I laughed, I think, or made some noise that was meant to be laughter. A harsh sound, like the calling of crows. I didn't know I was making it until I strained to catch another sound, faint and distant, that carried over the water, and found myself wishing irritably for the ratcheting noise to cease. It did, when I realized it was me.

And in the silence that followed, I heard another sound, faint but drawing nearer; a steady rush of water moving along a wooden hull, the rustle and snap of sails catching the breeze.

From my vantage point a scant foot above the waves, the nearest ship emerged from the mists like a great bird, skimming low over the sea. One, two, three... there were six of them in all, canted sails bellied full of wind like white wings, oars locked and untouched.

Heaving myself as far as I could above the surface of the water, struggling against the knotted fabric that tied me to the log, I pried one rigid arm loose and waved it in the air, shouting. "Here! Here! Name of Elua, help me!"

My voice scarce sounded human, and the effort of raising it threatened to tear my swollen throat. Two of the ships passed, disappearing swiftly in the lingering mists, and I bobbed futilely in the water. For a moment, I was sure they had not heard, had not seen, thought me as much an apparition as they seemed. Tears stung my eyes, and I thought stupidly, there is more of my body's moisture gone, well and good, I will die that much the faster if I weep.

And then a voice shouted an order in no language I knew, and one of the ships heeled, spinning quicker than I would have thought possible. The triangular Sail luffed loose against the mast, spilling wind, then, with coordinating shouts, a rope snapped tight and the prow swung my way. Another order, crisp and commanding, and out came the oars.

In the middle of the ocean, I clung to Tito's torch and trod water, gazing up at the ship as it came alongside me. The rowers rested on their oars, faces peering over the side in amazement. "Sa ështa?" one exclaimed, making a superstitious gesture. "Në Vila!"

Another man appeared behind them, leaning forward to look down at me; and a fiercer figure, I have seldom seen. His long, black hair was caught back in a topknot, and long, drooping mustaches framed his white grin, which revealed one missing tooth on the upper left side.

"Djo," he said decisively. "Ështa D'Angeline."

And with that, he threw me a rope.

FORTY-NINE

In the space of a few heartbeats, my unexpected rescuers had me aboard the ship, hauling in the rope I grasped and unceremoniously heaving me on deck. Unsteady and nerveless, I could do no more than kneel in a shuddering heap, dripping saltwater onto the planking.

The crew muttered in their unfamiliar tongue, while their topknotted captain-so I guessed him to be-ignored me, shouting out another series of commands. They obeyed with alacrity, springing into action. Once more, the sail flapped loose from the long yard and the vessel lurched, spinning. My stomach clenched at the suddenness of it. The oarsmen set to with a good dozen strokes, then the ropes were tightened and the sail swelled taut. They put up their oars and locked them.

In the prow, a shirtless youth leaned over the water and waved a crimson pennant, gesturing to the other five ships that idled at close range, sails slack. One by one, with remarkable coordination, they followed our lead.

And then we were off, following an eastward course over the misty sea.

With difficulty, I raised my head to assess my situation.

There were some fifteen men aboard the ship, ranging in age from the flag-waving youth, whom I guessed to be no more than fourteen years old, to a hardy-looking greybeard. Most were as dark as the captain, although here and there a rufous hue prevailed.

Each one, even the lad, wore a short sword at his hip, and there were round bucklers pegged neatly under the oarlocks, though it was far too small for a warship. In the open hold, I could see crates and chests neatly stowed, lashed down with canvas. It could be a small, well-guarded cargo ship, I thought. Still kneeling, I gazed at the top of the mainmast, bobbing gently against the brightening sky. Where a cargo vessel's colors would have flown, it was barren of aught but sail and line.

All of which meant my rescuers were very likely pirates.

His company safely underway, the Captain picked his way across the deck back to me, squatting down before me while a half-dozen of his men crowded behind. Shivering, I drew myself up to the formal abeyante kneeling position of the Night Court.

"Kur të vend?" he asked, frowning and thumbing the narrow strip of beard that adorned his chin. "Sa të atje?"

"I'm sorry," I said humbly, "I don't understand. You said ... you said D'Angeline, my lord; yes, I am D'Angeline. You do not speak it?"

"D'Angeline." He turned his head and spit contemptuously over the side of the ship. Two sailors nearby muttered, crossing their fingers and knocking their brows, another curious gesture. "D'Angeline, djo," he said, adding carelessly, "Caerdicc'."

It took me a moment to realize his meaning, so rattled were my thoughts. Even then, I had to fumble for words not in my mother tongue. "Caerdicci," I said, echoing him, hoping I'd understood aright. "You speak Caerdicci?"

"Yes, of course I speak it, I." He stood up, folded his arms and shot me an imperious look. "You think I am an unlettered peasant, eh? I am noble-born in Epidauro, I!”

I sat back on my heels, putting the pieces together. "You're Illyrian."

"Illyrian, yes." He grinned unexpectedly and bowed. "From Epidauro."

Of the nations of Europa, I knew little of Illyria save that it had ever occupied a precarious position, torn between the conquests of Hellas and Tiberium, La Serenissima and Ephesium, and vulnerable to invasion from the great northeastern mainland. Like Terre d'Ange before the coming of Elua, it bent in the winds, surviving as best it could. All but the stronghold city of Epidauro; that held out a measure of independence.

So much I knew, and no more. It seems odd, now.

"Well met, my lord, and my thanks to you," I said courteously-if thickly-inclining my head. "Believe me, your rescue this day will earn great gratitude from Queen Ysandre de la Courcel. I am the Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève, of Terre d'Ange."

"Yes, great... gratitude." He smiled and nodded, following my pronunciation carefully in his less-than-fluent Caerdicci. "I am Kazan Atrabiades, I. I am honor to have you as my..." Turning his head, he called out to one of the greybeards, querying him in Illyrian. The man replied respectfully, providing the Caerdicci word for which the captain searched. He had been trained as a scholar, I guessed upon hearing his formal accent. As it happened, I was right, though I gave it little thought at the time, for my blood chilled to hear the word he pronounced. "... my hostage," Kazan Atrabiades finished with pleasure, turning back to me.

At that point, I fainted.

It was not, I daresay, so much the shock of his words as it was the cumulative effect of the trauma I'd undergone. Nonetheless, whatever the cause, 'twas a full faint such as I have seldom known; and then only with a few choice patrons. The sky reeled in my sight, taut lines and white sails spinning, and then I saw the wooden planking of the deck rushing up to meet me.

When I opened my eyes, I was beneath a canvas awning, shielded from the still-rising sun. A neatly-stitched bag containing scraps for repairing sails rested beneath my head, forming a bolster against the wall of the forecastle, where I'd been placed out of the way.

"You are awake, good. Here."

The voice spoke Caerdicci; the greybeard's voice, which had answered Atrabiades. A brawny hand, wrinkled and weather-tanned, thrust a waterskin under my nose.

I took it gratefully, feeling water slosh under both hands as I raised the spout to my mouth and squeezed. Water, warm and stale, gushed into my mouth. It tasted better than the deepest well, the coldest spring. For a moment, I merely held it in my mouth, swishing it around, feeling moisture return to my salt-ravaged tissues. Then I swallowed cautiously, in small increments.

"A little more," he said. "Not too much."

I made myself obey, reluctantly; although it felt as though I could down gallons without being quenched, I knew full well it would sicken me. When I had done, he helped me lower the waterskin. "Thank you," I said, struggling to sit and turning my head to get a better look at his face. "You have saved my life, I think. May I have your name, my lord?"

"Glaukos, I am called." Laugh lines crinkled the brown skin about his grey eyes. "And no one has called me lord in all my days. Slave, aye, and brigand; lord, never. Only Kazan Atrabiades commands here, and he holds no title, nor ever will. But you, I think, are noble-born, my lady, is it not so?"

"I am Comtesse de Montrève," I said, temporizing slightly. Toward the stern, Atrabiades conferred with the sailor manning the rudder-bar, studiously avoiding gazing in my direction. "The title is an inherited one, and the right to bear it bequeathed me by Her Majesty Ysandre de la Courcel, Queen of Terre d'Ange. Glaukos, it is very urgent that I speak with Her Majesty. How does Lord Atrabiades treat with hostages?”

"Ah, now, don't fret." He settled himself comfortably on the deck. "He's never fished one out of the sea, nor had one half so beautiful, but he'll honor the conventions, Kazan will. You have someone who'll stand you ransom?"

"Yes, of course." It was on the tip of my tongue to say that Ysandre would throw open the Royal Treasury for the news I bore, but mercifully, the habit of discretion made me pause. "I will write him a letter of surety myself, for my factor in La Serenissima."

Glaukos chuckled. "Where they're like to have his head if he sets foot on land? Nay, my lady, don't think it. Kazan Atrabiades will not go to La Serenissima. Give him silver in hand, and he'll set you free as a bird."

"It's very urgent," I repeated politely.

"No doubt." Amiable, he passed the waterskin back to me. "Have another swallow. You've a voice on you like a split reed. No wonder the men thought you were one of the Vili"

I drank a little more, feeling life return to my limbs with each gulp. "What are the Vili?"

"Spirits," Glaukos said affably. "Spirits of the dead, that appear in the form of beautiful maidens. If a man do look at a Vila, his heart sickens with love, and he will neither eat nor drink, until he dies. I nearly believed it myself, my lady Phèdre, and I have seen D'Angelines before. That spot of red, in your eye; is it an injury? It's passing ... haunting."

"No." I lowered the waterskin, wincing at the pain that tugged at my midsection. "Not exactly. Where do you come from, Glaukos? Not Illyria, I think."

"Ah, now, that's a long story." He took up the skin and squirted water into his mouth. "I was slave-born in Tiberium; my mother was Hellene, a slave herself, and mistress to a powerful man. I was gently reared, I was, and bought by a wealthy member of the Comitia to stand tutor to his children ... tell me, does it hurt when you breathe?"

"Yes," I said absently, thinking. How long had I been in La Dolorosa? Weeks, I knew; was it months? I'd not kept a count, throughout those first long days. 'Twas summer yet, but growing later. If Ysandre had not departed already to begin the progressus, she would have done so by the time a messenger could reach the City of Elua. No, I thought; Marsilikos is a better wager. Surely Roxanne de Mereliot would pay whatever ransom Atrabiades might ask-and Quintilius Rousse would be there, too. 'Twould be well done, if I could enlist the Admiral's aid. Whatever the nature of Melisande's plan, even Marco Stregazza would think twice about acting if the D'Angeline fleet stood off the coast of Caerdicca Unitas. "Glaukos, I need to speak with Lord Atrabiades."

"You've broken a rib, is what it is; maybe two." He felt at my rib cage with surprising gentleness. "Don't worry, I mean you no harm. My mother was a physician's daughter, before she was sold. They fell on hard times, you see; a bad settlement in a lawsuit. Never go against a Tiberian magistrate, I tell you, but never mind that. No doubt Kazan will hear you out once we're safe at harbor. There's a little matter of pursuit, you see. 'You take care of the girl until we make landfall, Glaukos,' he said to me. 'You speak her tongue, you know how to patch folks up.' So never fear, I'll keep my word."

"Ouch!" I flinched away from his prodding fingers. "Glaukos, thank you, but my ribs can wait; my ransom cannot. Will you call Lord Atrabiades for me?"

He sat back and regarded me calmly. "Well, now, he'll not thank you for calling him lord, nor will he turn course for a D'Angeline noblewoman fished out of the sea, no matter how fair her face. And if you ask, he'll only have to refuse and storm and shout a bit, show you the back of his hand to let his men know you're no Vila to sicken his heart and make him weak. So no, I'll not summon him for you."

"Never mind," I said, struggling to my feet. "I'll speak to him myself."

Glaukos sucked in his breath and shook his head, watching me go. I made my way toward the stern on unsteady feet, clutching at the rigging as the ship pitched. Sailors moved out of my way, looking askance. Catching sight of me, Kazan Atrabiades stood with one foot braced on the raised edge of the hold, arm propped casually on his knee, watching my progress with narrowed eyes.

Later, I realized what a sight I must have been, with the wind whipping my sea-tangled hair and the ragged grey dress about me, baring vivid red-and-black glimpses of the intricate marque rising betwixt my shoulder blades to my nape; at the time, I gave little enough thought to my appearance. Small wonder the superstitious among them questioned my mortality. But Kazan, I could see, knew better.