Althea strode up and kicked the crate, making all the shells jump. “Which cask has the rotten meat?” she roared at them.

Lop turned amazed eyes up at her. Then he pointed at the overturned shells. “There's no bean!” he exclaimed.

She seized him by the back of his shirt collar and shook him. “There never is!” she told him, and then shoved him to one side. He gaped at her.

She turned on Artu. “Why haven't you found that cask and cleaned it up?”

He came to his feet, licking his lips nervously. He was a small, bandylegged man, more quick than strong. “ 'Cause there ain't one to find. Me and Lop, we shifted all the cargo in this hold, looked at it all and found nothing. Right, Lop?”

Lop goggled at her, his large pale eyes wide. “We didn't find it, ma'am.”

“You didn't move all the cargo. I can smell it! Can't you?”

“Just ship stink, that's all. All ships smell like that.” Artu shrugged elaborately. “When you been on as many ships as I have,” he began condescendingly, but Althea cut him off.

“This ship doesn't stink like that. And it never will as long as I'm a mate on it. Now get that cargo shifted, find that rotten meat and clean it up.”

Artu scratched at a boil on the side of his neck. “Our watch is almost up, ma'am. Maybe the next watch'll find it.” He nodded to himself in satisfaction and gave Lop a conspiratorial nudge. The lanky sailor echoed Artu's grin.

“Tidings for you, Artu. You and Lop are on watch down here until you find it and clean it up. Clear? Now get on your feet and start shifting this cargo.”

“That ain't fair!” Artu cried out as he came to his feet. “We worked our watch! Hey, come back here! That ain't fair!”

His grubby fingers caught at her sleeve. Althea tried to jerk free, but his grip was amazingly strong. She froze. She wouldn't risk a struggle she might not win, nor a torn shirt, with this man. She met his gaze with narrowed eyes. “Let go,” she said flatly.

Lop stared, wide-eyed as a boy. He'd caught his lower lip between his teeth. “Artu, she's second mate,” he whispered nervously. “You're gonna get in big trouble.”

“Mate,” Artu snorted in disgust. Quick as a flea's hop, he shifted his grip from her sleeve to her forearm inside it. His dirty fingers bit down hard on her flesh. “She ain't no mate, she's a woman. And she wants it, Lop. She wants it bad.”

“She wants it?” Lop asked dimly. He looked at Althea in consternation.

“She ain't screaming,” Artu pointed out. “She's just standing here, waiting for it. I think she's tired of getting it from the captain.”

“She'll tell,” Lop complained in confusion. It took so little to confuse the man.

“Naw. She'll scream and wiggle a bit, but we'll leave her smiling. You'll see.” Artu leered at her. He wet his pursed little mouth. “Right, matey?” he taunted her. He grinned, showing brown-edged teeth.

Althea met his gaze squarely. She could not show fear. Her mind was racing. Even if she screamed, no one would hear her down here. The ship might be aware of her, but she couldn't count on Paragon. He had been so spooky lately, imagining serpents and floating logs and yelling out sudden warnings, that most likely no one would pay attention to him. She would not scream. Artu was looking at her, his little eyes shining. He'd like her to scream, she realized. He and she both knew that when he was finished with her, he'd have to kill her. He'd try to make it look like an accident, falling cargo or whatever. Lop would say whatever Artu told him to say, but Brashen would not be fooled. Brashen would likely kill them both, but she wouldn't be around to watch him do it.

The cascade of thoughts tumbled through her mind in less than a breath. She was on her own here. She'd sworn to Brashen she could handle this crew. Could she?

“Let go, Artu. Last chance,” she told him evenly. She managed to keep the tremor out of her voice.

He backhanded her with his free hand, the blow so swift she never saw it coming. Her head snapped back on her neck. She was stunned for an instant, dimly aware of Lop's distressed, “Don't hit her,” and Artu's, “Naw, that's how she wants it. Rough.”

His hands scrabbled over her body, pulling her shirt loose from her trousers. Her revulsion at his touch was what brought her back. She struck out at him with all her strength, body punches that he didn't seem to feel. His body was as hard as wood. He laughed at her efforts and she knew an instant of despair. She couldn't hurt him. She would have fled then, but his grip on her arms was tighter than a vise, and the disarray of cargo made a quick escape impossible. He forced her up against a crate. He released one of her arms to grip the front collar of her shirt. He tried to tear it, but the stout cotton held. With her one free hand, she punched hard in and up at the base of his ribs. She thought he flinched.