The room was as Malta recalled it from her grandfather’s days as captain on Vivacia. She looked in anguish at the familiar furnishings. With a flourish, Etta threw open a richly carved cedar chest. It was layered with garments in fabrics both sumptuous and colorful. At any other time, Malta would have been seized with envy and curiosity. Now she stood and stared sightlessly across the room as Etta dug through it.

“Here. This will serve. It will be large on him, but if we seat him in a chair, no one will notice.” She dragged out a heavy scarlet cloak trimmed with jet beads. “Kennit said it was too gaudy, but I still think he would look very fine in it.”

“Undoubtedly,” Malta agreed without expression. Personally, she felt it little mattered how a rapist dressed once you knew what he was.

Etta stood, the rich fabric draped over her arm. “The hood is lined with fur,” she pointed out. Abruptly she asked, “What are you thinking?”

There was no point in flinging harsh words at this woman. Wintrow had said that Etta knew what Kennit was. Somehow, she had come to terms with it. Who was she to criticize Etta’s loyalty? She must find Malta as craven for serving the Satrap. “I was wondering if Kennit has thought this through. I believe an alliance of Jamaillian nobles sought to have the Satrap die in Bingtown so they could blame the Traders for his murder and plunder our town. Are these nobles in this fleet of ships loyal to the Satrap and intent on his rescue? Or are they traitors hoping to finish what was begun in Bingtown? As well blame the Pirate Isles as Bingtown. Or both.” She knit her brows, thinking. “They may have more interest in provoking Kennit to kill the Satrap than in saving him.”

“I am sure Kennit has considered everything,” Etta replied stiffly. “He is not a man like other men. He sees far, and in times of great danger, he manifests great powers. I know you must doubt me, but all you need do is ask your brother. He has seen Kennit calm a storm and command serpents to serve him. Wintrow himself was cured of serpent scald at Kennit’s hand, yes, and had the tattoo that his own father placed on his cheek erased by his captain.” Etta met Malta’s skeptical gaze unwaveringly. “Perhaps a man like that does not have to abide by ordinary rules,” she went on. “Perhaps his own vision prompts him to do things forbidden to other men.”

Malta cocked her head at the pirate’s woman. “Are we still talking about negotiating to restore the Satrap to the throne?” she asked. “Or do you seek to excuse what he did to my father?” And my aunt, she added silently to herself.

“Your father’s behavior needs more excuses than Kennit’s,” Etta returned coldly. “Ask Wintrow what it is like to wear slave chains and a tattoo. Your father got what he deserved.”

“Perhaps we all get what we deserve,” Malta returned sharply. Her eyes swept up and down Etta, and she saw the woman flush with anger. She experienced a moment’s remorse when she glimpsed sudden, unmasked pain in Etta’s eyes.

“Perhaps we do,” the woman replied coldly. “Bring that chair.”

It was, Malta thought as she hefted the heavy chair, a petty revenge. She carried it awkwardly, knocking her shins against its thick rungs as she walked.

REYN KHUPRUS STOOD WELL BACK FROM THE FOREDECK WHERE HE COULD observe without being seen. He watched Malta. The veil obscured his view, but he stared hungrily at her anyway. What he saw pained him, but he could not look away. She smiled at the Satrap as she set a chair in place for him. She turned to the tall woman beside her and indicated with pleasure the scarlet cloak she carried. The Satrap’s face did not lose its proud cast. He lifted his chin to her. What came next was like a knife turning in Reyn. Malta unfastened his wet cloak for him, smiling warmly all the while. He could not hear the words, but her tender concern showed on her face. She cast the wet cloak carelessly aside, and then hastened to wrap the Satrap in the grand red cloak. She pulled the hood up well and fastened it warmly around him. With light touches of her hand, she gently pushed the damp locks back from the Satrap’s forehead and cheeks. When the Satrap seated himself, she fussed with the fall of the cloak, even going down on one knee to adjust the folds of it.

There was fondness in her every touch. He could not blame her. The Satrap with his pale, patrician countenance and lordly ways was a far more fitting match for Malta Vestrit than a scaled and battered Rain Wilder. With a pang, he recalled that the man had shared the first dance with her at her Presentation Ball. Had her heart begun to turn to him even then? She moved to stand behind the Satrap’s chair, and set her hands familiarly to the top of it. The trials they had endured together would undoubtedly have bonded them. What man could long resist Malta’s charm and beauty? No doubt, the Satrap felt great gratitude as well; he could not have survived on his own.