A second shivering ran through the ship. Wintrow froze, his face paling. “Althea Vestrit is my aunt,” he said faintly. “She was closely bonded to the ship, even before she awakened. She had expected to inherit Vivacia.” The boy swallowed. “Kennit, I know her. Not well, not in all things, but where this ship is concerned, she will not be dissuaded. She will try to take the Vivacia. That is as certain as sunrise.”

Kennit smiled faintly. “Through a wall of serpents? If she survives them, she will discover that Vivacia is no longer who she once was. I do not think I need to fear.”

“No longer who she once was,” Wintrow repeated in a whisper. His look had become distant. “Are any of us?” he asked, and lowered his face into his hands.

MALTA WAS SICK OF SHIPS. SHE HATED THE SMELLS, THE MOTION, THE APPALLING food, the coarse men and most of all she hated the Satrap. No, she corrected herself. Worst of all she hated that she could not show the Satrap how much she loathed and despised him.

The Chalcedean mother ship had taken them up days ago. Kekki’s body had been hastily abandoned with the badly leaking galley. As Malta and the others had been hauled to safety aboard the three-masted ship, their rescuers hooted and pointed at the sinking galley. She suspected the captain of the galley had suffered a great loss of status by losing his ship that included forfeiting his rights to his “guests,” for they had not seen the man since they had come aboard.

The single chamber she now shared with the Satrap was larger, with real walls of solid wood and a door that latched securely. It was warmer and drier than the makeshift tent cabin on the deck of the galley, but just as bare. It had no window. It offered little more than the absolute necessities for life. Food was brought to them, and the dishes taken away afterward. Once every two days, a boy came to carry away their waste bucket. The air of the cabin was close and stuffy; the sole lantern that swung from an overhead beam smoked incessantly, contributing to the thick atmosphere.

Fastened to the wall were a small table that folded down for use and a narrow bunk with a flattened mattress and two blankets. The Satrap ate while seated on his bunk; Malta stood. The chamber pot was under the bunk, with a small railing to keep it from sliding about. A jug for water and a single mug rested on a small, railed shelf by the door. That was it. As Malta disdained to share the bunk with the Satrap, the floor was her bed. After he was asleep, she could sometimes filch one of the blankets from under his slack grip.

When she and the Satrap had first been shown to the room and the door shut securely behind them, he had stared slowly around himself. His pinched lips white with fury, he had demanded, “This is the best you could do for us?”

She had still been sodden with shock. Her near-rape, the death of Kekki and the sudden change in ships had left her reeling. “I could do for us?” she asked stupidly.

“Go now! Tell them I will not tolerate this. Right now!”

Her temper snapped. She hated the tears that brimmed her eyes and spilled down her cheeks as she demanded, “Just how am I to do that? I don’t speak Chalcedean; I don’t know who to complain to if I did. Nor would these animals listen to me. In case you haven’t noticed, Chalcedeans don’t exactly respect women.”

He gave a snort of contempt. “Not women like you, they don’t. If Kekki were here, she would soon set things right. You should have been the one to die. At least Kekki knew how to manage things!”

Going to the door, he had flung it open. He stood in the door frame and yelled for attention until a deckhand came, then shrieked at the man in Chalcedean. The deckhand had looked from the Satrap to Malta and back again, in obvious puzzlement. Then he had bowed sketchily and disappeared. “It’s your fault if he doesn’t even come back!” the Satrap had spat at her, flinging himself down on the bunk. He pulled the blankets over himself and ignored her. Malta had sat down in the corner on the floor and sulked. The deckhand had not returned.

The corner had become her part of the room. She sat there now, her back braced against the wall, contemplating her grubby feet. She longed to get out on the deck, to get one breath of clean, cold air, to see the sky and above all to discover in which direction they sailed. The galley had been carrying them northward, toward Chalced. The Chalcedean ship that had picked them up had been traveling south. But she had no way of knowing if it had continued on its course, or had turned back to Chalced. To be so confined and have no idea of when their voyage would end was yet another torture. Enforced idleness and tedium had become the fabric of her days.

Nor could she wring any information from the Satrap. The wallowing of this round-hulled ship made him queasy. When he was not vomiting, he was complaining of hunger and thirst. When food and drink were brought to him, he immediately gorged himself, only to disgorge it a few hours later. With each of his meals came a small quantity of coarse smoking herbs. He would thicken the air of the small cabin until Malta was dizzy with the odor, all the while complaining that the poor quality of the herb left his throat raw and his head unsoothed. In vain had Malta entreated him to take a bit of air; all he would do was lie on the bed and groan, or demand that she rub his feet or his neck.