Soft leather slippers covered her feet, and then she was ready. She crossed to the Satrap’s bed, cleared her throat loudly, and drew back his curtain. She did not wish to surprise him in any sort of nastiness. “Lordly one, I hesitate to disturb your rest, but I ask your permission to fetch your breakfast.”

He opened one eye. “You may. See that it comes hot to me, not lukewarm like yesterday.”

“I shall, my lord,” she promised humbly. She could not remind him that he had lain abed smoking long after she had brought his tray yesterday. Nothing was ever his fault. She settled a cloak about her shoulders, and left quietly.

This was her stolen time. Out of the Satrap’s sight, moving purposefully, she could enjoy a measure of freedom, unchallenged by anyone. When she encountered any of the sailors, they stared at her bound brow, and made comments behind her back, but they gave way.

The cookstove was in a deckhouse located amidships. When she reached it, the sliding door stood open. The cook, a pale, mournful man, nodded a greeting to her. He set out a tray and two bowls and some utensils, then took up a ladle and stirred the thick porridge that was morning ration for every one. Some things not even the complaints of a Satrap could change. A sudden outcry from the lookout sent the cook hastening to the door. An instant later, a wild clamor of voices broke out on deck. The relative peace of the swiftly moving ship was broken by thundering feet and shouted orders. She did not need her limited Chalcedean to know that a great number of curses were mixed with the shouted words. At the door, the cook added a few choice phrases of his own, flung his ladle aside and sternly ordered Malta to do something. Then he left, slamming the door behind him. Malta immediately opened it a crack to peer out.

The deck swarmed with purposeful activity. Was a storm coming? She watched in awe as ropes were loosened, sails unfurled and ropes fastened off again. As she watched, more canvas blossomed on masts already white with sail. She felt the deck tilt under her feet as the ship’s speed increased.

Lookouts at the tops of the masts shouted reports down. Malta ventured two steps outside the deckhouse and craned her neck. She caught a glimpse of an outstretched hand and her eyes followed the pointing finger.

Sails. Another ship, coming up fast. A second shout from above made her duck back into the deckhouse and peer out the opposite window. Still another ship, sails full of wind, was likewise swiftly gaining on them. Both ships flew odd patchwork flags showing a spread-winged raven. Her mind worked frantically. The Chalcedean ship fled from those two others. Did that mean they were from Bingtown? Or were they pirates? Did pirates prey on other pirates? She did not know whether to hope the Chalcedean ship outran them or was captured. If they were captured, and the other ships were pirates, what would become of her and the Satrap? A hasty plan formed in her mind.

She waited for an opportune moment, then dashed from the deckhouse to dart down the hatch like a mouse down a hole. The hatch cover dropped down behind her, plunging her into darkness. She scurried through the ship and found the crew’s quarters deserted. By the fading light of a lantern, she helped herself to an assortment of garments before hastening to the Satrap’s cabin. When she burst into it, he opened one lazy eye and regarded her irritably.

“Your behavior is unseemly,” he told her. “Where is my breakfast?”

Even in this crisis, she must play her role. “Your forgiveness, lordly one, I pray you. Our ship flees from two others. If they catch us, there will be battle. If there is battle, I fear we will be overwhelmed. I fear they are pirates from the Pirate Isles with little love or respect for the Satrap of Jamaillia. So I have borrowed clothing for you to disguise yourself. As a simple sailor, you may escape their notice. And I, also.”

As she spoke, she began to sort the clothing hastily. She chose a rough shirt and trousers for herself, and a sailor’s cap to conceal her brow. A heavy sweater, far too large for her, might help her pass herself off as a boy. For the Satrap, she had chosen the cleaner garments. With these over her hands, she advanced to the bed. He scowled at her and clutched the edge of his blanket tighter.

“Rise, glorious one, and I will help you dress first,” she offered. She wanted to bark it like a command to a recalcitrant child, but knew that would only make him more stubborn.

“No. Put those disgusting rags aside and lay out proper garb for me. If I must rise and dress before I’ve had any breakfast, I will dress as befits me. You do a great injustice to our Chalcedean sailors to imagine they shall be captured and beaten so easily. There is no need for me to hide myself behind a churlish disguise.” He sat up in his bedding, but crossed his arms resolutely on his chest. “Bring me decent clothes and shoes. I shall go out on the deck, and watch my patrol vessel disperse these common pirates.”