“Boots?” I inquired hopefully.

Sezarre shook his head. “Not in the Islands. Feet will rot.”

That explained the puzzle of the fine ladies with their calloused feet.

Grival muttered something to Sezarre, not looking at me.

“He says you are not born a slave?” asked Sezarre, hesitation warring with curiosity in his voice.

“No.” I gave him a friendly smile; one of these men might have that crucial piece of information that would get me out of here; the most compelling reason I could think of to learn to speak their language.

“What do you do, before?”

I could see the questions hovering in his eyes and I couldn’t blame him; I’d be wary if someone suddenly foisted a potential criminal on my watch roster.

“I was a sworn man to a great lord, a swordsman, a man at arms.” I’d been a lot more than that but this was hardly the time to try explaining notions of oath and duty to these people.

“Now you serve the wife of Shek Kul, our Great Lord,” Sezarre smiled broadly at me, apparently expecting me to share in his delight at the prospect.

I nodded and remembered an Aldabreshi carving Lady Channis kept in her salon; look at it one way, and it was a tree, but from another angle, it was a face. That would be a good enough way to cope with my situation, for the time being at least, looking at slavery as another form of service. I couldn’t change what was done, so I had to concentrate on making things go my way in future.

Before I could pursue that thought, Grival clapped a hand to his forehead with a sudden exclamation and rapidly crossed the deck to a pile of bundles. He tossed something to me and I caught it in a reflex action, wondering what it could be.

It was my sword. I stared stupidly at the gleaming green leather of the scabbard.

“Good blade,” said Sezarre approvingly, face expectant as he held out a hand.

So, buyers at the Relshaz slave markets got their stock complete with harness, I thought sardonically. Well, well; how civilized. I passed the sword over and watched as he sent the shining steel whirling around his head and shoulders in a glittering series of arcs and passes that made me glad I hadn’t tried my luck against him earlier.

Still, it would be good to have the blade with me, a constant reminder of my true master, my service given freely, the oaths that protected my honor. Those oaths meant Messire would be doing all he could to trace me too, as long as those cursed wizards let him know I’d been taken. I’d rather get myself out of this mess but the remembrance that others would be busy on my behalf was a comforting one.

A bell rang. Sezarre and Grival hastily packed their gear and I followed their lead to the galley. It seemed we were to serve the ladies their lunch; I copied the others as they each loaded a tray with plates of a pale yellow, steamed meal and things chopped up in bowls and covered with a wide variety of sauces. From the amount Grival took from the galley, the woman Mahli must be eating for a litter of six, never mind one baby. Sezarre seemed to think Gar must have hollow legs.

I soon discovered my mistake when I realized that a body slave’s meals were his lady’s leavings. I couldn’t follow the women’s conversation but from the tone of it and their expressions, you would have thought they were all the closest of friends. Watching gloomily, my stomach protesting, I saw that Laio’s curves stemmed from a hearty appetite. We served more of the weak wine and fruit and eventually Mahli took herself off for a rest, Gar returned to her embroideries and I was surprised to see Laio ensconce herself on some cushions with a writing case and a stack of correspondence, close-written on fine reed paper.

“We eat.” Sezarre nodded to the door and I followed him and Grival to what appeared to be our accustomed spot on deck.

Grival laughed, not unkindly, and passed me a couple of bowls from his own, largely untouched tray. I smiled my thanks and looked cautiously at their contents. I passed over something that looked like a nest of tiny innards and poked a finger at a heap of wilted green leaves.

“Called ‘Turil’. ” Sezarre passed me a strange sort of spoon; it had a flattened bowl and two prongs at the end of the handle, like a tiny hayfork. I watched as he mimed scooping and spearing food and understood why everything was cut into such small pieces.

“No hands, very bad.” He shook his head firmly. “Not clean, mainlander habits.”

I sighed and forked up a mouthful of the leaves. For one appalling moment, I thought I’d bitten a wasp; given I could see flowers in several dishes, it was the only answer I could imagine for the searing pain in my mouth.

“Mountain plant,” Sezarre passed me some fruit juice, “very hot.”

Eyes watering, I washed away the worst of the taste and played safe with a mouthful of the creamy cereal. It was a little gritty in texture, the tiny grains tending to stick to my teeth and palette, but while it had a strange, sour quality, it was not unpleasant.

Grival offered me a little plate with pieces of dark meat in a dark red sauce.

“Very good,” Sezarre nodded approvingly.

I managed a weak smile and touched a little of the sauce to my lips. To my surprise, it was sweet, almost honeyed with a hint of aromatic spices. At least I wouldn’t starve here, I thought as I emptied the dish hungrily.

“What became of my lady’s slave before me?” I asked.

Sezarre shrugged with an air of resignation. “Bone fever, very bad.”

I looked at my plate. I might not starve but there were a myriad other dangers that could leave me dead in the Archipelago.

A narrow strait between two steeply forested islands set in the heart of the far ocean.

Temar woke with a sudden start, disorientation clouding his senses, dense blackness pressing down on him. He shoved the stifling blanket off his head in a convulsive heave, blinked and the world returned to normal, the lantern of the unhurried sentry circling the camp a swinging pin-prick of light, soft noises of other sleepers all around him. Temar sat up and put his hands on the cool grass either side of him, taking a deep breath as the sensation of still being aboard a swaying ship gradually faded. He looked up at the increasingly unfamiliar stars and wondered how long it would be before dawn broke.

“Not long enough, at any rate,” he smiled to himself and rolled himself up to get as much rest as he could before facing the demands of another busy day. This was certainly no pleasure cruise, he mused as he drifted easily off to sleep.

The clatter of cooking pots and a rising murmur of conversation stirred him next. The sun was climbing over the dense trees on a spit of land at the far end of the strait and the camp was busying itself with breakfast, fires dotted across the grassy strip separating the water from the dense scrub. Temar sniffed appreciatively at the smell of biscuits on griddles mingling with the lush-green scents of the anchorage.

“Good morning.” Vahil shoved his head out of a tangle of blankets, wiry hair sticking up in all directions, a thick crease printed across one ruddy cheek.

Temar yawned and reached for his boots, checking them for opportunist crawlers before putting them on, wincing at the clammy touch of the damp leather. “I’m going for a wash,” he announced, heading for the brook that wound its way across the sward down to the shingle beach.

Cold water did much to drive the lingering sleep out of Temar’s eyes and he began to take in some of the details of the scene around him. His gaze fixed on Guinalle as she sat braiding her hair in front of a tent, face pink from her own ablutions, a thick shawl over her crisp linen shift.

“Feeling better for a night on dry land?” inquired Temar, pausing to clip back his own hair with his father’s silver clasp, now tarnished from salt and spray.