There were some grumbles but no one challenged him this time as he trudged off. The bear minced along at his heels. One sailor glanced over at Mild still lying in the dust and then spat. “Gutless, the whole lot of them,” he declared and glared at Wintrow meaningfully. Wintrow returned his glare and then went to kneel in the dust beside Mild. He was still breathing. His mouth was half open and he was drawing in dust with every breath. He had landed so hard, chest first, it would be a miracle if his ribs were not at least cracked.

“We've got to get him back to the ship,” he said and glanced up at Comfrey.

Comfrey looked down at him with disgust. Then he looked away as if he were not there. “Come on, boys, time to get back to the ship.” Heedless of any injuries Mild might have, he seized the lad by his arm and dragged him upright. When Mild sagged like a rag doll, he scooped up the boy and flung him over his shoulder. The other two sailors from the Vivacia's crew trailed off after him. None of them deigned to notice Wintrow's existence.

“It wasn't my fault!” Wintrow declared aloud. But somehow he wondered if it was.

“Was so,” Torg pointed out. “You knew he was full of cindin. He shouldn't have been in there, but he had to go because you were too much the coward. Well.” Torg grinned with satisfaction. “Now they all know you for what you are, boy. Before it was just me that knew what a water-assed coward you were.” Torg spat into the dusty street and walked away from him.

For a time Wintrow stood alone staring at the kicked over corners of the square. He knew he had done the right thing and made the right choices. But a terrible sense of a lost chance was welling up in him. He suspected he had just lost his opportunity to be accepted as part of the Vivacia's crew. To be considered a man among men. He glanced up at the westering sun, and then hastened to catch up with the men who now despised him.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - KENNIT'S WHORE

THE RAINS OF AUTUMN HAD WASHED DIVVYTOWN ALMOST CLEAN. THE LAGOON WAS HIGHER, THE CHANnels deeper, and as the Marietta approached home port, the hearts of those aboard her were lighter than they had ever been before. It had nothing to do with the hold full of pirated cargo. While it was a respectable haul, they'd done better any number of times.

“It's that we're someones now, when we come into a port. Folk know us, and turn out to welcome us. Did I tell you that, in Littleport, Mistress Ramp turned her whole house over to us, for a whole watch, for free? And it wasn't just the Mistress telling her girls to do for us; they were willing, by Sa. Anything we wanted . . .” Sorcor's voice trailed off in amazement at their good fortune.

Kennit repressed a sigh. He'd only heard the tale a score of times before. “All that disease, for free,” he said quietly, but Sorcor took his words for a jest and grinned at his captain fondly. Kennit turned his head and spat over the side. When he turned back to Sorcor, he managed to smile back at him. “Caution the men to remember that few prophets are treated well in their home towns.”

Sorcor's brows knitted in puzzlement.

Kennit did not sigh. “I mean that although others, elsewhere, may regard our freeing of slaves and fitting them out as pirates with a share in our territory as an act of philanthropy, some here will see us as creators of competition. And they will judge it their duty to curb our ambitions.”

“You mean they're going to be jealous, and they'll rub our faces in the dirt if they get the chance.”

Kennit considered a moment. “Exactly.”

A slow smile crawled across Sorcor's scarred visage. “But, Cap'n, that's exactly what the men are looking forward to. Them trying to put us in our places.”

“Ah.”

“And, Cap'n?”

“Yes, Sorcor.”

“The men sort of took a vote, sir. And them what didn't agree was persuaded to change their minds. Every man will be taking a draw this time, sir, and letting you sell off the cargo whole.” Sorcor vigorously scratched the side of his face. “I suggested they might want to let Divvytown know they all believe in their captain. Now, mind, they weren't all willing to say they'd do it this way every time. But this time, well, it's your toss.”

“Sorcor!” exclaimed Kennit, and his smile widened fractionally. “That was well done.”

“Thankee, sir. I thought it might please you.”

The two men stood for a few moments longer, watching the shore draw nearer. The rattling rain of the day before had forced the last browning leaves from the deciduous trees, not that there were many of them. Dark large-leaved evergreens were the dominant trees on the hills above and around Divvytown. Closer to the water, medusa-vine and creeper-root had taken over the edge lands, with a towering cedar defying its own sodden roots to flourish here and there. In the freshness after the rain, Divvytown looked almost inviting. Wood smoke rose from chimneys, adding its scent to that of the iodine of the seaweed and the briny water. Home. Kennit tried the word out in his mind. No. It didn't fit. Port. Yes.