Reyn felt as if his heart had vanished from his chest, leaving a gaping hole behind. No wonder she had fled the sight of him. He swallowed hard. She had not even had a word of greeting for him, even as a friend. Did she fear he would hold her to her promise? Did she fear he would humiliate her before the Satrap? He bathed in the pain of watching them. She would never again be his.

ALTHEA HAD HELPED HER NIECE HOIST THE HEAVY CHAIR UP TO THE FOREdeck. She thought it a foolish bit of show herself, but none of this made any sense to her. They were all trapped in Kennit’s ridiculous and dangerous display of strength. She watched Malta take the Satrap’s wet cloak from his shoulders and wrap him warmly in the fresh one. She pulled the hood well up as if the man were Selden. When he had seated himself in his makeshift throne, she even tucked the cloak more snugly about his feet and legs. It pained her to watch Malta do such humble service. It stung her worse that Kennit watched the whole performance with a snide little smile on his face.

Hatred so hot it tinged her vision red rushed through her. She actually gasped for breath as her nails bit deep into her palms. She leaned back against the ship’s rail and concentrated on letting it pass through her.

“You want to kill him that badly,” the ship observed quietly. The comment seemed intended for her alone, yet Althea saw Kennit turn slightly to the words. He raised one eyebrow in a slight, mocking query.

“Yes. I do.” She let him read the words on her lips.

KENNIT GAVE HIS HEAD A SORROWFUL LITTLE SHAKE. THEN HE PUT HIS attention back on a small ship that was drawing steadily closer to them. It came sluggishly through the darkening afternoon. Kennit wondered if it had taken damage in the serpent attack. An array of impressively garbed men stood on its deck staring toward them. Most of them looked portly beneath their rich cloaks. Sailors stood ready on deck to assist their betters to cross to Vivacia. A smile crooked his lips. It would be amusing if it began to sink while it was alongside. “Perhaps I should have dressed for the occasion,” he observed aloud to Etta. “Just as well that we have decked our Satrap so royally. Maybe clothing is all they can recognize.” He folded his arms on his chest and grinned expectantly. “Toss some heaving-lines, Jola. Let’s see what catch they bring us.”

“THERE THEY ARE,” MALTA WENT ON IN AN UNDERTONE TO THE SATRAP. “Sit tall and regal. Do you recognize any of them? Do you think they are loyal to you?”

He eyed his nobles sullenly. “I know old Lord Criath’s colors. He was most enthusiastic about my journey north, yet declined to join me because sea travel pains his joints. Yet, look how easily he crosses to our deck, and how tall he stands. He scarcely needs the man who hands him across. The fifth man, he who comes now, he wears the colors of house Ferdio, but Lord Ferdio is a small, slight man. This must be a stouter, taller son of his. The others… I cannot tell. They are so well hooded and hatted, their collars pulled so high, I scarce can see their faces-“

Malta suspected it, an instant before anyone else did. She glanced past the men boarding the Vivacia. On the deck of the other ship, sailors assisted their leaders to cross. Many surly, glaring sailors, all cloaked against the day’s cold. Too many?

‘”Ware treachery!” she shouted suddenly. Her cry forced them to act, perhaps sooner than they had planned. Some finely dressed men remained on the other ship, but at Malta’s cry, all flung aside their cloaks, sailors as well as counterfeit nobles. Their weapons came into view, as did the garb of common fighting men. With a roar, the sailors who had been “assisting” their cohorts flung themselves across the gap that separated the ships. More men appeared from belowdecks, a flood of fighters leaping across, blades in hand.

Kennit’s men, never trusting souls, sprang to meet them. In an instant, the main deck of the Vivacia was a melee of struggling men and flashing blades. Everywhere Malta turned, there was chaos. Kennit stood, sword drawn, barking orders about cutting lines and pushing off, while Etta guarded his back with both a sword and a shorter blade. Even Wintrow, her gentle brother, had drawn a knife and stood ready to repel any who tried to come up onto the foredeck. Jek and Althea, empty-handed, had moved to back him. All this, in the merest blinking of an eye.

Horror transfixed the Satrap. He shrank back in his chair, even drawing his feet up from the deck. Malta stood helplessly beside him. “Protect me,” he cried shrilly, “protect me, they’ve come to kill me, I know they have.” He seized her wrist in a surprisingly strong grip. He sprang to his feet, stumbling on the too-long cloak, and pulled her in front of him. “Guard me, guard me!” he pleaded. He dragged her away from the chair to the point of the bow and huddled there, clutching her wrist.