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woman of years perhaps equal to Naukrates’. She
had moved like a young woman in her heavy mantle, but the authority of her
voice and the arrogance of her carriage had bespoken, to him, both age and
power.
    If she was as old as Kemni was himself, he would be
astonished. She must be kin to Naukrates: her face was much like his, if
softened somewhat by youth and by her sex. Naukrates was a handsome man, in his
Cretan fashion. She was a handsome woman, though not, he decided judiciously,
beautiful. Her face was too strong for that, her stare too direct, straight and
keen as a man’s.
    Though that was no man reclining there, dressed in the
fashion of a lady of Crete: long, many-tiered and flounced skirt of richly
woven fabric, belted close and high about her narrow waist; and vest of like
weaving, trimmed with gold and pearl. It left her breasts not only bare but
beautifully and strikingly so, lifted high and arrogant, flaunting them before
the world.
    Women in Crete were proud to be women—that, he could well
see.
    She studied him with perhaps more intensity than he studied
her, though she must have seen all of him that there was to see, outside by the
cargo. As if she wanted to know him, or to understand what he was. He understood
nothing of her, nor even knew her name; but he was not about to let it trouble
him.
    She might be an enemy. He could not tell. He rather doubted
that she would betray him to the foreign kings. Not out of any care for
embassies or alliances, but because such a course might bring harm to the
captain of this ship, and to its crew.
    All this passed in a moment, though it seemed ages long.
Kemni sat on the couch opposite her, not waiting to be invited; waiting to see
what she would do.
    She did nothing. As if his sitting had been a signal, the
cook’s boy brought food and drink, no better or worse than Kemni had dined on
with Naukrates. He was hungry. Though neither of them had yet spoken a word, he
took bread, broke it, offered her half. She accepted it without visible
hesitation.
    They ate in silence as they had begun. It was an odd
silence, almost comfortable, as if they were friends and not utter strangers.
    When they had both eaten all that they would, and the
winejar had been filled again, but neither moved to pour from it, at last, she
spoke. “My name is Iphikleia,” she said—in his own language, and not badly,
either.
    “Iphikleia,” he said. Or tried to say. His tongue stumbled
from beginning to end—worse than Naukrates’ struggle with Kemni’s own and
simpler name. “Mine is Kemni.”
    “Kemeni,” she said, as the captain had. She inclined her
head. “You’re not what I expected.”
    His brows rose. “Oh? And what did you expect?”
    “Someone older,” she said.
    “Someone of more power and presence in the world?”
    She shrugged. It did fascinating things to her breasts. “A
king chose you. He must have had a reason.”
    “It seemed sufficient to him,” Kemni said. “For me . . .
I would rather be in Thebes, hating the foreigners and waiting for the next
battle against them.”
    “This is battle,” she said. “Never doubt it.” She shifted
suddenly, speaking words that meant nothing, until his lagging mind put sense
to them: Cretan words, spoken somewhat slowly, as if she wished to be very
clear. “There is no place here for children or fools. I hope for your sake that
you are neither.”
    “And are you the captain,” Kemni asked in the same language,
“to say who is permitted on this ship?”
    Her eyes widened slightly. “You speak our language well.”
    “Well enough, for an Egyptian.” Kemni met her level dark
stare. “Naukrates is your father, yes?”
    “My uncle,” she said. “My mother’s brother.”
    “And he lets you command on his ship?”
    Kemni’s incredulity pricked her pride: he saw her lips
tighten. “He is the captain,” she said stiffly. “He sails the ship. I own it.”
    “Do you now?” Kemni had heard of women owning boats