Yolenka's look, fond but dismissive, did nothing to bring down his color. "You are strong and brave, yes. But we need fighter with training, man who can meet Turga's best."

It was Tristan who spoke up. "Yolenka, if you think we need more men, I can a.s.sign as many as you like. But if you are looking for better fighters, you won't find them-not in Verdeau. Derkh was personally trained by the commander of his country's military, and Feolan is faster with blade and bow than anyone I ever saw. Each of these men has saved my life. Together with my brother, there is no one I would trust more in a battle."

Yolenka swept her eyes over them, reappraising, lingering over Derkh. At last she nodded.

"Then, no. Smaller is better, I think. Unless you want more?" She turned to Dominic, acknowledging, if grudgingly, that this was really his venture.

He shook his head slowly. "No, not knowing the country, I will trust to your judgment. And you are right: a smaller group can travel with less notice.

"Which brings me to the next problem. How on earth will we know where he has taken them?"

"I know where he takes them." Yolenka's voice was flat, her face grim and still. The amber eyes when they met Dominic's had lost their fierce pride. He read pity there, and old pain, and felt a bolt of fear for his babies.

"He takes them to Baskir," Yolenka announced. "To slave auction."

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

WHEN ALL ARE HOME SAFE, we will celebrate something better than an old woman's birthday."When, not if. The quiet courage and optimism of the word was exactly what Dominic had learned to expect from his mother. Solange would never admit the specter of failure, not while she had the least sc.r.a.p of hope. Certainly not at this dockside farewell.

She does look old, thought Dominic. Had a bad night, despite the brave face. Solange's features were drawn and sallow, the age lines harsher in the morning light than was usual.

Well, they were all of them getting older. Justine liked to tease Dominic about the grizzle at his temples and beard, but to be honest he hardly noticed the changes in her. Only when Gabrielle came to visit-Gabrielle, who looked as fresh and willowy as she had at twenty-did he really see the march of time through his family. How strange it must be for her, he thought, to watch us wither.

Dominic gave himself a mental shake. He was a practical man, no philosopher, and he was not withered yet. It was time to set sail.

Gabrielle was already making her good-byes with the women. Dom turned first to Tristan.

"It's killing me not to come with you-you know that, right?" Tristan's hard grip on Dominic's forearm underlined his words. "Just say the word, and I'm on board."

Dominic hesitated. There was nothing he would like better than to have his brother at his side. But more than defending the coast was at stake. Dominic knew that Solange was thinking about the kingship too, when she insisted Tristan remain behind. She would not talk about bad outcomes, but she would plan for them nonetheless, because she was queen. If they were killed in this attempt-and they might well be-then Verdeau would still have a worthy heir to the throne.

Dominic shook his head. "This one's mine, Tris. But I'll miss you, brother."

Then it was Justine. After fifteen years together, few words were needed.

"Bring them home, Dom," she whispered as he held her close.

"I will," he promised. High spirits help him, he was sailing blind into an unknown land with a dancing girl as his guide, but he held his promise as an oath. He would return with his children-or not at all.

NIGHT WAS COMING on again. Madeleine's throat tightened into a hard knot at the thought. Evil as their days were, it was the nights that she feared. When the blackness closed down upon them, the crawling endless hours eating at their courage, the hope in her heart shredded away like mist.

Was this their sixth night? It didn't seem to matter anymore. They had been at sea long enough that Madeleine could find grim amus.e.m.e.nt at how horrified she had been at the rusty bucket in the corner of their cell, which served as a communal toilet. She had not thought she would ever be able to relieve herself in full view of a strange boy-not until the cramping took her and her bowels, loosened by fear and the brackish water that was their only drink, decided the matter for her. The three children had all filled the hold with the reek of their waste, sharing the shame of it as they shared the itch of bed lice and the wretched food that two days' hunger had taught her to eat.

By day they talked, they helped each other, they argued. Each kept up a brave front for the others. They learned to make the long hours pa.s.s with Matthieu's riddles or Madeleine's retelling of their favorite childhood stories-even lessons from Luc on the parts of a ship and fishing methods. They learned too, to avoid talk of home, the memories that sapped their strength and left them in helpless tears. At night, though, Madeleine was alone. They were each alone. She felt Matthieu's back pressed against hers, and held him when he cried in the dark, but she couldn't beat back the black shadow that enclosed him. She heard Luc sometimes too, snuffling and gasping, trying to hide his weeping.

The ship lurched-an alarming sideways yaw that was replicated exactly by Madeleine's stomach. Matthieu groaned, his arms pressed tight around his waist. The seas had been growing rougher all day and now, it seemed, the night would bring worse. Another high-cresting climb and lurching sideslip followed the first. They landed hard, the impact jostling the three children against each other on the platform that served as bed, chair and table.

"Breathe slow and deep," offered Luc. "Go with the roll; don't fight it."

Madeleine didn't have much hope it would work. Before long, she thought, we'll be adding the stink of vomit to this pit.

The ship screeched in protest as another wave hit, the usual creak and groan of timbers giving way to an almost human shriek.

"What was that?" yelled Matthieu. His eyes, round and wild, strained into the dim half-light. "Are we breaking up?"

"No, be easy," said Luc. "A big ship like this ain't worried about a hard swell-she's just complainin'. Even our fishing boats could handle this. It's nasty if you're not used to it, but there's no danger."

No danger. A funny choice of words.

Only today, Madeleine had learned just what kind of danger she was in. A sailor she recognized had brought their food-the one with the narrow hungry face who had stared at her on the deck. So long ago that seemed, but those foxy features were hard to forget. He had a thin mustache, she saw now, that drooped over his lip, and a tattoo snaking around his wrist from thumb to forearm. He had laid out the gruel, hard biscuit and water jug with exaggerated, mocking care on their bed platform and glanced furtively down the length of the ship's shadowed belly.

He turned to her then, sidled up until she was pressed against the curved sidewall of the cell. His tattooed hand reached out and grasped her curls-dirty curls they were now, but as bright and tumbled as ever-fingering them slowly, luxuriously, his lips spreading into an avid leer. She tried to shrink away, but there was nowhere to go.

"Get off her!" Luc shouted at the man-she heard Matthieu's shrill voice as well-and both boys rushed at the pirate. Matthieu grabbed at him from behind, trying to pull him backward, but Luc came in from the side, landing a hard blow in the crook of the man's arm that jerked it down and away from Madeleine's face. The tattooed fist opened, releasing her, and with a roar of anger the pirate rounded on Luc and struck. Madeleine saw blood streaming down Luc's chin, saw the pirate fling Matthieu like a ragdoll into his bunk, and didn't even realize she was yelling for help until a hand snaked forward and clamped over her mouth.

Luc might have suffered much worse than the split lip he now bore, Madeleine thought, if the uproar hadn't brought a new man running. She had seen this man turn sleeping sailors out of their hammocks and allocate the stores-he was some kind of officer, if pirates had such a thing. Twice again as big as her tormentor, with great slablike hands, he plucked the man off his feet and shook him like a naughty pup. An angry harangue poured from him, with gestures to Madeleine and a knotted fist brandished to underline his point. The Fox (Madeleine put the name to him without conscious thought as she recalled all that had happened) was surly but cowed, his eyes cast down. At last the officer had all but thrown him from the cell, slammed the door and locked it from the great iron ring of keys that swung at his hip.

The children had barely spoken after that, all three shaken by a new awareness of their helplessness. Madeleine prayed that the visit they received soon after had gone over Matthieu's head, but the memory of it gnawed at her. She understood, now, something of their fate.

The man had not bothered to come in but had addressed them through the iron rungs. "I am sent to you as I speak your tongue," he said, the words accented and exotic-sounding, but plain enough. He sounds like Yolenka, thought Madeleine, and the memory of their day at the docks was a flare of pain in her heart. "You"-his golden-brown eyes, almonds in a deeply tanned face, rested on Madeleine-"will not be touched. Boss say no man to have you. Worth better price at auction if you are fresh, yes?" The handsome face broke into a hard smile. "So, any man handle you, you scream loud. Yes?"

Madeleine managed a shaky nod. "Yes."

The man nodded, then jabbed a finger at Luc. "This means you too. You take this girl, we cut your throat. Is clear?"

Not waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and disappeared up the hatch into the bright light that spilled in from the upper deck.

Better to be seasick than to think about those words "at auction," thought Madeleine. Better a storm to deal with, than another endless night drowning in memories and longings that did nothing but sharpen her grief. Better not to think about home.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

EACH DAWN, THE SHIP WAS BATHED in a dreamy orange glow as the rising sun slanted through her ochre sails. Dominic was always up to see it. The captain had given up his tiny cabin for the two women, but the men slept cheek by jowl with the crew, tucked into rope hammocks. Only Derkh seemed to find them comfortable-it was the swell and roll of the ship in high water that gave him trouble.

Even in a feather bed, though, Dominic would have been restless. Their flurry of preparation and packing-Dominic's part had been to outfit the company with weaponry and wealth ("as much as possible, in gold," Yolenka had urged), while the others had been busy acquiring remedies and herbs, smithing tools, everything needed to sustain their disguises-had been full of purpose and promise. Once on board, though, time stood still. Dominic knew they were following his children as fast as possible, but it was not like land travel, where you could count the pa.s.sing leagues in horse sweat and new vistas. Every day the scenery was the same: gray ocean without end. There was no sense of progress.

There was, at least, plenty to do. Yolenka had combed Blanchette market for the most gaudy silky fabrics she could find, and she gave lessons in Tarzine while she sewed what would evidently become her costume. Their progress varied-Dominic and Derkh managed to pick up a few words and phrases, while Feolan seemed to inhale words from the very air. Within a few days he was trying his skills out with the Tarzine crew. Dominic's years on the coast had given him a working knowledge of sailing, and he prowled the ship, observing the differences that made the Tarzine craft superior in power and stability to anything in the Basin lands. When the weather was fine and the deck relatively free, Dominic sparred with Derkh or Feolan. They all felt rusty and were glad of the chance to sharpen their fighting edge.

Mostly, he tried to plan. Even a rudimentary plan, cobbled together from their vast lack of information, seemed better than none. His mind chewed on it through the day and into the long wakeful nights. It had to, to fend off the terrible thoughts that lay always in wait for him-thoughts of his children, their fear and loneliness and misery.

Yolenka answered all his questions patiently, but when Dominic asked her to draw him a map she shook her head and stood abruptly.

"Is not my skill. Wait here."

It did not take her long. "Captain will see you after evening meal. Has maps of coastline, harbors, better knowledge of Turga than me. I translate."

His debt to this exotic woman, a complete stranger, loomed suddenly immense. Dominic reached up and grasped her hand as she turned to go.

"Yolenka, I don't know how we could have done this without you. I-"

She cut him off with a smile so brittle it hurt to see it.

"Slavers take my sister when I am ten years old, just beginning as dancer. I never see again. We take back your children. Then you thank me."

"TURGA'S STRONGHOLD CANNOT be entered by sea," translated Yolenka, as the captain pointed to a tightly enclosed bay at the south end of the country's western coast. "Is guarded at mouth, impossible." She held up a finger to forestall Dominic's dismay.

"But children are going here-to Baskir." The captain ran his finger north up the rugged coast, ill.u.s.trated with high cliffs along much of its length. "Is stupid for Turga to go first to his own land, then to slave auction by road. No-he sail straight to Baskir. Is big harbor, big market. Many ships coming and going. We land there, is easy."

IS EASY . IF ONLY it were true, thought Gabrielle. For one moment, as they cl.u.s.tered around the captain's map, their quest had seemed a simple matter of sailing to the right place.

Well, she was happy to leave the strategizing to Dominic and the others. Gabrielle's business was with the children. Her mind never left them, as if her constant thought could keep them safe. She saw the pain and worry behind Dominic's nervous energy. They were her feelings too.

"Can you send your thoughts out after them, Feolan?" she asked. Elves, she knew, could touch a friend's spirit with love or strength.

Feolan looked up from his lythra. He had been rehearsing with Yolenka-an impatient taskmaster-and was trying to fix in his head and fingers the strange melodies and rhythms she had sung for him. From the sheltered corner he and Gabrielle had found on the deck the sound floated out and hovered, stirring and mournful, between the dark water and the night's first stars.

He shook his head sadly. "They are too far, love, and our connection too faint. I cannot find them."

So he had tried. How she loved him for that. Pulling her shawl closer about her, she leaned against his warm back. The evening was cooling off quickly, but neither was in a hurry to exchange the open sky for the cramped lower deck, redolent as it was of unwashed bodies and the fish oil used to preserve the planking.

"Play on, then, my troubadour." And she returned to the prayer that played over and over in her heart: Let them be safe. Let them find comfort. Let them have hope.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

MATTHIEU HAD BEEN THINKING. Madeleine hadn't said one word about it, but he knew she had heard the word too. Auction. He knew what that meant. It meant they would be sold, like horses.

When he was little, maybe, he would have imagined an auction for nice families who didn't have children of their own. Not now. No, he would be no better than a plow horse or sheepdog, a beast existing only to work and obey. And Madeleine...It would be worse for Madeleine.

But that one word had given him an idea.

"Maddy, listen. I think we should try to get that guy back, the one who speaks Krylaise, and tell him who we are."

Madeleine was bent over with her hair tumbled forward, scratching the back of her scalp with both hands. It brought only temporary relief from the tiny, bloodsucking lice that infested all of them, but the sensation was glorious while it lasted. She flipped the dirty curls back and sat on her hands before they moved on to claw at her wrists and ankles.

"Why?" she asked dully. "What difference will it make?" She was different since that man had spoken to them, thought Matthieu. Sometimes it seemed like she was only half there.

"They're going to sell us, right?" Madeleine's eyes shifted away at his words, but her tiny reluctant nod acknowledged them. "So they're only after money. Our parents would pay to get us back- and you too," he added, bringing Luc into the family with a wave of his hand. "They'd pay more than anybody! So if we tell them who we are, that they can just sell us back, maybe they will!"

Her blue eyes grew round. "Oh, Matthieu, I wonder...Except they would have to bring us all the way back."

"So we promise them even more money!"

Madeline nodded, slowly. "I can't see any reason not to try." She flashed him a smile, his old Maddy back, hope kindling her features. Then she grew serious and lowered her voice. "There's another thing. We don't want the pirates to know they may be trying to follow us. Don't say anything about that."

"The rescue" had become a little fiction they were careful to keep alive, though neither had mentioned it in days. It was the storm, Matthieu thought, that had put an end to any real hope. Clinging to Madeleine in the dark as the ship plunged and lurched and spray cascaded down the hatch, he had begun to grasp the vastness of the ocean and the invisibility of their pa.s.sage. There was nothing for his father, or the best tracker in the world, to follow.

Luc broke in. "Your family must be some rich if they could buy you back." He was eyeing them queerly, as though they had turned into strangers.

"My father will be king of Verdeau," Matthieu announced. It was not a boast, exactly, but he could not keep the pride from his voice. Luc would be impressed, even if the Tarzines were not.

But he had not intended to make his new friend grovel. Luc's face became the picture of dismay. Then he dropped his head nearly to his waist, his fist clamped to the rough forelock that hung over his eyes.

"Beggin' yer pardon," he muttered. "I didn't know. I wouldn't have made so free with ye-"

"Luc, stop." It was Madeleine, looking as upset as Luc did. She walked over and pulled down his arm. "Please, stand up. Look at me."

It was hard for him, but there was no evading those round blue eyes. "It was exactly right, what you said when we met. It means nothing here, being n.o.ble-born or not. And now that I've met you, I wish it meant nothing back home." She took a deep breath, and her pale cheeks colored. "I'm proud to have you for a friend-Matthieu too, I'm sure." Madeleine fixed Matthieu with the same demanding stare.

He nodded, hard. Luc had got his lip split open defending Maddy, had held Matthieu's shoulders while he puked into that vile bucket. They were in this together.

TWO DAYS OF CLAMORING, entreating and gesticulating every time a sailor pa.s.sed near finally brought the interpreter back to the children's cell.

He listened with undisguised impatience and gave a dismissive laugh as Madeleine laid out their proposal. "Is pretty plan. But you need very rich father to pay Turga his price, plus return trip!"

Madeleine drew herself up and spoke now with quiet emphasis. They had agreed to save this trump card for last.

"He is very rich. He is the king."

The broad back, already turned toward them, froze. It hovered, undecided, for a second. Then the man faced Madeleine once more. His eyes narrowed as he searched her face, and she did her best to stand tall under his scrutiny.

"You lie about this, Turga makes you very sorry."

"I do not lie. My brother here is heir to the throne." The words startled Madeleine as she spoke them. She had never before thought of Matthieu as-well, as anything but a kid.

Another hard stare, a curt nod, and the man was striding down the gallery.