Kushiel's Chosen

my head to assess my situation.
    There were some fifteen men aboard the ship, ranging in age from the flag-waving youth, whom I guessed to be no more than fourteen years old, to a hardy-looking greybeard. Most were as dark as the captain, although here and there a rufous hue prevailed.
    Each one, even the lad, wore a short sword at his hip, and there were round bucklers pegged neatly under the oarlocks, though it was far too small for a warship. In the open hold, I could see crates and chests neatly stowed, lashed down with canvas. It could be a small, well-guarded cargo ship, I thought. Still kneeling, I gazed at the top of the mainmast, bobbing gently against the brightening sky. Where a cargo vessel's colors would have flown, it was barren of aught but sail and line.
    All of which meant my rescuers were very likely pirates.
    His company safely underway, the Captain picked his way across the deck back to me, squatting down before me while a half-dozen of his men crowded behind. Shivering, I drew myself up to the formal abeyante kneeling position of the Night Court.
    "Kur të vend?" he asked, frowning and thumbing the narrow strip of beard that adorned his chin. "Sa të atje?"
    "I'm sorry," I said humbly, "I don't understand. You said ... you said D'Angeline, my lord; yes, I am D'Angeline. You do not speak it?"
    "D'Angeline." He turned his head and spit contemptuously over the side of the ship. Two sailors nearby muttered, crossing their fingers and knocking their brows, another curious gesture. "D'Angeline, djo," he said, adding carelessly, "Caerdicc'."
    It took me a moment to realize his meaning, so rattled were my thoughts. Even then, I had to fumble for words not in my mother tongue. "Caerdicci," I said, echoing him, hoping I'd understood aright. "You speak Caerdicci?"
    "Yes, of course I speak it, I." He stood up, folded his arms and shot me an imperious look. "You think I am an unlettered peasant, eh? I am noble-born in Epidauro, I!”
    I sat back on my heels, putting the pieces together. "You're Illyrian."
    "Illyrian, yes." He grinned unexpectedly and bowed. "From Epidauro."
    Of the nations of Europa, I knew little of Illyria save that it had ever occupied a precarious position, torn between the conquests of Hellas and Tiberium, La Serenissima and Ephesium, and vulnerable to invasion from the great northeastern mainland. Like Terre d'Ange before the coming of Elua, it bent in the winds, surviving as best it could. All but the stronghold city of Epidauro; that held out a measure of independence.
    So much I knew, and no more. It seems odd, now.
    "Well met, my lord, and my thanks to you," I said courteously-if thickly-inclining my head. "Believe me, your rescue this day will earn great gratitude from Queen Ysandre de la Courcel. I am the Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève, of Terre d'Ange."
    "Yes, great... gratitude." He smiled and nodded, following my pronunciation carefully in his less-than-fluent Caerdicci. "I am Kazan Atrabiades, I. I am honor to have you as my..." Turning his head, he called out to one of the greybeards, querying him in Illyrian. The man replied respectfully, providing the Caerdicci word for which the captain searched. He had been trained as a scholar, I guessed upon hearing his formal accent. As it happened, I was right, though I gave it little thought at the time, for my blood chilled to hear the word he pronounced. "... my hostage," Kazan Atrabiades finished with pleasure, turning back to me.
    At that point, I fainted.
    It was not, I daresay, so much the shock of his words as it was the cumulative effect of the trauma I'd undergone. Nonetheless, whatever the cause, 'twas a full faint such as I have seldom known; and then only with a few choice patrons. The sky reeled in my sight, taut lines and white sails spinning, and then I saw the wooden planking of the deck rushing up to meet me.
    When I opened my eyes, I was beneath a canvas awning, shielded from the still-rising sun. A neatly-stitched bag containing scraps for repairing sails rested beneath my head, forming a bolster against the wall of the forecastle, where I'd been placed out of the way.
    "You are awake, good. Here."
    The voice spoke Caerdicci; the greybeard's voice, which had answered Atrabiades. A brawny hand, wrinkled and weather-tanned, thrust a waterskin under my nose.
    I took it gratefully, feeling water slosh under both hands as I raised the spout to my mouth and squeezed. Water, warm and stale, gushed into my