Within the lookout's post was Mild. The sailor had folded himself up into a comfortable braced squat. His eyes were closed to slits, a tiny jaw harp braced against his cheek. He played it one-handed, the sailor's way, using his own mouth as a sounding box as his fingers danced on the metal prongs that were the keys. His ears were turned to his private music as his eyes scanned the horizon.

Wintrow thought he was unaware of him until the other boy's eyes darted briefly to his. His fingers stilled. “What?” he demanded, not taking the instrument from the side of his face.

“Nothing. You on watch?”

“Sort of. Not much to watch for.”

“Pirates?” Wintrow ventured.

Mild snorted. “They don't bother a liveship, usually. Oh, I've heard rumors from when we were in Chalced, that one or two got chased, but for the most part they leave us alone. Most liveships can outrun any wooden ship under identical conditions, unless the liveship has a really carp crew. And the pirates know that even if you catch up with a liveship, you're in for the fight of your life. And even if they win, what do they have? A ship that won't sail for them. I mean, do you think Vivacia would welcome strangers aboard her and accept them running her? Not much!”

“Not much,” Wintrow agreed. He was pleasantly surprised-both by Mild's obvious affection and pride for the ship, and by the boy's conversation with him. Mild seemed flattered by the boy's rapt attention, for he narrowed his eyes knowingly and went on, “The way I see it, right now the pirates are doing us a big favor.”

Wintrow bit. “How?”

“Well. How to explain it ... you didn't get ashore in Chalced, did you? Well, what we heard there was that pirates were suddenly attacking some of the slavers. At least one taken, and rumors of others being threatened. Well. It's end of autumn now, but by spring, Chalced needs a powerful lot of slaves to do the spring plowing and planting. If pirates are picking off the regular slavers, well, by the time we run into Chalced with a prime load, it will be a seller's market. We'll get so much for our haul, we can probably go straight home to Bingtown.”

Mild grinned and nodded in satisfaction, as if somehow Kyle getting a good price for slaves would reflect well on him. He was likely only repeating what he'd heard the elders of the crew say. Wintrow said nothing. He looked far out over the heaving water. There was a heavy, sick place under his heart that had nothing to do with seasickness. Whenever he thought forward to Jamaillia and the actual act of his father buying slaves to sell, a terrible sorrow welled up in him. It was like having the guilt and pain of a shameful memory in advance of the event. After a moment, Mild picked up the conversation again.

“So. Torg's got you up here again?”

“Yeah.” Wintrow surprised himself, stretching his shoulders and then leaning back casually against his grip. “Doesn't bother me so much anymore.”

“I can tell. That's why they do it.” When Wintrow lifted his brows, Mild grinned at him. “Oh, you thought it was a special torture just for you? No. Torg likes picking on you. Sa's balls, Torg likes picking on anyone. Anyone he can get away with, anyway. But running the ship's boy up and down the mast is a tradition. When I first come aboard, I hated it. Brashen was mate then, and I thought he was the son of a sow. Once he realized I was nervous about coming up here, he saw to it that every one of my meals ended up here. 'You want to eat, go get it,' he'd tell me. And I'd have to climb the mast and crawl around up here until I found a bucket with my mess in it. Damn, I hated him. I was so scared and slow, my food was almost always cold when I found it, and half the time there'd be rain sloshing around with it. But I learned, same as you, not to mind it after a while.”

Wintrow was silent, thinking. Mild's fingers danced again over the keys, picking out a lively little tune. “Then Torg doesn't hate me? This is some kind of training?”

Mild stopped with a snort of amusement. “Oh, no. Depend on it. Torg hates you. Torg hates everyone that he thinks is smarter than he is, and that's most of us aboard. But he knows his job, too. And he knows that if he wants to keep it, he's got to make you into a sailor. So, he'll teach you. He'll make it as painful and unpleasant as he can, but he'll teach you.”

“If he's such a hateful person, why does my . . . the captain keep him on as second mate?”

Mild shrugged. “Ask your Da,” he said cruelly. Then he grinned, almost making that a joke. He went on, “I hear that Torg had been with him quite a while, and stuck with him on a real bad trip on the ship they used to be on. So when he came to the Vivacia, he brought Torg with him. Maybe no one else would hire him and he felt an obligation. Or maybe Torg's got a nice tight ass.”