Kennit heaved a tiny sigh. “Ah, Sorcor, I do not dispute that. I am merely trying to remind you that we are, you and I, pirates. Murderous villains who scour the Inside Passage for vessels to overcome, loot and plunder and ransom. We do this to make a profit for ourselves. We are not nursery maids for sickly slaves, half of whom are probably as deserving of their fates as were the crew that you fed to the serpents. Nor are we heroic saviors of the downtrodden. Pirates, Sorcor. We are pirates.”

“It was our deal,” Sorcor pointed out doggedly. “For every live-ship we chase, we go after one slaver. You agreed.”

“So I did. I had hoped that after you had dealt with the reality of one 'triumph' you would see the futility of it. Look you, Sorcor. Say we strain our crew and resources to take that squalid vessel to Divvytown. Do you think the inhabitants are going to welcome us and rejoice that we put ashore 350 half-starved, ragged, sickly wretches to infest their town as beggars, whores and thieves? Do you think these slaves we have 'rescued' are going to thank you for abandoning them to their fates as paupers?”

“They're thankful now, the whole damn lot of them,” Sorcor declared stubbornly. “And I know in my time, sir, I'd have been damn grateful to be set ashore anywhere, with or without a mouthful of bread or a stitch of clothes, so long as I was a free man and able to breathe clean air.”

“Very well, very well.” Kennit made a great show of capitulating with a resigned sigh. “Let us ride this ass to the end, if we must. Choose a port, Sorcor, and we shall take them there. I shall but ask this. On our way there, those who are able shall begin the task of cleaning out that vessel. And I should like to get underway as soon as we are decently able, while the serpents are still satiated.” Kennit glanced casually away from Sorcor. It would not do to let him wallow in the gratitude of the freed captives. “I shall require you aboard the Marietta, Sorcor. Put Rafo in charge of the other vessel, and assign him some men.”

Sorcor straightened himself. “Aye, sir,” he replied heavily. He trudged from the room, a very different man from the one who had burst in the door exuberant with victory. He shut the door quietly behind himself. For a time, Kennit remained looking at it. He was straining the man's loyalty; the link that bound them together was forged mostly from Sorcor's fidelity. He shook his head to himself. It was, perhaps, his own fault. He had taken a simple uneducated sailor with a knack for numbers and navigation and elevated him to the status of mate, taught him how it felt to control men. Thinking, perforce, went with that command. But Sorcor was beginning to think too much. Kennit would soon have to decide which was worth more to him: the mate's value as second in command, or his own total control of his ship and men. Kennit sighed heavily. Tools blunted so quickly in this trade.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN - TRANSITIONS

BRASHEN AWOKE WITH GRITTY EYES AND A CRICK IN HIS NECK. MORNING SUNLIGHT HAD PENETRATED THE thick panes of the bay windows that glassed one end of the chamber. It was a thick, murky light, greenish with the dried algae that coated the outside of the windows, but light nonetheless. Enough to alert him that it was daylight and time he was up and about.

He swung out of the hammock to his feet. Guilty. He was guilty of something. Spending all his pay when he had sworn that this time he would be wiser. Yes, but that was a familiar guilt. This was something else, something that bit with sharper teeth. Oh. Althea. The girl had been here last night, begging his advice, or he had dreamed her. And he had given her his bitterest counsels with not a word of hope or an offer of help from him.

He tried to shrug the concern away. After all, what did he owe the girl? Nothing. Not a thing. They hadn't even really been friends. Too big of a gap in status for that. He had just been the mate on her father's ship, and she had been the daughter of the captain. No room for a friendship there. And as for the old man, well, yes, Ephron Vestrit had done him a good turn when no one else would, had let him prove himself when no one else would. But the old man was dead now, so that was that.

Besides. Bitter as the advice had been, it was solid. If Brashen could have gone back in time, he would never have quarreled with his father. He'd have gone to the endless schooling, behaved correctly at the social functions, eschewed drunkenness and cindin, married whoever was chosen for him. And he'd be the heir now to the Trell fortune, instead of his little brother.

The thought reminded him that as he was not heir to the Trell fortune and as he had spent the rest of his money last night save for a few odd coins, he had best be worrying more about himself and less about Althea. The girl would have to take care of herself. She'd have to go home. That's all there was to it. What was the worst that would happen to her, really? They'd marry her off to a suitable man. She'd live in a comfortable home with servants and well-prepared food, wear clothing tailored especially for her and go to the endless round of balls and teas and social functions that seemed so essential to Bingtown society and the Traders especially. He snorted softly to himself. He should hope for such a cruel fate to befall him. He scratched at his chest and then his beard. He ran both hands through his hair to smooth it back from his face. Time to find work. He'd best clean himself up and head down to the docks.