“What do you want from me?” he demanded imperiously. He tried to sit up, then sank back with a moan. The command was gone from his voice as he whimpered, “Why are you being so hateful to me?”

He seemed so genuinely incredulous that she was jolted into an answer. “You gave me over to a man who raped me repeatedly. He beat me. You did it deliberately. You knew what I was suffering. You did nothing. Until you needed me, you cared nothing for what became of me. You were amused by it!”

“I do not see that you took great hurt from it,” he declared defensively. “You are walking and talking and being as cruel to me as you always were. You women make so much of this! After all, it is what men naturally do to women. It is what you were made for, but refused to grant me!” He plucked petulantly at his blankets and muttered, “Rape is nothing but an idea women created, to pretend that a man can steal what you have an infinite supply of. You took no permanent harm from it. It was a rough jest, I admit, and ill considered . . . but I do not deserve to die for it.” He turned his head and faced the bulkhead. “No doubt when I am dead, you will experience more of it,” he pointed out with childish satisfaction.

Only the truth of his last statement kept her from killing him at that moment. The depth of her contempt for him was suddenly boundless. He had no concept of what he had done to her; worse, he seemed incapable of understanding it. That this was the son of the wise and gentle Satrap who had made her a Companion was inconceivable. She pondered what she must do to ensure her survival. He inadvertently gave her the answer.

“I suppose I must give you presents and honors and bribes before you will take care of me.” He sniffled a little.

“Exactly.” Her voice was cold. She would be the most expensive whore he had ever created. She went to a desk that was securely fastened to the bulkhead. She unburdened it of discarded clothing and a forgotten plate of moldy dainties. She found parchment, a pen and ink. She set them out, then dragged a chair across to seat herself. The change in her posture reminded her of how her whole body ached. She paused, frowning to herself. Going to the door, she jerked it open. The sailor on duty there looked at her questioningly. She made her voice imperious.

“The Satrap requires a bath. Have his tub brought, with clean towels, and buckets of hot water. Very quickly.” She shut the door before he could react.

She returned to the desk and took up her pen.

“Oh, I do not wish a hot bath. I am too weary as it is. Cannot you wash me where I lie?”

Perhaps she'd allow him to use the water when she was finished with it. “Be quiet. I'm trying to think,” she told him. She took up the pen and closed her eyes for a moment, composing her thoughts.

“What are you doing?” Satrap Cosgo asked.

“Drawing up a document for you to sign. Be quiet!” She considered terms. She was inventing a whole new position for herself, as the Satrap's permanent envoy to Bingtown. She would need a salary, and allowance for suitable quarters and servants. She inked in a generous but not outrageous amount. How much power should she allot to herself, she wondered, as her pen inscribed the flowing characters on the parchment?

“I'm thirsty,” he whispered hoarsely.

“When I am finished, and you have signed this, then I will get you some water,” she told him reasonably. In fact, he did not seem very ill to her. She suspected it was a combination of some true illness, seasickness, and wine and pleasure herbs. Put that with a lack of servants and Companions fawning over him, and he believed he was dying. Fine. It well suited her purposes that he believe he was dying. Her pen paused for an instant in its flight and she tilted her head as she considered. There were emetics and purges in the medical stores he had brought with them. Perhaps, in the course of “caring” for him, she could see that he did not recover too swiftly. She needed him alive, but only as far as Bingtown.

She set her pen aside. “Perhaps I should take time to prepare a remedy for you,” she conceded graciously.

HIGH SUMMER

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - The Ringsgold

THE TANGLE HAD GROWN. MAULKIN SEEMED TO TAKE BOTH PLEASURE AND pride in this. Shreever had more mixed feelings. While the larger contingency of serpents that traveled with them now assured greater protection against predators, it meant that food supplies had to be shared. She would have felt better if more of the serpents were sentient, but many of those who followed the tangle were feral creatures who gathered with them only out of instinct.

As they traveled and hunted together, Maulkin closely observed the feral serpents. Any that showed signs of promise were seized when the tangle paused for rest. Kelaro and Sessurea usually overpowered the chosen target, bearing him down and letting him struggle against their combined weight and strength until he was gasping. Then Maulkin would join them, to shake loose his toxins and weave his body through the winding loops of the memory dance while they demanded that the newcomer recall his own name. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it did not. Not all of those who could recall their own names were able to retain their identities for long. Some remained simple, or drifted back into their animalistic ways by the next tide. But some few did recover and hold on to higher thought. There were even a few who followed the tangle aimlessly for a few days, and then suddenly recalled both names and civilized manners. The core group of serpents had grown to twenty-three, while easily twice that number ghosted behind them. It was a large tangle. Even the most generous provider could not keep them all satisfied.