dotes on Captain Kennit.'
'A liveship was being used as a slaver, and when she was captured, she abandoned her loyalty to her family?' Brashen shook his head, amused and disdainful. He spoke to his captain. 'I may not know this particular ship, but I know enough of liveships to tell you those two things cannot be true.'
'But they are!' Faldin looked from one man to the other. 'You do not have to believe me,' he added in a superior voice. 'You are only a day or so from Divvy town. Go there, if you doubt me. The liveship has been there the better part of a month, undergoing repairs. Speak to the slaves, now free folk, delivered by Kennit from her holds. I have not spoken to the ship myself, but those bold enough to do so say that she speaks well of her new captain.'
Brashen's heart was thundering in his chest. He felt as if he could not get quite enough air. It couldn't be true. Everything he knew about Vivacia and liveships told him it could not be true. Every scrap of evidence that Sincure Faldin offered him told him that it was. He managed a shrug and then coughed in an attempt to ease the tightness in his throat. 'Up to the captain,' he managed to say. He made a great show of shifting the cindin in his mouth. He spoke around the plug. 'He makes those decisions. Me?' He shifted the truncheon in his hands. 'I do other things.' He grinned at them both, a setting of his teeth.
'If you came to Divvytown, I could show you a much fuller selection of merchandise.' Sincure Faldin had suddenly reverted to being a merchant. His smile returned as he made his spiel. 'My warehouse is there. Kennit's most recent voyage has stocked it well for me, though there is little else that is actually from the liveship. Slaves were the major cargo. Those he has freed. He has chosen to keep the choice appointments of the officers' quarters intact and otherwise restore the ship. He has not felt well enough yet to welcome visitors, but I am told that the captain's quarters are very fine, all polished wood and shining brass.'
Captain Finney made a nondescript noise. Brashen kept very still. The glint of interest had kindled in his captain's eyes. There was the prospect of seeing a captured liveship, perhaps even speaking to her. Given that sort of proof, and Faldin's assurance that the painting was the only trophy of its taking, he'd probably buy the portrait. Rarity always brought coin. Finney cleared his throat. 'Well. Set the picture aside. I have got a bit of space in the hold to fill. Sounds like Divvytown might be the place to do it. If I see this liveship and your tale proves true, I'll buy the picture. Now. Let's back to business. Have you got any tapestries like those you sold me last year?'
HAMMERS RANG ABOVE A CHORUS OF SAWS BURRING. THE SMELL OF HARDwood sawdust and fresh varnish filled the ship's companionways. The slaves that had crowded the decks and holds of the Vivacia had been replaced with gangs of carpenters and shipwrights. Wintrow stepped around a man applying varnish to a repaired doorframe, then dodged an apprentice bearing blocks of beeswax. With amazing swiftness, the Vivacia was being restored. The damage she had taken in the slave uprising had nearly been eradicated. Her holds were being cleaned, not just scrubbed but freshened by the careful burning of aromatic herbs. Soon only the stains of spilled blood would remain on her decks. Despite scrubbing, sanding or soaking, the wizardwood refused to forget.
Sorcor was very much in evidence, striding about the ship energetically supervising everyone. His voice carried well and men jumped to obey his orders. Less obvious but no less commanding was Etta. She did not announce her presence with a bellowed command, but her quiet comments served just as well. Deckhands beamed at a word of praise from her. Wintrow had been watching her surreptitiously. He had expected that she would be waspish in her direction, sharply sarcastic. He had felt the razor edge of her tongue so often that he assumed it was her common demeanor. Instead, he discovered that she had a great talent for both charm and persuasion. He also detected the careful line she walked to get tasks accomplished to her satisfaction without interfering with Sorcor's authority. When the mate and the captain's woman were in proximity, they displayed both camaraderie and rivalry. It intrigued and puzzled Wintrow. Both their bond and their dispute was Kennit.
How could one man command such loyalty from such diverse people? At the monastery, one oft-repeated old saying was 'Sa's hand can fit around any tool.' It was usually uttered when an unlikely novice suddenly bloomed with talent. After all, Sa had a purpose for all things. It was the limit of humanity that those reasons could not always be perceived. Maybe Kennit truly was a tool of Sa, and was aware of his destiny. Wintrow supposed that stranger things had happened. He simply could not recall any.
Wintrow rapped once at a freshly restored door, then worked the latch and entered. Despite the sunshine slanting in through the porthole, the chamber seemed dark and close. 'You should open the window and let in some fresh air,' he observed aloud. He set down the tray he was carrying.
'Shut the door,' his father replied gruffly. He unfolded his legs, stretched, and then stood. The rumpled bed behind him retained the imprint of his body. 'What did you bring me this time? Sawdust cakes full of weevils?' He glared at the door that still stood open. In one angry stride he crossed the small room and slammed it shut.
'Turnip and onion soup and wheatcakes,' Wintrow replied evenly. 'The same food that everyone else got today.'
Kyle Haven grunted in reply. He lifted the bowl of soup, poked it with a finger. 'It's cold,' he complained, and then drank it where he stood. His whiskery throat moved as he swallowed. Wintrow wondered when he had last shaved. When he lowered the bowl, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He caught his son staring and glared back. 'Well? What sort of manners do you expect of a man kept like a dog in a kennel?'
'There are no longer any guards on the door. I asked some days ago if you might be allowed out on deck. Kennit said you could, so long as I was with you and took responsibility for you. It is your own decision to remain in this room as if it were a cell.'
'I wish there were a mirror in here, so I could see if I look as stupid as you think I am,' his father retorted sourly. He snatched up a wheatcake and wiped out the bowl with it before he bit into it. 'You'd like that, wouldn't you?' he muttered around a mouthful of food. 'You could trot along beside me on deck, and be oh – so – surprised and horrified when some sneaking bastard put a knife in my ribs. Then you would be rid of me for good and all. Don't think that I don't know that's what you want. That's what this has all been about. Not that you have the guts to do it yourself. Oh, no, not the boy in the skirts. He prays to Sa, rolls his big brown eyes, and sets it up for others to do his dirty work. What's this?'
'Aide tea. And if I wanted so badly to be rid of you, I'd have poisoned it.' Wintrow heard with a shock the heartless sarcasm in his own voice.
His father halted with the mug halfway to his lips. He gave a hoarse bark of laughter. 'No, you wouldn't. Not you. You'd get someone else to poison it, and then you would give it to me, so you could pretend none of it was your doing. Not my fault, you could whine, and when you crawled back to your mother, she would believe you and let you go back to your monastery.'
Wintrow pinched his lips together. I am living with a madman, he reminded himself. Conversing with him is not going to bring him to his senses. His mind has turned. Only almighty Sa can cure him and only in his own time. He found a modicum of patience within himself. He tried to believe it was not a show of defiance when he crossed the small room and opened the window.
'Shut that,' his father growled. 'Do you think I want to smell that scummy little town out there?'
'It smells no worse than the stench of your own body that fills this room,' Wintrow countered. He walked two steps away from the open window. At his feet was his own pallet, seldom slept in, and the small bundle of clothes he could call his own. Nominally, he shared this small room with his father. The reality was that he slept most nights on the foredeck near Vivacia. The proximity made him uncomfortably aware of her thoughts, and through her, the presence of Kennit's dreams. Still, that was preferable to his father's irascible and critical company.
'Is he going to ransom us?' Kyle Haven demanded suddenly. 'He could get a good price for us. Your mother probably could scrape up a bit, and the Bingtown Traders would come through with more, to get a live-ship back. Does he know that? That he could get a good price for us? You should tell him that. Has he sent a ransom note yet?'
Wintrow sighed. Not this conversation again. He cut swiftly to the meat of it, hoping for a mercifully quick end. 'He doesn't want to ransom the ship, Father. He intends to keep it. That means I have to stay with it. I don't know what he plans to do with you. I've asked him, but he doesn't answer. I don't want to make him angry.'
'Why? You never feared to make me angry!'
Wintrow sighed. 'Because he is an unpredictable man. If I push him, he may take… rash action. To demonstrate his power. I think it is wiser to wait for him to see he has nothing to gain from holding you. As he
