“I lost it wrestling with the City Guards.” Wintrow was almost able to make a joke of it. He was a bit hurt at how easily Mild accepted his words, until he noticed the tang to the other boy's breath. A moment later he saw him shift something about in his lower lip. Cindin. The focus of his eyes quivered with the stimulant. Wintrow felt uneasy for him. The drug was forbidden aboard ship; if he even came aboard still intoxicated, he'd be in trouble. The rash optimism it gave a man did not make him a prudent sailor. Wintrow thought he should say something, suggest caution to him somehow, but could find no words. “I just wanted to let you all know I'd be waiting for you back at the boat. I've finished my sight-seeing, and I'm headed there now.”

“No. No, don't go!” The other boy grabbed his arm. “Stay and watch this. You'll be sorry if you don't. You sure you don't want to bet a coin or two? The odds don't get better than this. And the bear's tired. He's got to be tired. He's already wrestled half a dozen times.”

“And the last man won?” Curiosity was getting the better of Wintrow.

“Yea. That's right. Once he got up on the bear's back, the bear just folded up like a sleeping cat. Made the beast-tamer scowl, I'll tell you, to have to give him the purse.” Mild linked arms with him. “I got my last five coppers riding on this. 'Course, Comfrey has more than that. He did well at the gaming table earlier today.” Again Mild peered at him. “You sure you don't have any money you want to put down? The whole crew's betting on Comfrey.”

“I haven't a coin of my own. Not even a shirt.” Wintrow pointed out again.

“That's right. That's right. Never mind, it's . . . here he goes!”

With a grin and a wave to his gathered shipmates, Comfrey stepped into the marked-off square. No sooner had he crossed the line than the bear reared up onto his hind legs. His fettered legs kept his steps small as he lumbered slowly toward Comfrey. The sailor wove one way and then abruptly dodged the other to slip past the bear and get behind him.

But he never had a chance. As if it were a move he had practiced a hundred times, the bear turned and swatted the sailor down. His powerful front legs had a much greater reach than Wintrow would have credited. The impact of the blow slammed Comfrey face first to the ground.

“Get up, get up!” his ship-mates were yelling, and Wintrow found himself shouting with the rest. The bear continued his restless, shifting dance. He had dropped to all fours again. Comfrey lifted his face from the dusty street. Blood was streaming from his nose, but he seemed to take encouragement from his ship-mates' cheers. He sprang abruptly to his feet and dashed past the bear.

But the bear rose, tall and solid as a wall, and one outstretched paw greeted Comfrey's head in passing. This time the sailor was flung to his back, his head rebounding from the dirt. Wintrow flinched and looked away with a groan. “He's done,” he told Mild. “We'd better get him back to the ship.”

“No, no. He'll get up, he can do this. Come on, Comfrey, it's just a big old stupid bear. Get up, man, get up!” The other sailors from the Vivacia were shouting as well, and for the first time Wintrow picked out Torg's hoarse voice among the crowd. Evidently he had been dismissed by his captain to take some entertainment of his own.

Wintrow was suddenly sure he'd have something witty to say about his missing shirt. Abruptly, he wished that he had never left the ship. This day had been one long string of disasters.

“I'm going back to the boat,” he said again to Mild, but Mild paid no attention. He only gripped his arm the harder.

“No, look, he's getting up, I told you he would. That's the way, Comfrey, come on man, you can do it.”

Wintrow doubted that Comfrey heard anything Mild shouted. The man looked dazed still, as if instinct alone were compelling him to get to his feet and get away from the bear. But the instant he moved, the animal was on him again, this time clutching him in a hug. It looked laughable, but Comfrey cried out in a way that suggested cracking ribs.

“Do you give, then?” the beast-tamer shouted to the sailor, and Comfrey nodded his head violently, unable to get enough wind to speak.

“Let him go, Sunshine. Let him go!” the tamer commanded, and the bear dropped Comfrey and waddled away. He sat down obediently in the corner of the square and nodded his muzzled head all about as if accepting the cheers of the crowd.

Save that no one was cheering. “I had my every coin on that!” one sailor shouted. He added a muttered comment about Comfrey's virility that seemed to have little relation to bear wrestling. “It wasn't fair!” another added. That seemed to be the general consensus of those who had bet, but Wintrow noticed that not one of them followed it up with a reason why it was not fair. He himself had his own suspicions, but saw no reason to voice them. Instead he moved forward to offer Comfrey some help in getting to his feet. Mild and the others were too busy commiserating on what they had lost. “Comfrey, you dumb ass!” Torg called across the ring. “Can't even get past a hobbled bear.” A few other sour remarks confirmed that general opinion. The crew of the Vivacia were not the only sailors to have lost their bets.