The rhythmic squeak, squeak, squeak of the oars was like an insistent finger digging at her side. Miriamele felt her anger building. At last, she turned on Cadrach in a fury. “You ... you traitor!” she spat. The monk goggled at her, his round face growing pale with alarm. “What?” Cadrach looked as though he would have liked to move away, and quickly, but they were cramped together in the rowboat’s narrow stern. Lenti, Streáwe’s sullen servitor, watched them in irritation from the rowing bench where he and the other servant pulled languidly at the handles. “My lady ...” Cadrach began, “I don’t ...” His feeble denials only made her angrier. “Do you think I’m a fool?” she snarled. “I am slow to realize, but if I think long enough, I get there. The count called you Padreic—and he’s not the first to call you by that name!” “A confusion, lady. The other was a dying man, if you remember—maddened by pain, his life leaking out on the Inniscrich ...” “You swine!
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