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
