realized his own vulnerability. Kennit would not tolerate the existence of anyone who had seen him as he truly was. Right now Kennit seemed unaware of how much he was revealing. Wintrow felt like the mouse pinioned by the snake's stare. As long as he kept still, he had a chance to remain undetected. The pirate's hand grew lax in his grip. Kennit turned his head on his pillow and his eyes began to sag shut.
Just as Wintrow began to hope he might escape, the door to the cabin opened. Etta entered. She took in the room at a glance. 'What did you do to him?' she demanded as she crossed to Kennit's bedside. 'Why is he so still?'
Wintrow lifted a finger to his lips to shush her. She scowled at that, but nodded. With a jerk of her head, she indicated the far corner of the room. She frowned at how slowly he obeyed her, but Wintrow took his time, easing the pirate's hand down gently on the quilt and then sliding slowly off the bed so that no movement might disturb Kennit.
It was all in vain. As Wintrow left his bedside, Kennit said, 'You will cut off my leg today.'
Etta gave a horrified gasp. Wintrow turned back slowly to the man. Kennit had not opened his eyes, but he lifted a long-fingered hand and pointed at him unerringly. 'Gather what you have for tools and such, and get the job done. What we do not have, we must do without. I want to be finished with this. One way or another.'
'Sir,' Wintrow agreed. He changed course, moving hastily toward the door. As swiftly, Etta moved to block him. He found himself looking up into eyes as dark and merciless as a hawk's. He squared his shoulders for a confrontation. Instead, he saw something like relief in her face. 'Let me know how I can help you,' she said simply.
He bobbed a nod to her request, too shocked to reply, and slipped past her and out the door. A few steps down the companionway, he halted. He leaned suddenly against the wall and allowed the shaking to overtake his body. The bravado of his earlier bargain overwhelmed him. What had been bold words would soon become a bloody task. He had said he would set a knife to Kennit's flesh, would slice into his body and cut through his bone and separate his leg. Wintrow shook his head before the enormity of the situation could cow him. 'There is no path but forward,' he counseled himself, and hastened off to find Brig. As he went, he prayed the medicine chest had been found.
CAPTAIN FINNEY PUT DOWN HIS MUG, LICKED HIS LIPS AND GRINNED AT Brashen. 'You're good at this. You know that?'
'I suppose,' Brashen reluctantly acknowledged the compliment.
The smuggler laughed throatily. 'But you don't want to be good at it, do you?'
Brashen shrugged again. Captain Finney mimicked his shrug, and then went off into hoarse laughter. Finney was a brawny, whiskery-faced man. His eyes were bright as a ferret's above his red-veined nose. He pawed his mug about on the ring-stained table, then evidently decided he had had enough beer this afternoon. Pushing the mug to one side, he reached for the cindin humidor instead. He twisted the filigreed glass stopper out of the dark wooden container. He turned it on its side and gave it a shake. Several fat sticks of the drug popped into view. He broke a generous chunk off one and then offered the humidor to Brashen.
Brashen shook his head mutely, then tapped his lower lip significantly. A little plug of the stuff was still burning pleasantly there. Rich, black, and tarry was the cindin that was sending tendrils of well-being throughout his bones. Brashen retained enough wit to know that no one was bribed and flattered unless the other party wanted something. He wondered hazily if he would have enough willpower to oppose Finney if necessary.
'Sure you won't have a fresh cut?'
'No. Thanks.'
'No, you don't want to be good at this trade,' Finney went on as if he had never interrupted himself. He leaned back heavily in his chair and took a long breath in through his open mouth to speed the cindin's effect. He sighed it out again.
For a moment, all was silent save for the slapping of the waves against the Springeve's hull. The crew was ashore, filling water casks at a little spring Finney had shown them. Brashen knew that as mate he should be overseeing that operation, but the captain had invited him to his cabin. Brashen had feared Finney had a grievance with him. Instead, it had turned into drinking and cindin at midday, on his own watch. Shame on you, Brashen Trell, he thought to himself and smiled bitterly. What would Captain Vestrit think of you now? He lifted his own mug again.
'You want to go back to Bingtown, don't you?' Finney cocked his head and pointed a thick finger at Brashen. 'If you had your wishes, that's what you'd do. Pick up where you left off. You was quality there. You try to deny it, but it's all over you. You weren't born to the waterfront.'
'Don't suppose it matters what I was born to. I'm here now,' Brashen pointed out with a laugh. The cindin was uncoiling inside him. He was grinning, matching the smile on Finney's face. He knew he should worry that Finney had figured out he was from Bingtown, but he thought he could deal with it.
'Exactly what I was about to tell you. See that? See? You're smart. Many men, they can't accept where they end up. They always go moping after the past, or mooning toward the future. But men like us-' He slapped the table resoundingly. 'Men like us can grab what we're offered and make a go of it.'
'So. You're going to offer me something?' Brashen hazarded slyly. 'Not exactly. It's what we can offer each other. Look at us. Look at what we do. I take the Springeve up and down this coast, in and out of lots of little towns. I buy stuff, I sell stuff, and I don't ask too many questions. I carry a good supply of fine trade goods, so I get the deals. I get fine quality stuff. You know that's true.'
'That's true,' Brashen agreed easily. Now was not the time to point out the pedigree of the goods they trafficked in. The Springeve and Finney traded throughout the pirate isles, buying up the best of the pirates' stolen goods and reselling them to a go-between in Candletown. From there, they were passed off as legitimate goods in other ports. Brashen didn't know much more than that and he didn't really care. He was mate on the Springeve. In exchange for that, and for acting as a bodyguard on occasion, he got his room, board, a few coins and some really good cindin. There wasn't much else a man needed.
'The best,' Finney repeated. 'Damn good stuff. And we take all the risks of getting it. Us. You and I. Then we take that stuff back to Candletown, and what do we get there?'
'Money?'
'A pittance. We bring in a fat pig and they throw us back the bones. But together, Brashen, you and I could do better for ourselves.'
'How do you figure?' This was starting to make him nervous. Finney had an interest in the Springeve, but he didn't own it. Brashen didn't want any part of genuine piracy. He'd already done his share of that early in life. He'd had a gut full of it back then. No. This trading in stolen goods was as close as he wanted to get to it. He might not be the respectable first mate of the liveship Vivacia anymore-he wasn't even the hard-working second mate of a slaughter ship like Reaper anymore, but he hadn't sunk so low as piracy.
'You got that look to you, like I said. You are Trader born, ain't you? Probably a younger son or something, but you would have the connections in Bingtown, if you wanted to use them. We could take a good haul up there, you would hook us up, and we could trade some top-quality merchandise for some of that magical stuff that the Traders have. Them singing chimes and perfume gems and whatnot.'
'No.' Brashen heard too late how abrupt his reply was. Quickly he softened it. 'It's a good idea, a brilliant idea, except for one thing. I don't have any connections.' In a burst of generosity that was probably due to the cindin, he gifted Finney with the truth. 'You're right, I'm Trader born. But I tangled those lines a long time ago, and my family cut me loose. I couldn't get a glass of water begging at my Da's door, let alone cut you a trade deal. The way my father feels about me, he wouldn't piss on me if I was on fire.'
Finney guffawed and Brashen joined with a wry smile. He wondered why he spoke of such things at all, let alone why he made them a cause for levity. Better than being a crying drunk, he supposed. He watched Finney compose himself, laugh once more and then take another drink of his beer. He wondered if the older man still had a father of his own somewhere. Perhaps he had a wife and children, too. Brashen knew next to nothing about him. It was better so. If he had an ounce of sense, he'd get up now, say he had to check on the crew, and leave before he told Finney any more about himself. Instead he spat the soggy remains of the cindin into the bucket under the table and reached for the humidor. Finney grinned at him as Brashen broke another plug from the stick.
'Wouldn't have to be your own father. A man like you has chums, old friends, eh? Or you know someone with a bent for this, you've heard rumors about him. In any town, there are some that wouldn't mind adding a few
