Kekki motioned for water and drank. She sighed, then gathered herself to speak. “Chalced men fear a woman’s blood time. They say-” Kekki took a breath and managed a pink-toothed smile. “A woman’s parts are angry then. They can slay a man’s.”

Malta was amazed that anyone could believe such a thing. She looked at the blood-streaked rag she held. “That’s stupid.”

Kekki shrugged painfully. “Be grateful they are stupid,” she advised her. “Save the words. They know you cannot always be bleeding.” Then her face and eyes grew grave. “If he doesn’t stop… don’t fight him. He will only hurt you more.” She dragged in a breath. “They would hurt you… until you stopped fighting. To teach you a woman’s place.”

That conversation had been days ago. It was the last time Kekki had spoken more than a few words to her. The woman weakened every day, and the smell from her sores grew stronger. She could not live much longer. For her sake, Malta hoped death came soon, though for her own sake, she feared Kekki’s death. When Kekki died, she would lose her only ally.

Malta was weary of living in fear, but she had little choice. Every decision she made, she made in fear. Her life centered on her fear. She no longer left their chamber unless Cosgo ordered her directly. Then she went quickly, returned swiftly and tried to meet no man’s eyes. The men still hooted and clicked their teeth, but they didn’t bother her when she was emptying the waste bucket.

“Are you stupid or just lazy?” the Satrap demanded loudly.

Malta looked up at him with a jolt. Her thoughts had carried her far. “I’m sorry,” she said, and tried to make her voice sincere.

“I said, I’m bored. Not even the food is interesting. No wine. No smoke, save at table with the captain. Can you read?” At her puzzled nod, he directed her, “Go and see if the captain has any books. You could read to me.”

Her mouth went dry. “I don’t read Chalcedean.”

“You are too ignorant for words. I do. Go borrow a book for me.”

She tried to keep fear from her voice. “But I don’t speak Chalcedean. How will I ask for one?”

He snorted in disgust. “How can parents let their children grow up in such ignorance! Does not Bingtown border on Chalced? One would think you would at least learn your neighbors’ tongue. So damnably provincial. No wonder Bingtown cannot get along with them.” He sighed heavily, a man wronged. “Well, I cannot fetch it myself, with my skin peeling like this. Can you remember a few words? Knock on his door, kneel down and abase yourself, then say, La-nee-ra-ke-je-loi-en.”

He rattled the syllables off in a breath. Malta could not even tell where one word began and another left off. “La-nee-ra-ke-en” she tried.

“No, stupid. La-nee-ra-ke-je-loi-en. Oh, and add, re-kal at the end, so he doesn’t think you are rude. Hurry now, before you forget it.”

She looked at him. If she pleaded not to go, he would know she was afraid and demand to know why. She would not give him that weapon to bludgeon her with. She picked up her courage. Perhaps the sailors wouldn’t bother her if she was obviously bound for the captain’s cabin. On the way back, she’d be carrying a book. It might keep her safe from them; they wouldn’t want to damage their captain’s property. She muttered the syllables to herself as she left the chamber, making a chant of them.

She had to walk the length of the galley between and above the rowers’ benches. The hooting and clicking of teeth terrified her; she knew her fearful expression only encouraged them. She forced herself to keep repeating her syllables. She reached the captain’s door without a man laying a hand on her, knocked, and hoped desperately that she had not knocked too loudly.

A man’s voice replied, sounded annoyed. Praying that he had bid her come in, she opened the door and peered in timidly. The captain was stretched out on his bunk. He leaned up on one elbow to stare at her angrily.

“La-nee-ra-ke-je-loi-en!” she blurted. Then, abruptly recalling the Satrap’s other instructions, she dropped to her knees and bent her head low. “Re-kal,” she added belatedly.

He said something to her. She dared lift her eyes to him. He had not moved. He stared at her, then repeated the same words more loudly. She looked at the floor and shook her head, praying he would know she did not understand. He got to his feet and she braced herself. She darted a glance up at him. He pointed at the door. She scrabbled toward it, backed out of it, came to her feet, bowed low again and shut it.

The moment she was outside the cabin, the catcalls and teeth-clicking resumed. The other end of the boat seemed impossibly far away. She would never get there safely. Hugging her arms tightly around herself, Malta ran. She was nearly at the end of the rowing benches when someone reached up and snatched hold of her ankle. She fell heavily, striking her forehead, elbows and knees on the rough planking. For an instant, she was stunned. Dazed, she rolled to her back and looked up at a laughing young man standing over her. He was handsome, tall and blond like her father, with honest blue eyes and a ready grin. He cocked his head and said something to her. A query? “I’m all right,” she replied. He smiled at her. Her relief was so great, she almost smiled back at him. Then he reached down and flung up the front of her skirts. He went down on one knee, his hands busy at his belt.