He gave a snort of laughter. “One impossible quest at a time. You first.”

“I will keep my word,” she promised sulkily.

He regretted having offended her. That was not the way to win her best effort. “I know you will keep your word,” he assured her. He took a breath. “I have touched souls with you, Tintaglia. You are too great-hearted to go back on your promise.”

She did not reply, but he sensed her mollification. Why she found such gratification in praise, he had no idea, but it was a small price to pay. She bore him on, her wide wings beating steadily. He became aware of the working of a mighty heart inside her chest. Where she clasped him against her, he was warm. He felt a surge of confidence in both of them. They would find Malta, and they would bring her safely home. He gripped her claws in his hands, and ignored the ache of his swinging legs.

MALTA’S HANDS SHOOK AS SHE TWITCHED HIS JACKET STRAIGHT. A DEEP-VOICED cry of agony resounded through the deck. She clenched her teeth against it and tried to believe the Chalcedeans were winning. She had suddenly discovered that she preferred the known danger to the unknown. Gently, she tugged the Satrap’s collar straight. There. The Satrap of all Jamaillia, Heir to the Pearl Throne, Magnadon Satrap Cosgo was now presentable. The Satrap regarded himself in the small mirror she lifted. Unruffled by the smothered sounds of fighting, he smoothed the thin line of his moustache. Something fell heavily to the deck above them. “I will go up now,” he announced.

“I don’t think that’s wise. It’s battle up there, can’t you hear it?” She had spoken too hastily. He set his jaw stubbornly.

“I am not a coward!” he declared.

No. Only an idiot. “Lordly one, you must not risk yourself!” she begged him. “I know you do not fear for yourself, but consider Jamaillia, bereft and lost as a rudderless ship if aught should befall you.”

“You are a fool,” the Satrap told her tolerantly. “What man would dare to physically assault the Satrap of Jamaillia? Those pirate dogs may dispute my rule, but only from a safe distance. When they look me in the face, they will cower in shame.”

He actually believed it. Malta gawked in stunned silence as he walked to the door. He paused, waiting for her to open it for him. Perhaps that was the solution. Maybe if she didn’t open the door for him, he would simply stay in the room. But after a long frozen moment, he scowled at her and announced, “I suppose I must do everything for myself,” and opened it. She trailed after him in sick fascination.

As she stood at the foot of the ladder that led to the deck, she reflected that the hatch cover might save him. It was always hard to lift and slide; perhaps it would defeat him. But when he was halfway up the ladder, the hatch opened, and a square of sunlight fell down onto them. A bare-chested man glared down at them. The spread-winged raven tattooed on his chest was spattered with fresh blood, seemingly not his own. Slave tattoos sprawled across his face and down one side of his neck. The knife he held dripped red. Then his wide-eyed stare changed to a whoop of delight.

“Hey, Cap! Come see what pretty birds I’ve found caged below!” To the Satrap and Malta, he barked, “Come on up here and don’t be slow!”

As the Satrap emerged from the hatch, the pirate seized him by the arm and hauled him onto the deck. The Satrap cursed and struck out at the man, who sent him sprawling with a careless shove. As he grabbed Malta, she set her teeth and refused to cry out. She glared at him as he lifted her by one arm and swung her onto the deck. She landed on her feet beside the Satrap. Without taking her eyes from the gloating pirate, she stooped down, seized the Satrap by his upper arm and helped him to his feet.

Around them, the deck was a shambles. A huddle of disarmed Chalcedeans was corralled at one end, guarded by three mocking invaders. Just past the base of the mast, Malta could see a man’s sprawled legs. They did not move. Other pirates were dropping down into the hold to see what cargo they had won. Malta heard a splash and turned in time to see some men throw a body overboard. It might have been the mate.

“You will die for this! You will die!” The Satrap was puffing with fury. Two red spots stood out on his pale cheeks and his hair was disheveled. He glowered at all of them. “Where is the captain? I demand to see the captain!”

“Please be quiet,” Malta begged him in an undertone.

He did not listen. He pushed at her, as if his fall were her fault. “Silence!” he spat at her. “Stupid woman. Do not presume to tell me what to do!” His eyes sparked with anger but his voice betrayed him with its shrillness. He set his fists to his hips. “I demand that the captain be brought to me.”