This was also clearly not open to debate and I wondered uneasily how hard it would be. All the Aldabreshi I’d heard sounded as if they were trying to spit while chewing nails.

Laio wiped a hand across her face and frowned at the smear of rouge.

“Fetch me some cream to clean all this off.” She gestured to a heavily inlaid coffer standing in a corner.

I rose and opened it to find a tray holding rough scraps of cloth, a fine porcelain, lidded bowl of thin lotion and a blue bottle of Relshazri glass that contained something smelling faintly astringent. Laio nodded approvingly and I knelt, feeling quite superfluous, as she stripped the cosmetics from her lips, eyes and cheeks. Looking at her naked face, I was startled to realize that she was no more than seventeen or eighteen years old; given her poise and evident ease with her status as a Warlord’s wife, I’d have put at least five years on that.

A knock on the door made Laio pause; at her impatient gesture, I opened it to reveal a heavily pregnant woman in a plain cream robe, much my own height, who leaned against the door-post and smiled at Laio. She asked something in Aldabreshi, her low husky voice softening the harsh language. Laio laughed and pointed at me with a dramatic gesture of helplessness. That decided me; I was going to learn this tongue, even if it did make me sound like a dog being sick. No chit of a girl nearly half my age was going to be able to make jokes at my expense without me understanding them.

I studied the newcomer as the women talked. She was tall and, even allowing for her condition, was a heavily built woman. Where Laio had long black tresses tumbling down her back, this lady had short hair, growing in strange, tight curls that dotted her head like peppercorns. Her skin was the darkest I’d seen yet, an unnerving reminder of how different the Aldabreshi could be. I was somewhat reassured by the good nature in her wide, deep-brown eyes, set above broad cheekbones with laughter lines at their corners. Laio said something that made Mahli burst into peals of laughter and then stood up, a smile brightening her own expression.

“I will spend some time with Mahli now,” she announced. “Clear up in here and then go and find Sezarre. We will talk again later.”

She left the room in a perfumed rustle of silk and I stood up, rubbing my knees. I was certainly not looking forward to spending so much time scrambling around on the floor and wondered if the Aldabreshi went in for more furniture when they were on dry land. I looked around at the chaos it seemed Laio habitually created and recalled my mother threatening to drill Kitria into neatness with a willow switch. Some things were common to all young girls, it would seem.

Something in me rebelled as I reached for a slippery, silk gown and looked around for a coffer or somesuch to stow it in. Incandescent with instant rage, I hovered on a knife edge of temptation, longing to rip the flimsy thing to shreds and see how the bossy little blossom liked that. My grip tightened on the delicate cloth but I suddenly found myself laughing instead at such uncharacteristic and ill-considered anger. I was certainly adrift with no hope of wind at the moment, but I had to stay calm if I was going to paddle my way out of this.

“From sworn man to maidservant! Well, Ryshad, you’ve certainly done well for yourself.”

Laio could call me a slave all she wanted; no one could make me think of myself as one. I could play the part though, the same way I’d played the half-wit with no more sense than his dung fork for half a season in order to unravel a fraud in Messire’s shearing sheds. I gathered up the discarded dresses and found their allotted chest, rapidly restoring the room to order before going in search of the man who’d escorted me to the ship—Sezarre, that was his name, I remembered.

I found him on deck, conferring with an impressively muscled man with a shaven head and hard, black eyes. They were both stripped to the waist and sweating freely, a blunted blade in each hand. Nodding agreement, they resumed their contest and I stepped back hurriedly out of their way. The other tales I’d heard of the Archipelago might turn out to be false, but it soon looked as if the reputation of their swordsmen was if anything underestimated. The swords might be a hand’s width or so shorter than I was accustomed to, but using them in pairs, rather than with a dagger or shield for the off hand, any Aldabreshin was going to make up in damage for anything he lacked in reach. I whistled soundlessly as the two of them went at each other with a flurry of strokes, blades clashing and smacking together, only breaking when Sezarre took a stinging slice to one shoulder.

I winced as I saw the red line darkened to an instant bruise; his eyes caught mine and he rubbed at it with a rueful grin. The other one said something and picked up the practice blades, sliding them into a canvas bag. He had to be Grival.

“We wash,” Sezarre said in halting Tormalin.

I nodded and followed him to the side of the ship where Grival was already hauling up buckets of sea water. Both the other body slaves stripped naked, unconcerned and attracting no notice from the sailors busy about the business of ship. I joined them, happy to discard the memories of the Relshaz lock-up along with the rags and relishing the sting of the clean, clear water. I started slightly when Grival took a washcloth to my back but reminded myself of all the times Aiten and I had done each other such a service. I shut my eyes on the sting of sudden grief, all the more searing in my present uncertainty.

“Here.” Sezarre handed me a bowl of thin, liquid soap and I scrubbed myself clean eagerly.

Grival said something and rummaged in a bag, passing me a small pot of ointment. I wondered if he spoke any Tormalin at all.

“For the skin.” Sezarre took the pot and rubbed a fingerful on to his own bruise.

I nodded and began the lengthy task of anointing all my own scrapes and swellings. The stuff stung but smelled wholesome enough and the simple fact of being clean again and tending my injuries did wonders for my spirits.

Grival made a comment to Sezarre that had both of them laughing as they looked at me; I smiled and swallowed my indignation. I needed allies here, it was time to start making myself one of the lads.

“He says you look like a dog he once owned, all patches of brown and white,” Sezarre explained with a wide smile.

I looked down at myself and saw the lines marking my sun-darkened arms and face from the paler skin of my chest and thighs. Nodding and forcing a smile to show I understood the joke, I realized that I was the lightest-skinned person on the ship, as far as I could tell. Grival was the color of old leather from head to toe, and while Sezarre’s arms were about the same shade as mine it was evidently the natural tone of his skin, not the touch of the sun. It felt distinctly strange to stand out like this; going north for Messire, I am more used to people commenting on the darkness of my hair and complexion. The deck rocked beneath my feet, reminding me of my uncertain footing here.

I mimed scraping my face with a blade. “Razor?”

Sezarre frowned and said something to Grival who looked startled.

“No.” Sezarre shook his head emphatically. “Not now you are an Islander.”

I looked around the boat and realized that I couldn’t see a clean chin anywhere. I smiled and nodded to Sezarre, sighing inwardly at the prospect of having to wear a beard. I’ve done it a few times, by way of a disguise, and as far as I’m concerned there are few pleasures to compare with shaving the cursed thing off. Unfortunately, from what I’d already seen of my so-called mistress, I couldn’t see her agreeing to let me ignore a current fashion for hairy faces.

Grival passed me a clean if well-worn shirt while Sezarre found a spare pair of trousers, both of soft, unbleached cotton. Fingering the unfamiliar cloth, I couldn’t restrain a smile; this was expensive stuff, back home. I looked around for some footwear.