The Mad Ship

2 THE PIRATE’S LEG

‘BACK IN THE monastery, Berandol used to say that one way to disperse fear and create decision was to consider the worst possible outcome of one’s actions.’ After a moment Wintrow added, ‘Berandol said that if one considered the worst possible outcome and planned how to face it, then he could be decisive when it came time to act.’

Vivacia glanced back over her shoulder at Wintrow. The boy had been leaning on the bow rail for the better part of the morning, staring out over the choppy water of the channel. The wind had pulled his black hair free of his queue. The ragged remnants of his brown garments looked more like a beggar’s rags than a priest’s robe. The sentient figurehead had been aware of him, but had chosen to share his silence and mood. There was little to say to each other that they did not both already know. Even now, the boy spoke only to put his own thoughts in order, not to ask any advice of her. She knew that, but still prompted him along. ‘And our worst fear is?’

Wintrow heaved a heavy sigh. ‘The pirate suffers from a fever that comes and goes. Each time it overpowers him, Kennit emerges from it weaker. The source is obviously the infection in his leg stump. Any animal bite is a dirty wound, but the sea serpent’s bite seems unusually poisoned. The festering part must be cut away, and the sooner the better. He is too weak for such a surgery, but I see little prospect that he will grow stronger. So I tell myself I must act swiftly. I also know it is unlikely he will survive my cutting. If he dies, so must my father and I. That was the bargain I struck with him.’ He paused, and then went on, ‘I would die. That is not truly the worst outcome. The worst is that you must continue alone, a slave of these pirates.’

He did not look at her but gazed out over the constantly moving waves as he added, ‘So you see why I have come to you. You have more right to a say in this than I do. I did not fully consider that when I struck my deal with Kennit. I wagered my death and my father’s. In doing so, I unintentionally wagered your life as well. It was not mine to bet. You have, I believe, a great deal more to lose than I.’

Vivacia nodded, but her own thought slid past Wintrow’s and into one of her own. ‘He is not what I expected a pirate to be. Captain Kennit, I mean.’ Thoughtfully she added, ‘A slave, you just said. But I do not think he considers me his slave.’

‘Kennit is not what I thought a pirate would be, either. But despite his charm and intelligence, we must remember that he is one. Moreover, we must recall that if I fail, he will not be the one to command you. He would be dead. There is no telling who would then possess you. It might be Sorcor, his first mate. It might be Etta, his woman. Or perhaps Sa’ Adar would once more attempt to claim you for himself and the freed slaves.’ Wintrow shook his head. ‘I cannot win. If the operation is successful, I must watch Kennit take you from me. Already he flatters and charms you with his words, and his crew works your decks. I have little say in anything that happens aboard you any more. Whether Kennit lives or dies, I will soon have no power to protect you.’

Vivacia shrugged one wizardwood shoulder. ‘And you did before?’ she asked, somewhat coldly.

‘I suppose not.’ The boy’s voice was apologetic. ‘Yet, I had some idea of what to expect. Too much has happened too fast, to both of us. There has been too much death, and too many changes. I have had no time to mourn, no time to meditate. I scarce know who or what I am any more.’

They both fell silent, considering.

Wintrow felt adrift in time. His life, his real life, was far away, in a peaceful monastery in a warm valley rich with orchards and fields. If he could step across the intervening days and distance, if he could wake up in his narrow bed in his cool cell, he was sure he could pick up the threads of that life. He hadn’t changed, he insisted to himself. Not really. So he was missing a finger. He had learned to cope with that. And the slave tattoo on his face went no deeper than his skin. He had never truly been a slave; the tattoo had only been his father’s cruel revenge for his attempt at escaping. He was still Wintrow. In a few quiet days, he could rediscover the peaceful priest inside him.

But not here. The recent swiftly shifting events in his life had left him with so many strong emotions, he could scarcely feel at all. Vivacia’s feelings were as jumbled as his own, for her recent experiences had been as brutal. Kyle Haven had forced the young liveship into service as a slaver, prey to all the dark emotions of her miserable cargo. Wintrow, a blood member of her founding family, had not been able to comfort her. His own involuntary servitude on the ship had soured what should have been a natural bond between them. His alienation from her had only increased Vivacia’s misery. Yet still they had hobbled along, like slaves shackled together.

In one stormy, bloody night, the slaves’ uprising had freed her of Kyle Haven’s captaincy and her role as a slaver. Of the original crew, Wintrow and his father were the sole survivors. As dawn lightened the sky, the crippled ship was overtaken by pirates. Captain Kennit and his crew had claimed Vivacia as a prize without striking a single blow. Then it was that Wintrow had struck his bargain with Kennit: he would try to save the pirate’s life if Kennit would allow him and his father to live. Sa’Adar, a priest among the slaves and the leader of the uprising, had other ambitions. He wished not only to stand in judgment on Wintrow’s father Kyle, but also to demand Kennit turn the Vivacia over to the slaves as their rightful prize. No matter who prevailed, the future was uncertain for both Wintrow and the ship. Yet, the ship already seemed to favour the pirate.

Ahead of them, the Marietta cut a brisk path through the lace-edged waves. Vivacia followed eagerly in her wake. They were bound for some pirate stronghold; Wintrow knew no more than that. To the west, the horizon disappeared into the foggy coast of the Cursed Shores. The swift-running steaming rivers of that region dumped their warm and silty waters into this channel, which created near permanent mists and fogs that cloaked an ever-changing shoreline of shoals and shallows. Sudden, violent storms were common in the winter months, and not unknown even in the kinder days of summer. The pirate islands were uncharted. What sense was there in charting a coast that changed almost daily? The conventional wisdom was to give it a wide berth and sail swiftly past it. Yet the Marietta surged forward confidently and Vivacia followed. Obviously, the pirates were very familiar with these channels and islands.

Wintrow turned his head and looked back over the Vivacia. In the rigging above, the pirate crew moved briskly and competently to Brig’s bellowed commands. Wintrow had to admit he had never seen the Vivacia sailed with such skill. Pirates they might be, but they were also excellent sailors, moving with discipline and coordination, as smoothly as if they were living parts of the quickened ship.

But there were others on deck to spoil the image. Most of the slaves had survived the rebellion. Freed of their chains, they were still recovering the aspects of full humanity. The marks of manacles were yet on their flesh and the slave tattoos on their faces. Their clothes were ragged, and the bodies that showed through the rents were pale and bony. There were far too many of them for Vivacia’s size. Although they now occupied the open decks as well as the holds below, they still had the crowded look of cattle being transported. They stood idly in small groups on the busy decks, moving only when the crew gestured them out of the way. Some of the healthier ones worked dispiritedly with rags and buckets, cleaning Vivacia’s decks and holds. Dissatisfaction showed on many faces. Wintrow wondered uneasily if they would act on it.

He wondered what he felt about them. Before their uprising, Wintrow had tended them belowdecks. His heart had rung with pity for them then. True, he had had small comfort to offer them: the dubious relief of saltwater and a washing rag seemed a false mercy now. He had tried to do a priest’s duties for them, but there had simply been too many. Now whenever he looked at them, instead of recalling his compassion for them, he remembered the screams and the blood as they had killed all his shipmates. He could not name the emotion that now swept through him when he considered the former slaves. Compounded of fear and anger, disgust and sympathy, it wrenched his soul with shame at feeling it. It was not a worthy emotion for a priest of Sa to experience. So he chose his other option. He felt nothing.

Some of the sailors, perhaps, had deserved their violent deaths, as men judged such things. But what of Mild, who had befriended Wintrow, and the fiddler Findow and fun-loving Comfrey and the other good men? Surely, they had merited a kinder end. The Vivacia had not been a slaver when they signed aboard. They had remained aboard her when Kyle had decided to put her to that use. Sa’Adar, the slave priest freed in the rebellion, believed that all who had died had deserved it. He preached that by working as crew on a slave ship, they had become the enemies of all just men. Wintrow felt himself deeply divided on that. He clung to the comforting idea that Sa did not demand he judge others. He told himself that Sa reserved all judging for himself, for only the creator had the wisdom to be judge.

The slaves on board did not share Wintrow’s opinion. Some looked at him and seemed to recall a soft-spoken voice in the darkness and hands with a cool damp rag. Others saw him as a sham, as the captain’s son playing at mercy but doing little to free them until they had taken matters into their own hands. One and all, they avoided him. He could not fault them. He avoided them as well, choosing to spend most of his time on the foredeck near Vivacia. The pirate crewmembers only came there when the operation of the ship demanded it. Otherwise, they avoided it as superstitiously as the slaves did. The living, speaking figurehead frightened them. If their shunning of her bothered Vivacia, she gave no sign of it. For Wintrow’s part, he was glad there was still one place aboard ship where he could be relatively alone. He leaned his head back against her railing and tried to find a thought that wasn’t painful.

At home, it would almost be spring. The buds would be swelling in the monastery orchards. He wondered how Berandol was doing with his own studies, if his tutor ever missed him. He wondered with deep regret what he would be studying now if he were there. He looked down at his hands. Once they had transcribed manuscripts and shaped stained glass windows. They had been a boy’s hands, agile but still tender. Callus coated his palms now, and a finger was missing from one hand. They were the rough hands of a sailor. His finger would never wear a priest’s ring.

Here it was a different kind of spring. The canvas snapped in the brisk chill wind. Migrating flocks of birds passed over head with their haunting cries. The islands to either side of the channel had become even more lush, green, and alive with shorebirds arguing about nesting space.

Something tugged at him.

‘Your father calls for you,’ Vivacia said quietly.

Of course. He had sensed it through her. Their journey through the storm had affirmed and strengthened the bond of mind and spirit between the ship and himself. He did not resent it as he once had and he sensed that Vivacia did not cherish it as dearly as she once had. Perhaps in this, at least, their feelings were meeting in the middle. Since the storm, she had been kind to him, but no more than that. Like a preoccupied parent with a demanding child, he thought to himself.

‘In some ways, we have exchanged roles since our journey began,’ she observed.

He nodded, having neither spirit nor energy to deny the truth. Then he straightened his shoulders, ran a hand through his hair, and set his jaw more firmly. He would not let his father see how uncertain he felt.

He kept his head up as he threaded his way across the deck, avoiding the knots of slaves and the working crewmen. No one met his eyes, no one challenged him. Foolish, he told himself, to believe they all watched his passage. They had won. Why should they care about the actions of one surviving crewmember? At least he had come through it physically unscathed.

Vivacia bore the scars of the slave uprising. There were still bloodstains on the decks. The marks had not and would not yield to the sanding-stones the men used. The ship still smelled like a slaver, despite the near continuous scrubbing Brig had ordered. The storm had taken a toll on her canvas as well; the hasty patching that the pirates had done showed plainly on her sails. In the aftercastle, doors had been forced when the slaves had hunted down the ship’s officers. The gleaming woodwork was splintered and awry. She was not the tidy little vessel he had embarked upon from Bingtown. It suddenly shamed him to see his family ship this way, as if he had seen his sister whoring in a tavern. His heart went out to her and he wondered what it would have been like to have come aboard the ship of his own free will, as a boy perhaps, to serve under his grandfather’s authority.

Then he set all such thoughts aside. He came to a battered door guarded by two sullen map-faces. He stepped past the former slaves as if he did not see them and knocked on Gantry’s cabin door. At least, it had been the mate’s while he was still alive. Now the stripped and looted room was his father’s prison cell. He did not wait for a reply, but entered.

His father sat on the edge of the bare bunk. The stare he lifted to Wintrow’s face was an uneven one. Blood filled the white of one eye in his swollen and discoloured face. Kyle Haven’s posture suggested pain and despair, but there was only acid sarcasm in his greeting. ‘Nice of you to recall me. I had supposed you were too busy grovelling to your new masters.’

Wintrow held back a sigh. ‘I came to see you earlier, but you were sleeping. I knew rest would heal you more than anything I could offer. How are your ribs?’

‘Afire. My head throbs with every beat of my heart. And I’m hungry as well as thirsty.’ He made a slight motion with his chin towards the door. ‘Those two won’t even let me out for some air.’

‘I left food and water here for you earlier. Didn’t you…’

‘Yes, I found it. A gill of water and two pieces of dry bread.’ There was suppressed fury in his father’s voice.

‘It was all I could get for you. There is a shortage of food and fresh water aboard. During the storm, much of the food was spoiled by saltwater…’

‘Gobbled down by the slaves, you mean.’ Kyle shook his head in disgust and then winced. ‘They didn’t even have the sense to know they’d have to ration food. They kill the only men who can sail the ship in the midst of a storm, and then eat or destroy half the rations on board. They are no more fit to be in charge of themselves than a flock of chickens. I hope you are pleased with the freedom you dispensed to them. It’s as like to be their deaths as their salvation.’

‘They freed themselves, Father,’ Wintrow said stubbornly.

‘But you did nothing to stop them.’

‘Just as I did nothing to stop you from bringing them aboard in chains.’ Wintrow took a breath to go on, then stopped himself. No matter how he tried to justify what he had done, his father would never accept his reasons. Kyle’s words nudged the bruises on Wintrow’s conscience. Were the deaths of the crew his fault because he had done nothing? If that was so, then was he also responsible for the deaths of the slaves before the uprising? The thought was too painful to consider.

In an altered tone he went on, ‘Do you want me to tend your injuries, or try to find food for you?’

‘Did you find the medical supplies?’

Wintrow shook his head. ‘They’re still missing. No one has admitted taking them. They may have been lost overboard during the storm.’

‘Well, without them, there is little you can do for me,’ his father pointed out cynically. ‘Food would be nice, however.’

Wintrow refused to be irritated. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said softly.

‘Of course you will,’ his father replied snidely. His voice lowered abruptly as he asked, ‘And what will you do about the pirate?’

‘I don’t know,’ Wintrow admitted honestly. He met his father’s eyes squarely as he added, ‘I’m afraid. I know I have to try to heal him. But I don’t know which is worse, the prospect of him surviving and us continuing as prisoners, or him dying and us with him, and the ship having to go on alone.’

His father spat on the deck, an action so unlike him that it was as shocking as a blow. His eyes glittered like cold stones. ‘I despise you,’ he growled. ‘Your mother must have lain with a serpent, to bring forth something like you. It shames me to have folk name you my son. Look at you. Pirates have taken over your family ship, the livelihood of your mother and sister and little brother. Their very survival depends on you taking this ship back! But you don’t even think of that. No. All you wonder is if you will kill or cure the pirate whose boot is on your neck. You have not given one thought to getting weapons for us, or persuading the ship to defy him as she defied me. All the time you wasted nursemaiding those slaves when they were in chains! Do you try to get any of them to help you now? No. You mouse along and help that damn pirate keep the ship he has stolen from us.’

Wintrow shook his head, in wonder as much as sorrow. ‘You are not rational. What do you expect of me, Father? Am I supposed to single-handedly take this ship back from Kennit and his crew, subdue the slaves into being cargo again, and then sail it on to Chalced?’

‘You and this devil ship were able to overthrow me and my crew! Why don’t you turn the ship against him as you turned her against me? Why can’t you, just once, act in the best interests of your family?’ His father stood up, his fists clenched as if he would attack Wintrow. Then he abruptly clutched at his ribs, gasping with pain. His face went from the red of anger to the white of shock, and he swayed. Wintrow started forward to catch him.

‘Don’t touch me!’ Kyle snarled threateningly, staggering to the edge of the bunk. He eased himself back onto it. He sat glowering at his son.

What does he see when he looks at me, Wintrow wondered? He supposed he must be a disappointment to the tall, blond man. Small, dark and slight like his mother, Wintrow would never have his father’s size or his physical strength. At fourteen, he was physically still more boy than man. But it wasn’t just physically that he failed his father’s ambitions. His spirit would never match his sire’s.

Wintrow spoke softly. ‘I never turned the ship against you, sir. You did that yourself, with your treatment of her. There is no way I can reclaim her completely at this time. The very best I can hope to do is to keep us alive.’

Kyle Haven shifted his gaze to the wall and stared at it stonily. ‘Go and get me some food.’ He barked out the order as if he still commanded the ship.

‘I will try,’ Wintrow said coldly. He turned and left the room.

As he dragged the damaged door shut behind him, one of the map-faces spoke to him. The tattooed marks of his many masters crawled on the burly man’s face, as he demanded, ‘Why do you take that from him?’

‘What?’ Wintrow asked in surprise.

‘He treats you like a dog.’

‘He’s my father.’ Wintrow tried to conceal his dismay that they had listened to their conversation. How much had they overheard?

‘He’s a horse’s ass,’ the other guard observed coldly. He turned a challenging gaze on Wintrow. ‘Makes you the son of a horse’s ass.’

‘Shut up!’ the first guard snarled. ‘The boy isn’t bad. If you can’t remember who was kind to you when you were chained up, I can.’ His dark eyes came back to Wintrow. He tossed his head at the closed door. ‘You say the word, boy. I’ll make him crawl for you.’

‘No.’ Wintrow spoke out clearly. ‘I don’t want that. I don’t want anyone to crawl for me.’ He felt he had to make it absolutely clear to the man. ‘Please. Don’t hurt my father.’

The map-face gave a shrug. ‘Suit yourself. I speak from experience, lad. It’s the only way to deal with a man like that. He crawls for you or you crawl for him. It’s all he knows.’

‘Perhaps,’ Wintrow conceded unwillingly. He started to walk away, then paused. ‘I don’t know your name.’

‘Villia. You’re Wintrow, right?’

‘Yes. I’m Wintrow. I’m pleased to know your name, Villia.’ Wintrow looked at the other guard expectantly.

He frowned and looked uncomfortable. ‘Deccan,’ he said finally.

‘Deccan,’ Wintrow repeated, fixing it in his mind. He deliberately met the man’s eyes and nodded at him before he turned away. He could sense both amusement and approval from Villia. Such a minor way of standing up for himself, and yet he felt better for having done it. As he emerged onto the deck, blinking in the bright spring sunshine, Sa’Adar stepped into his path. The big priest still looked haggard from his confinement as a slave. The red kiss of the shackles had scarred his wrists and ankles.

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he announced. Two more map-faces flanked the priest like leashed pitbulls.

‘Have you?’ Wintrow resolved to continue as he had begun. He squared his shoulders and met the older man’s eyes. ‘Did you post those two men outside my father’s room?’ he demanded.

The wandering priest was unruffled. ‘I did. The man must be confined until he can be judged and justice done to him.’ The priest looked down on Wintrow from his superior height and years. ‘Do you dispute that?’

‘I?’ Wintrow appeared to consider the question. ‘Why would it worry you if I did? Were I you, I would not worry about what Wintrow Vestrit thought. I would worry about what Captain Kennit might think of me taking such authority to myself.’

‘Kennit’s a dying man,’ Sa’Adar said boldly. ‘Brig is the one who commands here. He seems to welcome my authority over the slaves. He gives out his orders through me. He has not challenged my posting of a guard on Captain Haven.’

‘Slaves? Surely they are all free folk now.’ Wintrow smiled as he spoke, and pretended not to notice how closely the map-faces were following the conversation. The other former slaves loitering on the deck were also eavesdropping. Some drew closer.

‘You know what I mean!’ Sa’Adar exclaimed in annoyance.

‘Generally, a man says what he means…’ Wintrow let the observation hang a moment, then added smoothly, ‘You said you were seeking me earlier?’

‘I was. Have you been to see Kennit today?’

‘Why do you ask?’ Wintrow countered quietly.

‘Because I should like to know plainly what his intentions are.’ The priest had a trained voice and he now gave it a carrying quality. More than one tattooed face turned towards him as he spoke. ‘The tales told in Jamaillia City say that when Captain Kennit captures a slave ship, he kills the crew and gives the ship over to those who were slaves on it, so that they, too, can become pirates and carry on his crusade against slavery. Such was what we believed when we welcomed his aid in manning the ship that we had taken. We expected to keep it. We hoped it would be a tool for the new beginning each of us must make. Now Captain Kennit speaks as if he will keep it for himself. With all we have heard of him, we do not believe he is a man who would snatch from us the only thing of value we have. Therefore, we wish to ask him, plainly and fairly. To whom does he believe this ship belongs?’

Wintrow regarded him levelly. ‘If you wish to ask that question of Captain Kennit, then I encourage you to do so. Only he can give his opinion of the answer. If you ask it of me, you will hear, not my opinion, but the truth.’ He had deliberately spoken more softly than Sa’Adar so that those who wished to listen would have to draw near. Many had done so, including some of the pirate crewmen. They had a dangerous look to them.

Sa’Adar smiled sardonically. ‘Your truth is that the ship belongs to you, I suppose.’

Wintrow shook his head, and returned the smile. ‘The ship belongs to herself. Vivacia is a free creature, with the right to determine her own life. Or would you, who have worn the heavy chains of slavery, presume to do to another what was done so cruelly to you?’

Ostensibly he addressed Sa’Adar. Wintrow did not look around to see how the question affected the others. Instead, he was silent, as if awaiting an answer. After a moment Sa’Adar gave a snort of disdainful laughter. ‘He cannot be serious,’ he told the throng. ‘By some sorcery, the figurehead can speak. It is an interesting bit of Bingtown trickery. But a ship is a ship, a thing, and not a person. And by rights, this ship is ours!’

Only a few slaves muttered assent, for no sooner was the question uttered than a pirate confronted him. ‘Are you talking mutiny?’ the grizzled tar demanded. “Cause if you are, you’ll go over the side before you take another breath.’ The man smiled in a decidedly unfriendly way that bared the gaps in his teeth. To his left, a tall pirate laughed gutturally. He rolled his shoulders as if stretching, a subtle display of strength for Sa’Adar’s map-faces. Both the tattooed men straightened, eyes narrowing.

Sa’Adar looked shocked. Obviously, he had not expected this. He stood straight and began indignantly, ‘Why should it be a concern of yours?’

The stocky pirate poked the tall priest in the chest. His jabbing finger stayed there as he pointed out, ‘Kennit’s our captain. What he says, goes. Right?’ When the priest did not answer, the man grinned. Sa’Adar stepped back from the pressure of his forefinger against his chest. As he turned to walk away, the pirate observed, ‘You’d do best not to talk against anything Kennit does. You don’t like something, tell the captain to his face. He’s a hard man, but fair. Don’t wag your tongue behind his back. If you make trouble on this ship, it will only come down on you.’

Without a backward glance, the pirates went back to their work. Attention shifted to Sa’Adar. He did not mask the angry glint in his eyes, but his voice sounded thin and childish when he said, ‘Be assured I will speak to Kennit about this. Be assured I will!’

Wintrow lowered his eyes to the deck. Perhaps his father was right. Perhaps there was a way he could regain his family ship from both slaves and pirates. In any conflict, there is opportunity for someone. His heart beat strangely faster as he walked away, and he wondered where such thoughts had bred in him.

Vivacia was preoccupied. Although her eyes stared ahead over the water to the stern of the Marietta, her real attention was turned inward. The man on the wheel had a steady hand; the crew that sprang to her rigging were true sailors one and all. The crew was cleansing filth from her decks and holds, and repairing woodwork and polishing metal. For the first time in many months, she had no qualms as to the abilities of her captain. She could let her mind be completely occupied with her own concerns, trusting that those who manned her knew their trade.

A quickened liveship, through her wizardwood bones, could be aware of all that happened aboard her. Much of it was mundane and scarcely worthy of attention. The mending of a line, the chopping of an onion in the galley need not concern her. Those things could not change her course in life. Kennit could. In the captain’s quarters, the enigmatic man slept restlessly. Vivacia could not see him, but she could feel him in a way humans had no words to describe. His fever was rising again. The woman who tended him was anxious. She did something with cool water and a cloth. Vivacia reached for details, but there was no bond there. She did not yet know them well enough.

Kennit was far more accessible to her than Etta. His fever dreams ran out of him carelessly, spilling into Vivacia like the blood that had been shed on her decks. She absorbed them but could make no sense of them. A little boy was tormented, torn between loyalty to a father who loved him but had no idea how to protect him, and a man who protected him from others but had no love at all in his heart. Over and over again, a serpent rose from the depths of his dreams to shear off his leg. The bite of its jaws was acid and ice. From the depths of his soul, he reached towards her, towards a deep sharing that he recalled only as a formless memory from a lost infancy.

‘Hello, hello, what’s this? Or who is this, perhaps I should say?’

The voice, Kennit’s voice, came to her in a tiny whisper inside her mind. She shook her head, tousling her hair into the wind. The pirate did not speak to her. Even in her strongest communions with Althea and Wintrow, their thoughts had not come so clearly into her mind. ‘That is not Kennit,’ she murmured to herself. Of that, she was certain. Yet, it was certainly his voice. In his stateroom, the pirate captain drew a deep breath and expelled it, muttering denials and refusals as he did so. He groaned suddenly.

‘No. Not Kennit,’ the tiny voice confirmed in amusement. ‘Nor are you the Vestrit you think yourself to be. Who are you?’

It was disconcerting to feel a mind groping after her reaction. Instinctively she recoiled from the contact. She was stronger far than he was. When she pulled away from him, he could not follow her. In doing so, she severed her tentative contact with Kennit as well. Frustration and agitation roiled through her. She clenched her fists at her side and took the next wave badly, smashing herself into it rather than through it. The helmsman cursed to himself and made a tiny correction. Vivacia licked the salt spray from her lips and shook her hair back from her face. Who and what was he? She held her thoughts still inside herself and tried to decide if she were more frightened or intrigued. She sensed an odd kinship with the being who had spoken to her. She had turned his aggressive prying aside easily, but she disliked that someone had even tried to invade her mind.

She decided she would not tolerate it. Whoever this intruder was, she would unmask him and confront him. Keeping her own guard up, she reached out tentatively towards the cabin where Kennit shifted in his sleep. She found the pirate easily. He still struggled through his fever dreams, hiding within a cupboard while some dream being stalked him, calling his name in a falsely sweet tone. The woman set a cool cloth on his brow, and draped another over the swollen stump of his leg. Vivacia almost felt the sudden easing it brought him. The ship reached out again, more boldly, but found no one else there.

‘Where are you?’ she demanded suddenly and angrily. Kennit jerked with a cry as the stalker in his dream echoed her words, and Etta bent over him, murmuring soothing words.

Vivacia’s question went unanswered.

Kennit surfaced, gasping his way into consciousness. It took him a moment to recall his surroundings. Then a faint smile of pleasure stretched his fever-parched lips. His liveship. He was on board his liveship, in the captain’s well-appointed chambers. A fine linen sheet draped his sweating body. Polished brass and wood gleamed throughout a chamber both cosy and refined. He could hear the water gurgling past as Vivacia cut through the channel. He could almost feel the awareness of his ship around him, protecting him. She was a second skin, shielding him from the world. He sighed in satisfaction, and then choked on the mucus in his dry throat.

‘Etta!’ he croaked to the whore. ‘Water.’

‘It’s right here,’ she said soothingly.

It was true. Surprising as it was, she was standing right beside him, a cup of water ready in her hand. Her long fingers were cool on the back of his neck as she helped him raise himself to drink. Afterwards, she deftly turned his pillow before she lowered his head again. She patted the perspiration from his face and then wiped his hands with a moist cloth. He lay still and silent under her touch, limply grateful for the comfort she gave. He knew a moment of purest peace.

It did not last. His awareness of his swollen leg rose swiftly to recognition of pain. He tried to ignore it. It became a pulsing heat that rose in intensity with every breath he took. Beside his bed, his whore sat in a chair, sewing something. His eyes moved listlessly over her. She looked older than he recalled her. The lines were deeper by her mouth and in her brow. Her face looked thinner under the brush of her short black hair. It made her dark eyes even more immense.

‘You look terrible,’ he rebuked her.

She set her sewing aside immediately and smiled as if he had complimented her. ‘It’s hard for me to see you like this. When you are ill…I can’t sleep, I can’t eat…’

Selfish woman. She’d fed his leg to a sea serpent, and now tried to make it out that it was her problem. Was he supposed to feel sorry for her? He pushed the thought aside. ‘Where’s that boy? Wintrow?’

She stood right away. ‘Do you want him?’

Stupid question. ‘Of course I want him. He’s supposed to make my leg better. Why hasn’t he done so?’

She leaned over his bed and smiled down at him tenderly. He wanted to push her away but he had not the strength. ‘I think he wants to wait until we make port in Bull Creek. There are a number of things he wants to have on hand before he…heals you.’ She turned away from his sickbed abruptly, but not before he had seen the tears glinting in her eyes. Her wide shoulders were bowed and she no longer stood tall and proud. She did not expect him to survive. To know that so suddenly both scared and angered him. It was as if she had wished his death on him.

‘Go find that boy!’ he commanded her roughly, mostly to get her out of his sight. ‘Remind him. Remind him well that if I die, so does he and his father. Tell him that!’

‘I’ll have someone fetch him,’ she said in a quavering voice and started for the door.

‘No. You go yourself, right now, and get him. Now.’

She turned back and annoyed him by lightly touching his face. ‘If that’s what you want,’ she said soothingly. ‘I’ll go right now.’

He did not watch her go but listened instead to the sound of her boots on the deck. She hurried, and when she went out, the door shut quietly but completely behind her. He heard her voice lifted to someone, irritably. ‘No. Go away. I won’t have him bothered with such things right now.’ Then, in a lower, threatening voice, ‘Touch that door and I’ll kill you right here.’ Whoever it was heeded her, for no knock came at the door.

He half closed his eyes and drifted on the tide of his pain. The fever razored bright edges and sharp colours to the world. The cosy room seemed to crowd closer around him, threatening to fall in on him. He pushed the sheet away and tried to find a breath of cooler air.

‘So, Kennit. What will you do with your “likely urchin” when he comes?’

The pirate squeezed his eyes tight shut. He tried to will the voice away.

‘That’s amusing. Do you think I cannot see you with your eyes closed?’ The charm was relentless.

‘Shut up. Leave me alone. I wish I had never had you made.’

‘Oh, now you have wounded my feelings! Such words to bandy about, after all we have endured together.’

Kennit opened his eyes. He lifted his wrist and stared at the bracelet. The tiny wizardwood charm, carved in a likeness of his own saturnine face, looked up at him with a friendly grin. Leather thongs secured it firmly over his pulse point. His fever brought the face looming closer. He closed his eyes.

‘Do you truly believe that boy can heal you? No. You could not be so foolish. Of course, you are desperate enough that you will insist he try. Do you know what amazes me? That you fear death so much that it makes you brave enough to face the surgeon’s knife. Think of that swollen flesh, so tender you scarce can bear the brush of a sheet upon it. You will let him set a knife to that, a bright sharp blade, gleaming silver before the blood encarmines it…’

‘Charm.’ Kennit opened his eyes to slits. ‘Why do you torment me?’

The charm pursed his lips at him. ‘Because I can. I am probably the only one in the whole world who can torment the great Captain Kennit. The Liberator. The would-be King of the Pirate Isles.’ The little face snickered and added snidely, ‘Brave Serpent-Bait of the Inside Passage. Tell me. What do you want of the boy-priest? Do you desire him? He stirs in your fever dreams memories of what you were. Would you do as you were done by?’

‘No. I was never…’

‘What, never?’ The wizardwood charm snickered cruelly. ‘Do you truly believe you can lie to me, bonded as we are? I know everything about you. Everything.’

‘I made you to help me, not to torment me! Why have you turned on me?’

‘Because I hate what you are,’ the charm replied savagely. ‘I hate that I am becoming a part of you, aiding you in what you do.’

Kennit drew a ragged breath. ‘What do you want from me?’ he demanded. It was a cry of surrender, a plea for mercy or pity.

‘Now there’s a question you never thought of before this. What do I want from you?’ The charm drew the question out, savouring it. ‘Maybe I want you to suffer. Maybe I enjoy tormenting you. Maybe…’

Footsteps sounded outside the door. Etta’s boots and the light scuff of bare feet.

‘Be kind to Etta,’ the charm demanded hastily. ‘And perhaps I will ’

As the door opened, the face fell silent. It was once more still and silent, a wooden head on a bracelet on a sick man’s wrist. Wintrow came in, followed by the whore. ‘Kennit, I’ve brought him,’ Etta announced as she shut the door behind them.

‘Good. Leave us.’ If the damn charm thought it could force him into anything, it was wrong.

Etta looked stricken. ‘Kennit…do you think that’s wise?’

‘No. I think it is stupid. That’s why I told you to do it, because I delight in stupidity.’ His voice was low as he flung the words at her. He watched the face at his wrist for some sort of reaction. It was motionless, but its tiny eyes glittered. Probably it plotted revenge. He didn’t care. While he could breathe, he would not cower before a bit of wood.

‘Get out,’ he repeated. ‘Leave the boy to me.’

Her back was very straight as she marched out. She shut the door firmly behind her, not quite slamming it. The moment she was outside, Kennit dragged himself into a sitting position. ‘Come here,’ he told Wintrow. As the boy approached the bed, Kennit seized the corner of the sheet and flung it aside. It exposed his shortened leg in all its putrescent glory. ‘There it is,’ Kennit told him in disgust. ‘What can you do for me?’

The boy blanched at the sight of it. Kennit knew he steeled himself to approach the bedside and look more closely at his leg. He wrinkled his nose against the smell. Then he lifted his dark eyes to Kennit’s and spoke simply and honestly. ‘I don’t know. It’s very bad.’ His glance darted back to Kennit’s leg then met his eyes again. ‘Let’s approach it this way. If we do not attempt to take off your leg, you will die. What have we to lose by trying?’

The pirate forced a stiff grin to his face. ‘I? Very little, it seems. You have still your own life and your father’s on the scale.’

Wintrow gave a short, mirthless laugh. ‘I well know that my life is forfeit if you die, with or without my efforts.’ He made a tiny motion with his head towards the door. ‘She would never suffer me to survive you.’

‘You fear the woman, do you?’ Kennit permitted his grin to widen. ‘You should. So. What do you propose?’ He tried to keep up his bravado with casual words.

The boy looked back at his leg. He furrowed his brow and pondered. The intensity of his concentration only made his youth more apparent.

Kennit glanced down once at his decaying stump. After that, he preferred to watch Wintrow’s face. The pirate winced involuntarily as the boy extended his hands towards his leg. ‘I won’t touch it,’ Wintrow promised. His voice was almost a whisper. ‘But I need to discover where the soundness stops and the foulness begins.’ He cupped his hands together, as if to capture something under them. He began at the injury and slowly moved his hands up towards Kennit’s thigh. Wintrow’s eyes were closed to slits and his head was cocked as if he listened intently to something. Kennit watched his moving hands. What did he sense? Warmth, or something subtler, like the slow working of poison? The boy’s hands were weathered from hard work, but retained the languid grace of an artisan’s.

‘You have only nine fingers,’ Kennit observed. ‘What happened to the other one?’

‘An accident,’ Wintrow told him distractedly, then bade him, ‘Hush.’

Kennit scowled, but did as he was bid. He became aware of the boy’s cupped hands moving above his flesh. Their ghostly pressure reawakened him to the pounding rhythm of the pain. Kennit clenched his teeth, swallowed against it, and managed to push it from his mind once more.

Midway up Kennit’s thigh, Wintrow’s hands halted and hovered. The lines in his brow grew deeper. The boy’s breathing deepened, steadied and his eyes closed completely. He appeared to sleep standing. Kennit studied his face. Long dark lashes curled against his cheeks. His cheeks and jaw had lost most of a child’s roundness, but showed not even the downy beginning of a beard. Beside his nose was the small green sigil that denoted he had once belonged to the Satrap. Next to that was a larger tattoo, a crude rendering that Kennit recognized as the Vivacia’s figurehead. Kennit’s first reaction was annoyance that someone had so compromised the boy’s beauty. Then he perceived that the very harshness of the tattoo contrasted his innocence. Etta had been like that when he first discovered her, a coltish girl in a whorehouse parlour…

‘Captain Kennit? Sir?’

He opened his eyes. When had he closed them?

Wintrow was nodding gently to himself. ‘Here,’ he said as soon as the pirate looked at him. ‘If we cut here, I think we’ll be in sound flesh.’

The boy’s hands indicated a spot frighteningly high on his thigh. Kennit took a breath. ‘In sound flesh, you say? Should not you cut below what is sound?’

‘No. We must cut a bit into what is still healthy, for healthy flesh heals faster than poisoned.’ Wintrow paused and used both hands to push his straying hair back from his face. ‘I cannot say that any part of the leg is completely without poison. But I think if we cut there, we would have our best chance.’ The boy’s face grew thoughtful. ‘First, I shall want to leech the lower leg, to draw off some of the swelling and foulness. Some of the monastery healers held with bleeding, and some with leeches. There is, of course, a place and a time for each of those things, but I believe that the thickened blood of infection is best drawn off by leeches.’

Kennit fought to keep his composed expression. The boy’s face was intense. He reminded Kennit of Sorcor attempting to plot strategy.

‘Then we shall place a ligature here, a wide one that will slow the flow of blood. It must bind the flesh tightly without crushing it. Below it, I shall cut. I shall try to preserve a flap of skin to close over the wound. The tools I shall need are a sharp knife and a fine-toothed saw for the bone. The blade of the knife must be long enough to slice cleanly, without a sawing motion.’ The boy’s fingers measured out the length. ‘For the stitching, some would use fine fish-gut thread, but at my monastery, it was said that the best stitches are made with hair from the man’s own head, for the body knows its own. You, sir, have fine hair, long. Your curls are loose enough that the hair can be pulled straight. It will serve admirably.’

Kennit wondered if the boy sought to unnerve him, or if he had completely forgotten that he was talking about Kennit’s flesh and bone. ‘And for the pain?’ he asked with false heartiness.

‘Your own courage, sir, will have to serve you best.’ The boy’s dark eyes met his squarely. ‘I shall not be quick, but I shall be careful. Brandy or rum, before we begin. Were it not so rare and expensive, I would say we should obtain the essence of the rind of a kwazi fruit. It numbs a wound wonderfully. Of course, it works only on fresh blood. It would only be effective after we had done the cutting.’ Wintrow shook his head thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps you should think well of what crewmen you shall want to hold you down. They should be large and strong, with the judgement to ignore you if you demand to be released or threaten them.’

Unwillingness washed over Kennit like a wave. He refused to consider the humiliation and indignity he must face. He thrust away the idea that this was inevitable. There had to be some other way, some alternative to vast pain and helplessness. How could he choose them, knowing that even if he endured it all, he might still die? How foolish he would look then!

‘…and each of those must be drawn out a little way, and closed off with a stitch or two.’ Wintrow paused as if waiting for his agreement. ‘I’ve never done this by myself,’ he admitted abruptly. ‘I want you to know that. I have seen it done twice. Once an infected leg was removed. Once it was a hopelessly smashed foot and ankle. Both times, I was there to help the healer, to pass tools and hold the bucket…’ His voice trailed off. He licked his lips and stared at Kennit, his eyes going wider and wider.

‘What is it?’ Kennit demanded.

‘I’ll have your life in my hands,’ he wondered aloud.

‘And I have yours in mine,’ the pirate pointed out. ‘And your father’s.’

‘That’s not what I mean,’ Wintrow replied. His voice sounded like a dreamer’s. ‘You are doubtless accustomed to such power. I have never even wished for it.’