“Wintrow,” she said quietly, when his soft words were done. “Go to your father now and tell him it must be done. And demand that it be done here, beside me. In my name, if they will not heed your wish.”

She had feared he would hesitate. Instead he rose gracefully. Without a word to anyone else he made his way to the captain's gallery, where he rapped smartly on the door with his good hand.

“Enter,” Kyle replied.

She could not see all that went on within herself, but she was aware of it in a way humans had never given her a word for. So she knew the thundering of Wintrow's heart, and sensed too the small leap of triumph he felt when his father looked up from his bills of lading to startle at the sight of his son standing so boldly before him.

“What do you do here?” Kyle demanded harshly. “You're the ship's boy, no more than that. Don't bring your whining to me.”

Wintrow stood quietly until his father was finished. Then in an even voice he spoke. “I need this finger cut off. It was crushed, and now it's infected. I can tell already it won't get better.” He took a small, swift breath. “I'd like it done while it's only the finger and not the whole hand.”

When Kyle finally replied, his voice was thick and uncertain. “You are sure of this? Did the mate tell you so? He does the doctoring aboard the ship.”

“It scarcely needs a doctor's eye. See for yourself.” With a casual-ness Vivacia was sure Wintrow did not feel, he began to unwind the crusted bandaging. His father made a small sound. “The smell is bad, also,” Wintrow confirmed, still in that easy voice. “The sooner you cut it off for me, the better.”

His father rose, scraping his chair back over the deck. “I'll get the mate for you. Sit down, son.”

“I'd rather you did it, sir, if it's all the same to you. And up on deck, by the figurehead.” She could almost feel Wintrow's calculated glance about the room. “No sense in bleeding in your stateroom,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

“I can't . . . I've never . . .”

“I can show you where to cut, sir. It's not that different from boning out a fowl for the pot. It's just a matter of cutting out the joint. That's another thing they taught me in the monastery. Sometimes it surprised me, how much cooking had in common with medicine. The herbs, the knowledge of ... meat. The knives.”

It was some kind of a challenge, Vivacia realized. She didn't understand it in full. She wondered if even Wintrow did. She tried to work it through in her head. If Kyle refused to cut the infected finger from his son's hand, he somehow lost. Lost what? She was not sure, but she suspected it had something to do with who truly controlled Wintrow's life. Perhaps it was a challenge from the boy for his father to admit fully to himself the life he had forced his son into, to make him confront completely the harshness of it. There was in it also the foolish challenge to risk his body that he had refused in town. They had called him a coward for that, and deemed him fearful of pain. He would prove to them all now that it had not been pain he feared. A shiver of pride in him traveled over her. Truly, he was unlike any Vestrit she had ever carried before.

“I'll call the mate,” Kyle Vestrit replied firmly.

“The mate won't do,” Wintrow asserted softly.

Kyle ignored him. He stepped to the door, opened it and leaned out to bellow, “GANTRY!” for the mate. “I'm captain of this ship,” he told Wintrow in the intervening space of quiet. “And on this ship, I say what will or will not do. And I say who does what. The mate does this sort of doctoring, not I.”

“I had thought my father might prefer to do it himself,” Wintrow essayed quietly. “But I see you have no stomach for it. I'll wait for the mate on the foredeck, then.”

“It's not a matter of stomach,” Kyle railed at him, and in that moment Vivacia glimpsed what Wintrow had done. He had shifted this, somehow, from a matter between the ship's boy and the captain to something between a father and a son.

“Then come and watch, father. To give me courage.” Wintrow made his request. No plea, but a simple request. He stepped out of the cabin without waiting to be dismissed, not even pausing for an answer. As he walked away, Gantry approached the door, to be harshly ordered to fetch his surgeon's kit and come to the foredeck. Wintrow did not pause but paced calmly back to the foredeck.

“They're coming,” he told Vivacia quietly. “My father and the mate, to cut off my finger. I pray I don't scream.”