This hold was not meant to carry people, but as the merchants might say, "Slaves aren't people." A thin layer of filthy straw partially covers the wooden floor, reeking of sweat, vomit, and worse. A couple of buckets serve as toilets for the hold, but given the state of affairs, not everyone has been able to make use of them. A pair of tall, strong Rhians, matching bays, hunch against one wall, squatting on the filthy straw and occasionally talking to each other in quiet undertones. They are chained to the wall with thick iron links, as are two male Savanites. The remaining half-dozen slaves – five more Savanites and one Khatta – are not secured save by the barred and bolted door that prevents them from leaving the hold. Two of the unbound Savanites cluster around a third, who lies in a delirium fever, trembling and twitching against the floor. Were it not for some gaps in the ceiling planks, the hold would be pitch black, and as it is, the Savanites make their signs against each other's hands, when they try to speak at all.

Huddled against the wall farthest from the cluster of Savanites and their sick friend sits the Khatta girl, her legs tucked close and her arms folded tightly around her knees hugging them to her chest. The way she sits makes her look even smaller, an attempt to try and disappear amongst the other slaves and not draw attention to herself – from the slavers, or the other slaves. My fellow slaves, she reminds herself in quiet despair. From her place in the hold she watches the others, never too long and never making eyes contact, hoping they won't notice her, hoping whatever the sick Savanite has isn't contagious; she doesn't want to die here.

The Khatta's sensitive ears catch the sound of the bolt shooting back from the main door, even before the louder noise of the bar being lifted. A moment later, and the filtered light of day silhouettes the stooped outline of an Eeee. To eyes long adjusted to near-total darkness, the sudden light blinds, while the bat uses echo-location to scan the room. "Rasheeka?" he says, his voice high-pitched and squeaky.

Rasheeka covers her eyes at the sudden glaring light. Born in Tizban, the light of the sun never troubled her until these last few terrible days. Could it be weeks? She wonders, and finds she does not know. That time has passed beyond her reckoning is not so troubled a thought as to overshadow the Eeee's arrival. He has been her one small joy on this voyage, and the means in which she can be for the moment safe. His lessons remind her of a home that no longer exists. She moves to stand up. "H-here," she stammers as she rises and bows, hands clasped before her in the manner she had been taught growing up, "Master, most l-l-learned teacher, s-sir."

Bar Ravid frowns at her, tapping his cane against the ground. "I'll be making you sing your lessons, girl, if we can't rid you of that stutter. Pitiful sight you'll be, a stuttering translator. Come; I've had enough of this sty." He beckons to her with one hand, leaning against his cane with the other, as he shuffles to one side to let her pass.

The Khatta bows again, forcing herself to answer, "Yes, of course," without stuttering before she walks with quick steps towards the door. Once there, she finds herself all too glad to leave the cargo hold and scurries out the door.

The bat bars and bolts the door again, motioning for Rasheeka to precede him up the ladder to the deck. She ascends easily, and has time to breathe in the much fresher salty air, while her frail tutor clambers slowly out. Even the Drokar pen doesn't smell so bad. One of the sailors spots her, and cat-calls a lewd suggestion to her in Khattan – a language bar Ravid doesn't speak.

The slave who had been taking a moment to let the breeze of the ocean air stir her hair suddenly gapes at the comment, shocked at it, and as she covers her mouth she turns away from the Khatta to hide her reaction from him. The indignity of the comment is a sore reminder of the station she has lost – no one would have ever spoken to her that way before. Not before, when father and mother were alive, she remembers. Thoughts of better days stir with the fears she has already endured, and they keep her from tears for the moment.

The Khatta laughs at her reaction, offering a follow-up of, "Don't worry, kitty. If you're shy, we can do it in the dark!"

A feline sailor chimes in, saying – also in the Khattan tongue – "She's just embarrassed 'cause you ain't got what it takes to please a woman like her. Now, I could teach her a few lessons, eh, sweet thing?" He leers at Rasheeka, leaving the lines he was untangling to stride closer. "Better lessons than that old bat has to offer!"

When the slave hears the approaching footsteps behind her, her eyes widen. She tries to compose herself, to appear unafraid, but it's no use. She is afraid. And when she turns just enough to look back she shows it in her eyes, and then in the sudden startled mew she gives – followed by her quick retreat closer to the elderly bat.

Bar Ravid has at last reached the top of the ladder, and he squeaks a "Watch it, girl!" as Rasheeka backs over to him. The Khattan sailor grins lewdly at her, bending over not a foot away from her and to pick up a line of rope. "Let's get out of their way," the Eeee says, gesturing to a section of the deck against the pilot's house, where a few crates rest.

The Khatta sailor makes Rasheeka another obscene offer, this time without looking at her. The bat, not understanding, says only, in rather loud and accented Gallisian, "Just a minute, good fellow, we'll be out of your way."

It's all Rasheeka can do to respond with a few quick nods. Her usual self-effacing manner is lost to her in face of the barrage of lewd remarks and leering eyes. She stays close to the Eeee, as close as she can without accidentally bumping into him, and keeps her eyes fixed on the feline that watches her – not out of caution, but fixed by fear, unable to turn away. When the old teacher begins to move, she is quick to follow.

Seeing her attention still fixed on him when he straightens up, the feline sailor gives her a broad wink. He pulls the rope through a loop made of his fingers, grinning. "Let me know when you're through with him; I'll give you some private instruction." The several others of the crew are laughing, offering him encouraging remarks or countering with perverse ideas of their own.

The Eeee instructor pauses, halfway to his destination, glancing back over his shoulder to scowl at the laughing sailors. "Rasheeka! Enough chattering with the crew. What are they talking about, any road?"

This time Rasheeka does collide with the elderly Eeee, and again she mews, startled. The girl spins around to offer a deep bow, the motion and its necessity drawing her eyes to the more welcome sight of the deck as she offers, "A t-thousand pardons, O g-g-great Master, may your sons be prosperous. T-t-the deck hands were … were offering t-t-their expertise in … in … " The attempt to polite explain the situation falls apart as she tries to explain just what they were offering, and Rasheeka looks up long enough to give the old man a sorely apologetic look before returning her eyes to the deck.

The old Eeee flicks his ears back. He shouts, "Enough!" at the deckhands, shaking his fist at their laughter, trying it first in Gallisian, then in Eeee. But it's not until the bosun lends his own voice – "Back to work, you lazy fuff'nars!" – and boxes the Khattan tormentor on the ears that they finally quiet down.

The bat settles onto a crate and leans back. "All right," he says to Rasheeka, using the language he's been teaching her, Laosian. "Where did we leave off?"

Rasheeka closes her eyes, inhales, then exhales as she rises from her bow and folds her hands together. When her eyes open, she is looking up in an expression of carefully considering the question. She tries to appear calm, collected, but her shaking hands and glossy-eyes hint at otherwise. "T-t," she starts, then pauses to smooth her stuttering, "the proper names and titles of Apagorevian persons of status, most patient teacher and Master."

"Ah, yes." The Eeee smiles. "This should be easy for you, Rasheeka. The Laos Enosi are quite straightforward about their stations, at least compared to Himaatians." Bar Ravid often forgets that she's from Tizhar, not the Himaat. "The tyr are their equivalent of kings, or princes, maybe. The honorific follows the name, and indicates their kingdom or principality. So, for example, Theon Kirylr tyr Sychi is the prince of the principality of Sychi. Theon is his surname, and Kirylr is his given name. You'd never use either, however: you would refer to him as 'Tyr Sychi.' Only his fellow nobles would use the rest of his name."

Bowing slightly at the explanation, Rasheeka offers, "It is similar, and may Logos frown upon me if I am mistaken in my comparison, to the Tizhan way of naming. Such that I, Al-Elsayi Rasheeka bint Ashquar, am to be considered of house Al-Elsayi, my given name Rasheeka, my father Al-Elsayi Ashquar, may … " Rasheeka frowns momentarily, explanation interrupted with unpleasant memories of her father's passing, " … may he walk eternally in the grace of Primus. Tyr Sychi's hou- … surname precedes his given name, followed by the designation of station 'tyr' which denotes Tyr Sychi's grand and favored high station of prince of the principality of Sychi."

"Just so." Another smile from the bat instructor, and he reaches out to pat her hand encouragingly. "You've got the knack for tongues, Rasheeka. Now, when you address Tyr Sychi in person, you will hail him as 'dynatos tyr' – that's the equivalent of 'your highness' or, I don't know, whatever it is you cats use. 'O great and wondrous prince, on whom the sun rises and sets, whose eyes are stars and whose hair moonbeams,'" the Eeee tutor parodies, waving one hand vaguely. "None of that in Laosian. Just dynatos tyr."

Rasheeka smiles genuinely at the praise – compared to her time aboard ship praise is as bright and welcome as the hold is dark and terrible. She bows again, as she often does, and tilts her head at the master's parody. "Your praise is a blessing upon my humble ears, Master and teacher, and one thinks that you – your lessons as clear as the bluest sky – have visited the tiny land of my home and drank deep of knowledge most sweet and precious." She then nods, bows more deeply, and offers "Dynatos tyr," in practice.

The insides of bar Ravid's ears pinken, and he wrinkles his nose. "Pshaw. You cats are all the same." It doesn't stop him from looking pleased, however. "As for the rest – for the lesser houses, there are a few different ranks. "Kyrios" is the only other inherited title. The kyrios families own substantial portions of the land – pretty much, whatever the tyr don't control directly is in the hands of one kyrios or another. "Archon" is a bestowed title, mostly given to those valued by a tyr for their service at arms, but a judge also holds the title of archon. Then there's the afentis, those are, umm, like master craftsmen. The Laos Enosi value their skilled tradespeople very highly, and afentis are considered of a level, socially, with archons, though a cut below the kyrios." The Eeee scratches his head. "That's pretty much it, linguistically. There are graduations between each rank – you know, some kyrios are more important than others – but they don't have another title or doodad attached to their name to distinguish them."

After having risen again during the old Eeee's continued lesson the Khatta listens patiently, nods, and says, "I understand, O Master of word and lesson, may your voice never falter. Kyrios, an inherited title, similar but not perfectly akin to 'lord' from Gallisian. Archon, a bestowed title and a title of those who judge, perhaps like 'master' … " She repeats the word "master" in a myriad of languages. "… in several languages. Afentis too are, may the library beyond close to this one should I speak false, is also akin to 'master,' though different in the manner of profession one would acquire it."

A shadow falls across Rasheeka as she concentrates on internalizing, then verbalizing, the lesson. Then a large, dark hand drops onto her shoulder. "The instruction continues, eh, Pesach?" a deep male voice says in Gallisian. "How's our little prize coming along?"

Startled by the sudden hand and flashbacks to the sailors who had tormented her earlier Rasheeka almost gives yet another startled mew, this time reaching to cover her mouth before the sound escapes. She tenses at the touch only to ease somewhat when she realizes just who has found her. The man she knows to be one of her owners, and the ship's captain. The very idea she has an "owner" now returns to her mind as a curious and frightening thing, and though she had pondered much already, she cannot help but remember the sting – that she, Al-Elsayi Rasheeka bint Ashquar, is a slave. It makes her wish she had treated her House slaves so much better, though she had never been unkind to them. "Most esteemed Master Enrique Ledyr, glorious captain of The Laughing Mercat and purest salt of the sea," she greets him, quietly. The large man makes her nervous, but then most of the crew does too.

"Well enough, Captain Ledyr," Pesach bar Ravid answers, "though she could do with a little more listening and less talking," he says, glancing remonstratively to the young Khattan. "Himaatians. Doesn't matter what language you teach 'em, it'll still take 'em half a day to say, 'Hello, nice weather we're having,'" the bat grouses.

Captain Ledyr, a black Doberman who towers over the tiny feline, gives a full-throated laugh. "All too true, my friend." He pats Rasheeka's shoulder lightly again, then crosses his arms over his chest. "You'll just have to work at getting her down to a quarter of a day, eh?" He gives Rasheeka a meaningful glance.

Rasheeka, who had returned her gaze to looking somewhere off to sea where her eyes wouldn't meet the gaze of any other, feels the captain's glance upon her and looks up. She blinks, reddening, and bows deeply to the large Doberman and offers in way of apology, "This one shall endeavor to be brief, O Master whose fur shines like the rarest marb- … " She blinks again, reddens more, and continues with, " … I shall be brief, Master."

Ledyr laughs again. "Well done." He tosses off a gesture vaguely similar to a salute, then leaves them to enter the pilothouse. The Eeee taps his cane against the deck thoughtfully. "Let's work on some more phrases next. We'll go over what we have in the hold; you'll need to know all of that."

She offers the captain a not entirely forced smile at his compliment, and when he leaves, Rasheeka returns her attention to the old bat – or rather looks vaguely in the old man's direction without actually looking at him. When she thinks on the matter of what's in the hold, she wants to frown, for the idea of it is a sad thing – she cannot help but feel the contents of the hold will lighten before the end of their journey. "I am ready, O ma- … Master."

The days slip by in a blur of darkness and stench when Rasheeka is trapped with the other slaves in the hold, only relieved by the bar Ravid's lessons. The feline drinks in the knowledge greedily, desperate for any distraction from the unrelieved misery of the slave hold. The sick Savanite does, indeed, die, and no one but the other Savanites seems to care. Slaves aren't this ship's primary cargo, in any case, as she learned from bar Ravid: the vessel carries ample quantities of wine, spices, dyes, furs, and, most of all, steel – both unrefined, and shaped for tools and weapons.

When land is sighted, the feline looks forward to the journey's end with as much hope as anyone – for it seems that nothing which could come on Apagorevo could be as bad as the horrors of the dark hold. She pities her fellow slaves even more, without her excuse of instruction to get them out of it, for even a little while. To her surprise, however, The Laughing Mercat doesn't approach the shoreline, instead skirting wide around it, avoiding the other sailing vessels they see passing in the distance.

During a lull in one of her lessons, Rasheeka notices the captain's eyes on her, and finding she has his attention politely asks, "Deeply respected scourge of the sea, Master and Captain, may this one humbly inquire as to why we do not make landing?" Over the days she has learned to become more brief in her general conversation, though occasionally she slips – especially during initial greetings.

The large Doberman smiles, folding his arms at her question. "Because I like living," he answers. "Bar Ravid hasn't gotten to that part yet?"

"A hundred pardons, Master, Shriken of the Sea," answers Rasheeka. She dips in a bow, clasping her hands before herself. "He has not."

The Gallisian waves a hand negligently. "No matter. Apagorevo is notoriously hostile to foreigners," he explains. "This section, what we're getting to first, is about the worst of it. The Neyemen live on the western tip, and they're mean, vicious critters. Plus they don't have anything squat worth the time of talking to 'em anyway. Now, the Laos Enosi – they live on the other side. They're not much friendlier, but they have trade goods worth the name." A covetous gleam slips into his eye as he speaks.

Rasheeka listens attentively, large ears perked. "A step on the path of Logos," she tells the captain. The words are a ritual blessing, and sound as such, for she has said them many times before. As she rises again, she notices that her instructor has turned to watch her, and after dipping again to the captain turns and gives the elderly bat her full attention, resuming her lessons.

The Doberman turns from the coastline to shout some orders to his men, heading off another round in their favorite past-time of Rasheeka-baiting. As Pesach resumes the lesson, Ledyr drops by to interrupt. "We'll be going to Sychi – Pesach'll have told you about there, I'm sure," he remarks, talking right over the bat's recitation of plant and gardening words. "That's where I ran into him the first time… Any road, Sychi's not what I'd call eager for visitors, but her prince, lord, whatchacallhim … " He waves a hand vaguely. "… he won't kill you soon as look at you, at least. And we're planning to cut a deal with him. We'll be making history, here, Rasheeka: first trade route opened with Apagorevo – well – ever!" He grins.

Instinctively Rasheeka corrects the captain with, "Master, may your ventures find you riches and your sails be forever full, the tyr you refer to is Theon Kirylr tyr Sychi. Also, Logos be blessed, I recall that twelve-hundred years ago there was a common route between Apagorevo and the country which was Olympia. Due to pirating activities, the trade route was closed, and may the Dark One not addle my mind with falseness, one may not safely travel by land due to the presence of a Forbidden Zone."

The captain quirks his mouth at the girl, then glances to Pesach. "Izzat true?"

The Eeee shrugs. "About the trade route? I do not know. She has the tyr's name correct, however."

The dog snorts. He cuffs Rasheeka's shoulder – not hard, but enough to sting. "Don't correct your betters, girl – whether you're right or not." He turns his tail and walks off.

As the two men discuss the truth in her information Rasheeka remains quiet, and inwardly fears that the information may have been wrong – or offering it at all a mistake. And she finds her fears well founded as the large dog cuffs her in the shoulder. The much smaller girl stumbles a step at the blow, though the cuffing isn't enough to cause her any real distress. It does however ache slightly, and she feels the urge to cradle it, though she resists. Once she has straightened again she stands attentive, if meek, ears flattened out to the sides and eyes to the floor.

With land in sight – even though their final destination is still a ways off – the time seems to pass faster, and Rasheeka has time to worry that her mastery of Laosian will not be sufficient. Her owners wish to use her to replace bar Ravid as their translator. Though bar Ravid speaks Laosian, Eeee, and Gallisian, the merchant, Wahed Lamaan bin Shaab, who is Ledyr's partner, speaks only Khattan and Rephidim Standard. Ledyr and Wahed are hoping to simplify the translation process by having Rasheeka convert Laosian to Standard for both of them – or even to Gallisian and Khattan, if necessary, since both of them speak Standard as a second language.

At last, they come to Sychi's shores, and The Laughing Mercat turns to port – only to met by twin warships, sailing to greet her. The Eeee fetched Rasheeka to the deck as soon as they were within sight of port, and the feline has the opportunity to hear Ledyr's muttered comments on their "welcome" as he spies the war vessels through his glass. Wahed claws nervously at the rail. "Give me that!" he hisses, demanding the spyglass. "You said Sychi was friendly!"

The captain murmurs, "They are friendly. They haven't fired on us yet, have they?" He passes over the spyglass. "Laos warships fly red and black if they're going to attack. The green flag is for parley. They're coming out to talk. Right, Pesach?" He nods his head to the elderly Eeee, who nods back, notwithstanding that he hasn't understood a word of the exchange, spoken in Rephidim Standard. "Right." The Doberman rests his hands on the rail. "Steady as she goes!" he yells to his helmsman.

Standing near her masters, both to be close should she be needed quickly and yet as far from the rest of the crew as possible, Rasheeka watches the two ships approach with silent apprehension. She thinks on the matter of hostilities, what she should do if matters turn sour and what she might need to fear. Her slavery numbs that fright, but she has heard enough about Sychi and his people to not wish not desire Apagorevo over The Laughing Mercat.