would Kennit tremble at the size of the opportunity presented to him. The biggest prizes went to the men with the boldest hands. He smiled to himself as his one hand gripped his other wrist, securely covering the charm's eyes and mouth in a smothering of lace.

Then Wintrow spoke and a shivering of dread ran down Kennit's back. He stared at the oncoming boat and the girl's upturned face as he said almost dreamily, "In Sa, there are no extraordinary coincidences. Only destiny."

MALTA STARED UP AT THEM, FROZEN IN SHOCK BEYOND RESPONSE. WHAT could it mean? Had Althea joined Kennit's pirate crew instead of rescuing the family liveship? She could not be so false. Could she? What of Wintrow, then? When they reached the side of the ship, the Satrap was hoisted aboard first. At the encouragement of the sailors, she herself seized the rope ladder that was dropped to them. One of the Motley's crewmen accompanied her as she climbed the nastily swaying contraption of wet, rough rope. She tried to make a show of climbing it easily. The wet rungs bit right through the light gloves she wore to cover her roughened hands. The arduous climb was forgotten the moment she seized the railing and was assisted on board. A strange energy seemed to hum through her. She forgot to look for King Kennit as her eyes sought only for her father.

Abruptly Wintrow was there, sweeping her into a more manly hug than she would have thought her spindly brother was capable of. But he had grown and muscled, and when he cried out, "Malta! Sa himself has brought you safely to us!" his voice was deep and sounded not unlike their father. The tears that sprang to her eyes shocked her, as did the way she clung to him, unreasonably glad of his strength and welcome. After a long moment of being held, she realized that Althea's arms were also around her. "But how? How do you come to be here?" her aunt asked her.

But she had no desire to answer questions until the most important one had been asked. She leaned away from Wintrow, and was astonished to find how her brother had grown. "And Papa?" she asked him breathlessly.

The deep anguish in his eyes told her all. "He is not here," he told her gently, and she knew better than to ask where he was. He was gone, gone forever, and she had endured all, risked all for nothing. Her father was dead.

Then the ship spoke and in Vivacia's voice was a timbre that she had heard before, when Tintaglia spoke to her through the dream-box. A terrible recognition of kinship swept through Malta as the ship hailed her. "Well met and welcome, Dragon-Friend."

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE — Bargaining Chips

ALL EYES TURNED TO THE FIGUREHEAD. MALTA STEPPED FREE OF WINTROW'S embrace. No one save herself seemed to realize the ship spoke to her. Instead, their gazes traveled to the Satrap and back to the ship again. The Satrap stared at the moving, speaking figurehead in astonishment, but Malta's eyes went past him. Beside the Satrap stood a tall dark man with one peg leg. His handsome, self-possessed face showed displeasure. Beside him, the confident look was fading from Captain Red's face. He hated being upstaged. Captain Red glanced at the tall man, and Malta suddenly knew who he was. Captain Kennit, the King of the Pirate Isles. She took advantage of the distraction to appraise him. Her reaction was immediately both attraction and distrust. Like Roed Caern of Bingtown, he radiated danger. Once, she would have found him mysterious and alluring. She had grown wiser. Dangerous men were neither romantic nor exotic; they were men who could hurt you. This man would not be as easy to manipulate and convince as Captain Red had been.

"Are you too shy to speak to me?" the ship invited her warmly.

She sent the figurehead one desperate, pleading glance. She did not want the peg-legged man to see her as especially important. She must be only the Satrap's advisor. Did a flicker of understanding pass through Vivacia's eyes?

The Satrap seemed offended at the ship's coaxing words. He believed she spoke to him. "Greetings, liveship," he accorded her stiffly. His brief moment of wonder at her had passed. Malta supposed it reflected a lifetime of being showered with new and surprising gifts. No miracle amazed him for long. His gratitude was likewise short-lived. At least he seemed to recall her counsel: "Do not behave as a captive, nor as a supplicant."

He turned to Kennit. He did not bow nor salute him in any way. "Captain Kennit," he addressed him unsmilingly. His official recognition of Kennit as King of the Pirate Isles was one of the negotiation points.

Kennit regarded him with cool amusement. "Satrap Cosgo," he acknowledged him familiarly, already claiming equality. The Satrap's gaze grew frostier. "This way," Kennit indicated. He frowned slightly at the Vestrits.

"Wintrow. Come." To Malta, it seemed that he spoke as if her brother were a dog or a servant.

"Malta!" The Satrap's chill voice sternly reminded her of her duties.

She had a facade to maintain. She could not be Wintrow's sister, nor Althea's niece right now. She kept her voice low. "Ask me nothing now. We must talk later. Please. Trust me. Don't interfere with what I do." She stepped away and they let her go, but Althea's eyes were flinty. Wintrow hurried to his captain's command.

AS THE OTHERS LEFT THE FOREDECK, ALTHEA ASKED ALOUD, "HOW DOES she come here? What does it mean?"

"She's your niece," Jek returned bluntly, staring wide-eyed after them.

"As if that gives me any answers. I will hold my questions and not interfere, not because she is such a font of wise actions, but because there is nothing else I can do. I hope she realizes what a treacherous snake Kennit is."

"Althea," the ship cautioned her wearily.

Althea turned back to the ship. "Why did you greet him as Dragon-Friend? The Satrap is a friend to dragons?"

"Not the Satrap," the ship replied evasively. "I would as soon not speak of it just now."