It was a small fortune, but Miriamele knew that Aspitis and his family were the possessors of a very large fortune beside which this was a mere handful. The coins were mostly silver, but each sack contained more than a few gold Imperators as well. The chest was, as she had seen, full of bags of money. The Niskie held it up to the light, a look of surprise in her gold-flecked eyes. She leaped from the bed to grab it, but Gan Itai had bent first.
Suddenly, chillingly, Miriamele saw her one door of escape closing. Both Miriamele and the old Niskie stared at it for a moment. The hilt of Aspitis' dagger, which had been covered in the folds of blanket, caught in her sleeve and clattered onto the floor. I don't care, she said, but the look on Gan Itai's face touched her: the sea-watcher could think of no other way to help. She felt the hands that shook her, and heard the quiet voice, but her mind did not want to return to the waking world. It would do her cause no good to alert Aspitis. Although she knew that time was growing ever shorter, she forced herself to refold each garment and lay it back where it had been. She began to investigate a little more thoroughly, checking the folds of all his clothing, rummaging through the caskets in which he kept his jewelry and gaming-dice. It was the earl's favorite possession-except perhaps for her, Miriamele thought grimly-but it was not what she sought.
The earl's sword lay across his bed like some heathen wedding token, a slim, beautifully wrought blade with a hilt in the shape of a spread-winged seahawk. I would rather be dead.Ī quick examination of Aspitis' room turned up nothing useful. It looks rumpled and windblown, and that is not how you like it, I think. She had promised herself that she could outlast anything, that she could float with any tide and lie happily beneath the sun on whatever beach received her-but was it true? Could she even marry Aspitis, who had made her his whore, who had aided in murdering her uncle and was a willing catspaw of Pryrates? How could a girl-no, a woman now, she reflected ruefully-how could a woman with the blood of Prester John in her veins allow such a thing to happen to her?ĭo you not wish to brush your hair straight? the Niskie asked. Slowly, as if approaching a dangerous animal, she considered this last idea for a moment-it was stunning in its power, even as an unvoiced thought.
In the dark, Miriamele made a small noise. At last, as dawn was glimmering in the sky above-decks, she fell into a heavy, muddy sleep with the earl's dagger still clutched in her fist.
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